As José rode in the crowded bus, his mind drifted. He thought back to when he and Jefferson Wilkes had been friends. He was, he was certain, about to engage in a flashback. He resisted. He hated flashbacks. They ruined the flow and were almost always unnecessary. Nope, there it was. He was definitely flashing back.
It had been a good fifteen years ago. He'd met Wilkes when they were both brought in by the Sanphillipos, a family that owned TV and radio stations all over the country. The Sanphillipos' eldest son had turned up missing during a trip to Pittsburgh. Turned out he'd joined up with a cult that worshipped gravy. José and Wilkes had managed to get the kid out. But that's a whole other story.
They'd been friendly after that. The former big city cop and the son of Savannah wealth. Not friends, but friendly. They'd toss each other work every once in awhile, hang out when one of them was in the other's town. They'd met up in Vegas a time or two. Stuff like that.
Then, one day, Jeff had called because he wanted José's help tracking down a missing accountant. Pretty standard stuff. The kind of case José could do with one hand while making a sandwich with the other. Maybe a BLT with the tomatoes cut real thin, big glob of Japanese mayo on it. Serve it up with some salt-n-vinegar chips. José was hungry, was the point.
Anyway, José had tracked the guy down to a hotel in Yakima. He waited for Wilkes in a rented Saturn Ion, the radio playing a country station that was José's best option among the sad broadcast choices in the vicinity.
The passenger door popped open and Wilkes slid inside.
"Why Beigey, your taste in automobiles runs to the extravagant, doesn't it?" he said.
"My Astin-Martin is in the shop, Wilkes," José replied.
"Is our friend ensconced within this veritable Taj Mahal?" Wilkes surveyed the hotel like he was looking at a turd with windows.
José gestured with his too-cold-to-drink-now coffee. "Right there. Room 18. He got a pizza delivered half an hour ago and seems to have settled in for an evening of Laguna Beach."
Wilkes looked aghast. "Laguna Beach? The man is in his forties."
José shrugged. "Look, Wilkes, I'm not vouching for his viewing habits, I'm just saying he's in there."
"Fair enough." Wilkes pulled out his phone and began sending a text. José was not, by nature, a nosy person, his occupation notwithstanding, but since Wilkes was right next to him, he couldn't help but notice that the text being written was the address of the hotel and the accountant's room number.
Wilkes put his phone away and clapped his hands together. "Well, now that that's done, what say you and I grab a steak? I have it on good authority that there's a place in town that does a great filet mignon."
Under normal circumstances, José would have been doing seventy toward the steakhouse before Wilkes had finished that sentence. Because steak. Right now, though, something was feeling...off.
"Hey, that sounds great, Wilkes. Real quick, though: it just occurred to me that I don't think I ever got from you exactly who we're working for, here."
"Family. Pretty standard stuff."
"Family? Like, his wife? Parents?"
"Family. The steakhouse is on North 40th. You need directions?"
"No. But, hang on. When you say 'family', you mean this guy's family, right?"
Wilkes finally looked directly in José's eyes. "So, you are well and truly asking?"
José returned the eye contact. "I am well and truly asking."
Wilkes gave a quick nod. "When I say 'family', I am more saying 'La Famiglia.'"
"Goddammit. Wilkes, you son of a--"
The last word caught in José's throat when he saw that Wilkes' gun was out, and not in a "hey, let me show you my cool gun" kind of way.
Wilkes looked unperturbed, like he was engaging in a conversation about the correct way to pronounce "pecan". "Beigey, we're going to be reasonable adults about this. You don't know this man. We know from his viewing habits that he's clearly not a good person."
Through clenched teeth, José managed to say, "Doesn't make this right."
Wilkes shrugged. "Probably not. But the money these people pay puts things in perspective."
"Nope. Sorry, Wilkes. I'm not going to be a part of this. I'm going in there and telling this guy to get the hell outta here. You want to stop me, shoot me."
Wilkes shook his head. "No, no, no, Beigey. There are other options." And he smashed the butt of his gun across José's head. As he lost consciousness, José wished sincerely that they'd just gone for steak.
