Lucky: The Irish MC (41 page)

“Hey, man,” one greeted me with a shaky voice. “You know where I can find some junk around here?”

I nodded and reached into my coat pocket. Picking up one of the baggies, I pulled the man’s hand close and pushed it into his fingers.

“That’s forty,” I said quietly. “Forty and we need to have a little talk.”

The junkie handed me some crumpled, sticky bills with a shaking hand. I jerked my head to the side and he followed me into the alley.

“Listen,” I said bluntly. “I need to know about The Machetes. I need to know about their connections to those murders around here.”

The junkie threw his head back and laughed, exposing a mouth of rotten and yellowing teeth. “I have no fuckin’ idea, man,” he said to me, wiping his nose with the back of my hand.

“I’m not taking any lines from you,” I snarled. “You better fuckin’ tell me everything you know!” I made my hand into a fist and punched the wall right next to the junkie’s head. He cowered in fear and looked up at me with big, wide eyes.

“He kills with a single slash,” the junkie sputtered. “With a machete.”

“I know that,” I said, rolling my eyes. “That’s not good enough!” I grabbed him by the front of the collar and pulled him close, so we were eye-to-eye. The smell coming out of his mouth was horrible. It reminded me of prison: dank, smelly, and rotten.

“Okay, okay,” he stammered. “The Manticore is the one slashing up all those little girls,” he stuttered. “He’s the one in charge of these.”

I frowned. “The Manticore isn’t around anymore, asshole,” I said, shoving him up against the wall. “Thanks for nothing.”

I left the junkie in a quivering mess on the ground and walked back to the front of the bar. The other two dope fiends swarmed me, their hands outstretched, begging for a fix.

“Follow me,” I growled at them, jerking my head to the side. I led them both down another alley, then turned to face them with my hands balled up in fists.

“You have one fuckin’ chance to tell me what I wanna know, or else I’m not selling you shit,” I threatened. They both nodded, looking terrified. “I need to know who’s responsible in The Machetes for these slashings. Tell me who is doing it.”

Nervously, they looked at each other and then back at me.

“Uh,” one of them stammered. He was shaking so hard that his teeth were chattering.

Stupid fuckin’ junkies
, I thought to myself in irritation.
Is this how useless I was when I was hooked on this shit?

“It’s The Manticore,” one of them said in a quavering voice. “He’s back. It’s him.”

I shook my head. “That’s not fuckin’ possible!” I growled. The junkies both looked at me and nodded.

“It’s true,” they said in unison. One of them turned to me and spoke more plainly. “He’s back. He got us both hooked on smack and then turned us out when we wouldn’t clean up his dirty work. I don’t wanna be involved in that, man,” he whined to me. “I ain’t got no money but I need a fix!”

“Whatever,” I muttered, reaching into my jacket pocket and pulling out a handful of plastic baggies. Tossing them on the ground, I laughed out loud as the junkies threw themselves on the drugs and began scooping as many little envelopes as they could into their pockets.

“Y’all are fuckin’ useless,” I said finally, turning back around and walking out of the alley. I knew that The Machetes had to be fucking with me on this one; why else would they send these useless dopes out to get me.

I decided to check the bar, just in case anyone had some information. As usual, it was empty in the middle of the day. There was a weird feeling in my stomach as I sat down; I couldn’t articulate it, but I knew something was wrong.

“Hey, barkeep,” I growled. “Can I get a beer over here?”

The bartender, a middle-aged bald guy, threw me the finger before sliding a glass down the counter. Beer slopped over the sides and puddled on the wooden bar. The smell of this place told me that wasn’t the first time alcohol had been spilled in this joint. I fingered a couple of the cigarette burn marks on the bar and cleared my throat.
 

“Those fuckin’ junkies were stupid enough to tell me The Manticore is back,” I joked. “Can you fuckin’ believe how dumb heroin makes people?”

The bartender narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

I felt a stab of nervousness in my chest. Suddenly, it seemed like everyone was a potential suspect. “The Manticore,” I said calmly. “That asshole who disappeared a few years ago. Everyone knows when you go out of sight in Detroit, you ain’t coming back.” I leaned back on the bar stool and gave the bartender as level a look as I could muster. “He ain’t back.”

The bartender shook his head. “I don’t have that kinda talk in my bar,” he said nastily. “I don’t have time to get involved with your petty gang shit, boy. I have a business to run.”

“You’re doin’ a great fuckin’ job,” I spat. “Real crowd you got here.” I gestured around the empty bar. “People are just crawlin’ all over me to get a beer!”

“Fuck you, kid,” the bartender spat. “You deserve to get hacked up by that freak with a machete.”

My ears perked up. “What?”

“I said, fuck you!” The bartender leaned across the counter, his eyes flashing. “Do I have to call the cops to get you out of here? Get your fuckin’ trashy ass out of my bar right now!”

I stood up and looked at him level in the eye. He was a little shorter than me, and I knew I could easily take him. Pushing my sleeves up, I leaned menacingly over the bar.

“You wanna tell me what to do again,
boy
?” I emphasized the last word, glaring at him.

The barkeep backed away, rubbing his hands together. “Get out,” he repeated. “I don’t have anything to tell you.”

