Page 10 of Property of Tacoma
“Is that what this is about?” I ask, knowing my brother is probably staring at the phone with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He’s such a sourpuss. “A job?”
“The Kings are calling in a marker,” Mason says, sounding annoyed. “They have a situation.” I purse my lips. A situation, huh? One that would involve needing my grandfather to go do a job. That means someone’s dead, and they need it erased.
The Kings of Anarchy are one of the Saints’ biggest allies and business partners. Even without being involved in ‘club business’, I know that much. I’ve heard plenty about them, but never dealt with them directly.
“Send me.” I volunteer before I can stop myself.
“The hell I will,” Mason snaps. “You’ve been gone for two weeks. Shade can reschedule his date.”
“I most certainly cannot!” my grandfather protests. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get reservations at Marcella’s? I’ve been planning this for weeks!”
I sigh, watching a family pile into their minivan at the pumps across from me. Normal people with normal lives who don’t spend their Mondays fighting about who’s going to clean up a murder scene.
“I’ll do it,” I repeat my offer. “I’m closer, and Grandpa deserves his night out. Just text me the coordinates.”
There’s a long silence, and I can practically hear my big brother’s brain working, trying to find a reason to say no.
“Fine,” he finally said, sighing with exasperation. “But don’t pull any of your shit, you hear me?”
I can feel my eye starting to twitch. Mason has a way of knowing exactly which buttons to push to piss me off. “My shit? I don’t have any shit. I have boundaries and self-respect. It’s not my fault, assholes can’t handle it when it’s a woman who shows up to clean up their mess.”
I hear the sound of a chair scraping right before my brother’s snarling voice comes through the line, “I mean it, Cali. Don’t be a bitch. And for the love of God, don’t shoot anyone else. The Kings are important business associates, and there’s too much riding on our arrangement.”
“That’s not fair. That prick grabbed my ass.” You shootonegrabby-handed oil tycoon, and you never hear the end of it.
“Cali!”
“Yeah, yeah. Be good, or else. Fine.” I wave my hand out dismissively. “Send me the coordinates.”
Before he can start lecturing me about how I need to respect the brotherhood or some other testosterone-fueled bullshit, I disconnect the call.
The blinds rattle against the glass above my head, and I look up. “I’m coming. You gotta learn some patience, dude.”
I can see his little lips moving as he chatters away. I always imagine him talking shit.
“We’ve gotta make a pitstop before we go home.”
The fuel nozzle clicks as if to punctuate my statement.
So much for my plans of a hot shower and quality time with BOB, my battery-operated boyfriend.
My phone dings with an incoming message. It’s the coordinates to the Kings clubhouse and a name. Tacoma.
I climb back into the driver’s seat of my RV, fire up the engine, and pull back onto the highway. Panda scurries across the back of the sofa and hops into the passenger seat beside me like the passenger prince he thinks he is.
“Ready to rock-n-roll?”
He chitters at me, which I choose to interpret ashell yeah, let’s do this.
“Welcome to Odin,”I mutter to myself, reading the faded sign as I pass it. “Population... apparently not enough to keep the sign maintained.”
I hadn’t even known this town existed until today. It’s one of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it places that dot the Gulf Coast. Somewhere between here and nowhere, ya know. The kind GPS systems take you to, but when you get there, you’re in the middle of a cornfield in Nowheresville. Yeah. That’s pretty much what Odin is. It’s small and unassuming. The perfect spot to hide in plain sight. Smart.
Main Street unfolds before me, surprisingly charming despite how small it is. Storefronts with weathered hand-painted signs line both sides of the road. “Okay, seriously! How stinking cute is this place?” I point stupidly at the bakery with the bubble gum pink awning over the windows. “The Sugar Shack. I love it. And would you look at that!” There’s a King Crow Ink right here in Mayberry. That’s a major franchise. The tattooed hotties smoking in front of the building stare as I roll on by. Okay, so maybe Mason had a point about the paint job.
“What the French, Toast? Is that what I think it is?” I lean forward over the steering wheel and peer out the window. It totally is! They have their own boardwalk. I mean, it’s no Coney Island, but there’s a Ferris wheel, and even from here I can make out the colorful stalls and rides. As I pass the attraction, I seea banner strung across the entrance that announces “Anarchy Boardwalk — Grand Reopening October 17th”.
“Bet they’ll have funnel cake,” I tell Panda, who’s pressed his nose against the window. “Definitely coming back to check that out.”
