The Beasts of Juarez, R.B. Schow [books to read for self improvement .txt] 📗

at by two gay guys which—for some unknown reason—boosted his confidence a little.

“I have one active cell,” Davis said. “It’s registered in Keegan White’s name, but his wife, Gabrielle White, is a ghost. Neither have priors, but Gabrielle was a witness to the murder of a hooker in Baltimore. She might be hooking now, which could be why she ghosted out.”

“Is the address the same?”

“As far as I can tell, so long as they didn’t just move, then yes. It’s the same one you gave me. The one in Queens.”

“I’m gonna make sure you get Applewood bacon and two fat patties on the burger, plus a pint of beer to boot,” he said, already dreaming about what he’d do with his share of the one-hundred-thousand dollars.

The man laughed and said, “Always happy to help.”

He phoned Jackson and said, “How do you feel about Baltimore?”

“I’d feel better if you set aside most of what you think you’re going to pay me so you can budget better.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” he said.

“Not being an asshole doesn’t put food on the table, Scotty. I almost didn’t come to pick you up last night.”

“Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll advance you three grand before we leave, that way you’ll at least know you’ve got something.”

“You’re buying the plane tickets,” Jackson said. “I insist.”

“That was already the plan. You’ll need to pick me up though. I’ll text you the address.”

Scotty accessed the internet, messed around for about ten minutes trying to get flight information, and then he almost lost his mind trying to pay. He dropped exactly thirteen f-bombs and nearly threw his phone, but then he breathed a sigh of relief when he got the confirmation number. He called Jackson back and said, “Okay, we have two tickets to Baltimore. But we need to head to the airport ASAP.”

“I’m on my way,” Jackson said. “Just make sure you have my three grand and the check.”

“Sounds good; hurry up already.”

When he hung up, Scotty walked back inside, waited for Lexi then asked her to check his account balance again. “I’m expecting a wire transfer today,” he told her. “The money has already been sent.”

She checked the account, smiled knowing she was going to disappoint him then slowly shook her head.

“Okay, thanks for checking.”

Outside, he waited for Jackson to show up. When he finally saw his friend’s car pulling over, Scotty got in and handed him the envelope.

Jackson was ex-military, so he had that square jaw, that stern no-BS look, and the kind of steely eyes that had seen too many horrors to ever really be normal in polite society again.

“This is three grand light, pal,” Jackson said, looking up.

Scotty showed Jackson the transfer of the twenty-five thousand that Leopold sent him, then said, “I just checked and it’s not in my account. I’ll have to pay you tomorrow.”

His friend looked at him a long time, not blinking, not moving a muscle except to frown. “You fuckface,” he finally muttered.

“C’mon man, we’re gonna miss our flight.”

Without further pushback, Jackson signaled left, looked over his shoulder then pulled into traffic. Shaking his head, he said, “You still smell like booze.”

“I promise I’ll pay you when we get back.”

“If you screw me on this, Scotty—”

“I won’t, I promise.”

Without another word between them, they drove to Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport, parked in short-term parking then boarded their flight with a few minutes to spare. In the plane, they both squeezed into coach, and then Scotty spent the next fifteen minutes wondering when the hell they shrunk the seats and if they were still serving hard alcohol.

Chapter Thirty

ATLAS HARGROVE

The pilot that Cira arranged to take them from California to El Paso was top-notch. Other than arranging last-minute landing clearance and having to sit in a holding pattern for twenty minutes, the flight was quick and uneventful. Well, except for the fact that Atlas couldn’t stand the way he smelled anymore. That was becoming a problem.

At the airport, Cira told him to go in the bathroom and try to clean up before they left. “I seriously can’t, Atlas, not a single minute longer,” Cira complained.

In the bathroom, Atlas ran water through his hair, smoothed out his beard, then reached down his pants with a handful of wet paper towels, wiping the back of his nuts and the crack of his ass. People were frowning at his behavior. Normally that kind of thing would embarrass him, but he looked homeless which meant he had a bit of a free pass.

“Get a fucking job,” some guy said.

“What for?”

The guy turned around and said, “Maybe so you don’t have to come to the airport to take a bath.”

The businessman stalked out of the bathroom, pissed off. Atlas didn’t blame him, but he didn’t really care either. He was just happy to be out of prison.

Outside the restroom, he found the same businessman who told him to get a job trying to hit on Cira but the look on her face was saying she wasn’t having it.

He walked right up to them, the businessman frowning, then said to Cira, “You ready, babe?”

She looked at the businessman, frowned even deeper, then said, “Sooner is better,” and then the two of them left the walking annoyance in a suit, post haste.

“Leopold texted me while you were in the bathroom. He said to take an Uber to El Taquito on Airway Boulevard. They’re ordering take-out now.”

His heart soared and that hollow ache in his stomach suddenly started to feel a whole lot worse. There was nothing like the promise of good food to make an empty belly want food in it pronto.

The Uber driver was nice but she was a Chinese woman with no filter. Twice she looked back at Atlas and said, “Oh, he stink. Mister, you stink so bad.”

“Thank you,” he