Page 195 of American Hellhound
Ghost wanted to arrive early, though, earlier than even Badger might.
Rob intercepted them when they were halfway down the dock where they’d agreed to meet. He was bundled up in a beanie and windbreaker against the chill, wad of chaw in his lower lip. He stood with hands on hips, squinting into the sun.
“That fella you said you was meeting, that Shaman? He ain’t what I was expecting,” he told Ghost with a meaningful lift of his tufty gray brows.
Ghost clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Don’t worry: everyone thinks that.”
“If you say so. He’s down on theClementine. I got her all set up for y’all. When’s the rest of the party showin’ up?”
“Soon. Send ‘em down, will you?”
“Yeah, you bet.”
“Thanks, Rob.”
TheClementinewas the kind of big party yacht that anchored outside Neyland on game days. The rental fee was well above all their pay grades.
Well, almost all of them.
When they stepped up into the boat, they found Ian sitting on the deck, gray suit, open-throated lavender shirt, panama hat with a lavender band, a glass of Scotch at the table beside him, cigar in-hand. He glanced up at them through black shades and said, “Ah, gentlemen.”
Ghost glanced over his shoulder as his boys followed him aboard, one quick check on Tango. The kid was smiling, a small, amused, eye-rolling sort of smile. Good. Turning back to Ian, he said, “Really?”
“What?” He blew an elaborate smoke ring. “You didn’t expect me to get on one of those, did you?” His lip curled back as he waved toward the pontoon boats tied to the other side of the dock. “Honestly, Kenneth. I have taste. And besides, don’t you want this heathen to think you have real money behind you? Which you do, by the way.”
“I regret this friendship every day of my life,” Ghost muttered, without heat.
Ian grinned, teeth flashing like a shark’s.
Michael prowled around the edge of the deck, no doubt looking for a good defensive position.
Mercy had his sledgehammer and propped it on his massive shoulder, whistling as he surveyed the upper deck, hand shading his eyes. “I’ve been on a lot of boats in my life, but this…Damn.” He turned a shit-eating grin on Ghost. “Can we get one, boss?”
“No.”
Reese, all in black, his hair a sunny shock, went up the ladder to the upper deck without being told to, disappearing from view.
Ian gestured with his cigar. “Who isthat?”
Ghost sighed. “Long story.”
“Well.” He rose to his feet, an elegant, dancer-like movement. “Come let me fix you a drink and you can tell me.”
“I don’t need a drink.”
“Come,” Ian insisted.
“Fuck you,” Ghost said, but followed.
The yacht’s cabin was, as expected, luxurious in the extreme. White leather, Carrera marble countertops, huge live flower arrangements in white urns. The kitchen boasted stainless appliances and not one, but three coffee machines; Ghost thought one was for making cappuccino, but wasn’t sure. There was a wine fridge, fully-stocked. Wall-to-wall windows looked out over the water beyond.
Bruce, Ian’s bodyguard/manservant stood with his hands clasped loosely in front of him by the bolted-down dining table, awaiting instructions. Ghost thought it very telling that the giant man hadn’t been awaiting their arrival on the deck: Ian trusted them that much, at least.
“We’ll do it in here, I think,” Ian said, waving an arm to indicate the glamorous space as he walked to the wine fridge and pulled out an already-open bottle of something chilled and white. He turned to face Ghost and popped the cork. “Chardonnay?”
“No,” Ghost said with a snort. “You’re just running this thing, then? That’s how it’s gonna be?”
“Darling, I supply you with all your narcotics these days. I’m already running things.” He pulled a glass from the rack and poured himself a generous portion; Ghost could smell it ten steps away, the crisp fruit scent of the same wine Maggie always drank.