“The thing is, I don’t believe you,” I snarled, jumping over the bar in a smooth motion. When I was right next to the bartender, I realized he was much smaller and older than I’d first thought. I could smell alcohol coming off of him in waves and I grabbed the front of his apron, yanking him close to me. His eyes were open wide and his breath was coming in shallow bursts. I knew I could stick a knife in his gut and be done with it.

“I can kill you right now,” I threatened. “No one would find your body for hours in this shithole. You better tell me what I want to know, right the fuck now!” Slamming my hand against the wall, I watched as the bartender flinched.

He shook his head. “I can’t,” he whispered. “He’ll kill me.”

I pressed my forehead against his and snarled in his face. “Who?” I demanded. “Tell me!”

The bartender closed his eyes and I could feel him shaking in my firm grasp. He opened his mouth but no words came out, and he moved his lips open and closed like a useless fish.

“The Manticore,” he whispered finally. “He’s back.”

“Good,” I spat under my breath. “Tell me more. What does he do? Where does he go?”

The bartender began praying in a low voice under his breath and I dashed his head against the wall. He cried out in pain and I pulled his face close to me again.

“Answer me, you shit!” I hissed. “Now!”

“He comes in here,” the bartender said in a trembling voice. “By himself, two days a week. He meets addicts outside and gives them a fix and forces them to be his henchmen. Usually he kills them and sometimes dumps their bodies back out front. He’ll make more junkies clean up the bodies.”

“How long has this been going on?” I snarled. “It better not be for long!”

“I don’t know,” the bartender said in a quavering voice. “A couple of weeks, tops.”

I let him go and he fell to the floor with a crash of dust and broken glass. “The next time he comes in, you’re gonna call me.”

The bartender started shaking his head and praying loudly. I kicked him in the thigh.

“You’re gonna call me,” I repeated. “Or else I’ll be back, and you won’t like that very much.” When I was sure he was watching me, I pulled a gun out of my waistband and held it close to his face. He started to tremble and shake.

“I understand,” he said shakily. “I’ll call you the next time he’s here.”

“Good!” I said in a bright voice. “We understand each other!”

I hopped back over the bar and headed outside, whistling cheerfully. A part of me was in disbelief; in less than half an hour, I’d dealt heroin and almost beat up an old man.

The Manticore. It made my head swim in disbelief just to think about it. All of this time, I’d thought he was gone for good. And even now, it didn’t make sense that he’d come back just to taunt me. I was a small fry compared to him, even if I did fuck the gang when I stole heroin. So why was everyone telling me that it was him?

I figured that the most likely scenario was another gang member, posing as The Manticore. That had to be it; there was no way that guy was still around. Not after everything that had happened. Not after all the murder, when all those girls went missing…

It couldn’t be The Manticore. There was no way that guy was back. Like I told the barkeep, when people go missing in Detroit, they stay missing. It wasn’t possible for someone as high profile as The Manticore to come back when there were so many cops hot to catch him. And even fuckers like me, people with a score to settle who were willing to do anything. But I wasn’t going to waste my energy on a figment of the imagination.

As I got back in my car and started driving around aimlessly, I thought about it. When the barkeep called me, I could have Peyton go down and check it out. I was sure he’d do me the favor, and he was just the kind of guy who could slip around unnoticed if he had to. Pulling out my cell phone, I dialed his number.

“Yo,” he greeted me. “What’s up with you, Chase man?”

“What happened with Lacey? I showed up to grab here and you were nowhere in sight.”

“Aw, man, she’s fine, she’s cool. I left because I got word about this new strain going around. I wanted to buy out and then sell so all those useless fuckin’ junkies would have to buy from me.”

“Wait, I didn’t know you were dealing again,” I said slowly. “I thought you got that bag for me so I could sell it to those assholes in front of the bar. They were useless, by the way. They all fuckin’ lied and told me The Manticore is back. How fuckin’ ridiculous is that shit?”

Peyton laughed. “Those dumb fuckin’ junkies, they sure can tell a story, man,” he said. “I’m headin’ down that way now. You wanna meet up?”

“Nah, man,” I said. “I need you to do me another favor.”

“Can you make sure this favor is a little sexier than the last one?” Peyton let out a loud guffaw. “She wouldn’t let no man near that icy pussy on her, I could smell it from a mile away.”

Thinking about Lacey’s pussy made my cock twitch and I involuntarily shivered in my seat. “Nah, man, fuck that,” I said. “And don’t fuckin’ talk about her snatch that way, you hear?”

“Whatever, man, you and your weird fuckin’ skanks,” Peyton said dismissively. “Whatchu need, bro?”

“I need you to go check something out when I ask you to,” I said. “This barkeep’s gonna call me when The Machete asshole posing as The Manticore is going into his bar. Go talk to him, ask him a few questions. I’ll let you know what to say.”

“You’re real fuckin’ lucky that’s not the real Manticore.” Peyton laughed. “Or I’d be dead fuckin’ meat.”

“You’re a pal,” I said drily. “Thanks.”

“No problem, man. Peace.” Peyton hung up and I tossed my cell back on the passenger seat. Finally, I was starting to feel as though all my hard work was going to pay off. Finally, I was going to catch Rose’s killer. The Manticore was sure to lead me right to him, and all I had to do was wait.