Читать книгу A Delicate Matter - Don Easton - Страница 8

Cockerill’s shoulders slumped and his head hung like a cowering dog’s. Jack saw Sophie looking at the situation in bewilderment. “Prospects usually aren’t important to the club,” he explained. “There’s no reason to hide his name. That is, except for one.” He looked at Cockerill. “It was Buck Zabat, wasn’t it? He’s detailed to check the shipment.”

Cockerill slowly looked up. “Yeah,” he mumbled. His sombre look said he’d crossed a line that he never intended to cross.

Jack looked at Sophie. “Buck is the son of the national president of Satans Wrath.”

“Oh.” Sophie looked unsure of what it meant or how to respond.

Jack refocused on Cockerill. “So if I don’t bust Neal and Bob when they’re loading the truck, I’ll probably catch Buck checking out the dope later. Maybe even nail them all with a conspiracy charge.”

Cockerill swallowed.

“Mind you, that’s only one option,” Jack continued. “What if I don’t bust anyone when it’s being loaded, but wait’ll the truck’s unloaded? There’d be less heat on you and I could catch whoever is buying it.”

Optimism flashed across Cockerill’s face. “Better yet, they’re takin’ it to the States. You could get ’em at the border! They’d get big time for importing into the States.”

“They?” Jack questioned. “Does Neal go with Bob?”

“No, not Neal. Bob has an ol’ lady. Her name’s Roxie. She drives the rig, as well.”

“Down to the States,” Jack confirmed.

“Yup. They make regular runs hauling freight and cross the border in Alberta at the Aden crossing. Roxie’s sister works at U.S Customs there. She trusts them and never checks the cargo. Even if she did, she wouldn’t find it.”

“Because it’s hidden in a secret compartment in the sleeper cab,” Jack said.

“Yeah. Two-fifty of weed is the most the cab will hold, but with the regular runs they make, supplyin’ orders larger than that works out fine.”

“So that’s why you guys are courting the GDs,” Jack said. “You need their Customs connection to deliver to the States.”

“It ain’t like they got anything else going for them,” Cockerill sneered.

“What does Roxie look like?”

“Tall, good-lookin’ … blonde hair with a long braid that hangs down to her tits.”

“Do Bob and Roxie hang out with the GDs at the Steinhouse Pub in Port Coquitlam?” Jack asked.

“Probably … if they’re not out on the road,” Cockerill replied. “The GDs hold their monthly ‘church meetings’ in a barn beside where they live — so Bob and Roxie are pretty tight with the club.”

“I’ve seen Roxie,” Jack said. “She’s got a real wicked sense of humour.”

“Maybe.” Cockerill looked dubious. “I’ve never spoken with her.”

“Too bad,” Jack said sardonically.

Cockerill looked quizzically at Jack, then shrugged. “Anyway, it’d be easy to nail them at the border. They’d get big time in Montana.”

“Where exactly do they deliver it in the States?” Jack asked.

“Texas.”

“In exchange for cocaine?”

“Usually,” Cockerill admitted, “but lately things have changed and the truck doesn’t bring anything back. If you wait until the return trip, you won’t get anything.”

“Why not bring the coke back in the truck?” Jack asked. “Don’t you trust the GDs with your blow?”

A fleeting instance of fear crossed Cockerill’s face, then he sat back and stretched his arms in a pretence of looking calm. “Nah, it’s not that. Too many eggs in one basket. We worry about you guys provin’ conspiracies.”

That I know, but why did the question scare you? Jack had heard rumours that Satans Wrath was on the verge of opening up a cocaine distribution network in Europe. Is the cocaine being allocated for there? He eyed Cockerill. “Who do you deal with in Texas? If we don’t pop the semi at the border, it might be better to do it when they’re unloading. It’d put the heat on the buyers instead of up here.”

Cockerill grimaced. No doubt he’d already given more information than he wanted to give.

“Come on,” Jack demanded. “You might think you’re safe with us taking them down at the border, but I don’t take chances. With Roxie’s sister working at Customs, we can’t make it look like some random search. She’d know and I couldn’t count on her to keep her mouth shut with Roxie. If we’re going to do this, it’d be better for you if we made it look like the heat came from Texas. It’s not like your club would have a hard time finding new customers.”

Cockerill scratched his nose. “Yeah … okay. It goes to Dallas. We deal with a group called the West 12th Street gang. The truck’s leaving Friday morning. They got some legitimate freight they haul, as well, but should unload the weed in Dallas on Sunday.”

“Good.” Jack nodded. “And what’s your role?”

“I handle the money on this end. Usually, though, I end up giving it to Buck, who hands it off to Neal. If Neal isn’t around, sometimes it gets handed off to a GD by the name of Mouse.”

“Mickey O’Bryan, alias Mouse,” Jack said.

“Yeah … you know your stuff,” Cockerill noted. “He runs a limousine service.”

“I didn’t know that,” Jack admitted.

“He’s only got one car. A six-passenger stretch limo. Buck said it’s pretty cool, though.”

Buck being in Mouse’s limousine was an important piece of information. Jack would apply for a wiretap that’d include the limo, but he didn’t want Cockerill to realize the significance of what he’d let slip. “I don’t care about some car,” he replied. “Tell me about the money. How and when are the growers paid?”

“A day after the weed is pressed and the bricks counted, Buck pays Neal, who hands it off to their prospects to pay the growers. The GDs get their cut after the weed is delivered to Dallas, then Bob and Roxie get paid by Neal when they return.”

“I would’ve thought Bob and Roxie received the money from the West 12th Street boys and brought it back themselves for disbursement.”

“Nope, it don’t come back with them. I got no idea how that works other than it takes a coupla weeks before I get it. I think only the exec in our club know those details. All I know is that eventually I get my cut, along with the payment for the GDs.”

Jack nodded. Damien is too smart to ever let those details be known to someone like Cockerill. He decided on a different approach. “Who passes the money to you?”

“Sometimes the chapter treasurer, sometimes different guys. I never know who until it happens.”

Something about the tone of Cockerill’s voice said he was protecting his own financial interests. Jack knew that to push it any further might cause him to clam up. “Which is when you hand some money over to Buck to pay the GDs,” Jack said.

“Yeah. Then the GDs divvy it up amongst themselves. It won’t be Buck I hand it to next time. He’ll be getting his full patch soon. We’re supposed to vote on it, but everyone knows it’s a done deal.”

“How soon?”

“September twenty-seventh. That’s when Pure E takes over as national prez.”

“Current president of the Winnipeg chapter,” Jack said.

“Was. He’s moving here this weekend. Guess he’s sick of the mosquitos and the snow in Winterpeg.”

Jack glanced at Sophie. “The man’s real name is Purvis Evans. He was nicknamed Pure E — short for pure evil. A name, I’m told, that’s well earned.”

“Sounds like a nice guy,” Sophie said.

“It’ll be a big party with Damien stepping down on the same day Buck gets his patch,” Cockerill added. “Another prospect will then be picked to deal with the GDs.”

A big party for Damien to celebrate his success. Jack sighed. “Damien must’ve made a fortune over the years. Has he ever told you what he’s done with it or where he plans to retire?”

Cockerill smirked. “Nope. I’m too low on the ladder for Damien to even acknowledge, let alone talk about shit like that. He surpassed my league long ago.”

Jack realized he’d clenched his own fist in anger. Cool it. This asshole is already smirking because Damien got away with it. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how pissed off it makes me feel.

“Same goes for the other guys at the executive level,” Cockerill continued. “I don’t know how they get their cut or what they do with it. For the rest of us guys doin’ the work, we take the cash.”

“Which guys?”

“It varies. Depends on who happens to be around when we need something done or to oversee a shipment of cocaine or something coming in.”

“Speaking of cocaine, I’ve heard a rumour that you guys are opening up a new connection in Europe,” Jack said.

Cockerill looked startled. “I’ve never heard anything about that,” he lied. “Who told you that?”

Jack gave Cockerill a hard cold stare in response. A new plan formed. His primary target would not be the Gypsy Devils or Bob and Roxie. Neither would it be the West 12th Street gang.

Damien, I missed my chance with you, but nailing Buck and your top execs would sure lessen the bitter taste of defeat.