“Wrong,” Ghost said, frowning. “I mean, yeah, that’s what I want to do. But we have to play this smart. There’s a spotlight on those shops, on the bar. If the public knows we’re setting up businesses on Main Street, then they’ll know that any retaliation against these punks came from us.”
Mercy sighed.
Rottie said, “Have you talked to Fielding about it?”
“Yeah, and he pointed out that the Dogs just got done being in the national news about that whole business in Texas. He thinks that’s what the graffiti’s about: dirty FBI and Dogs all tangled in an international cartel bust – he says people are more afraid of us than ever, and it’s, quote, ‘bound to draw a little payback.’”
“I feel like he musta been grinning when he said that,” RJ muttered.
“Kinda,” Ghost muttered. “And, the bad part is: he’s notwrong, really.”
“We gonna hire a PR guy?” Mercy asked, and sounded like he was only half-joking, his smile slipping away.
Ghost didn’t answer a moment, and Carter felt a jolt of tension move through his stomach. Felt it echoing in the frisson that moved around the table. Chairs creaked as Lean Dogs shifted forward in them.
“We’ve always had an optics problem,” Ghost said. “It comes with the territory. The club has a reputation, and it’s not like we didn’t earn it.
“But we’re not small anymore. It’s okay if everyone hates a little club without any reach. But at this point? We’re very visible. We have power, and people know it. People in this city see us as the enemy.” He gestured to the projected image on the wall. “If someone puts a brick through Bell Bar’s window one night, you know how it’s gonna get spun. The club attracted gang violence to the heart of the downtown shopping district,” he said, scowling. “We can’t let that happen. We need to be in charge of the narrative here.”
No one looked surprised. Carter certainly wasn’t. Anyone who knew Ghost Teague at all knew that he wanted to be in charge of everything – narrative included.
“We’re going to have to be more visible in a positive way.”
“We’ve got that charity run next month,” Rottie said.
“Right. And there’s the thing the Texas girls put together.” Ghost nodded toward Walsh, who produced a new set of paperwork that he passed down the table. Ghost clicked the projector, and the next image was one of three girls, all smiling at the camera; three separate photos laid out alongside one another. “They busted a massive sex-trafficking ring down there,” Ghost continued. “The Chupacabras cartel was snatching American women off the streets and selling them into slavery. All the missing girls from the southwest were accounted for at the rescue, save these three.” He gestured down the table, and Fox stubbed out his cigarette and cleared his throat.
“Right, so. Chelle had the idea, and Eden’s in full support. Old ladies wanting the club to be a place where people can come when something bad’s happened to someone.”
“No warrants necessary,” Albie said. “In Texas…” He made a face. “It was ugly. It was Chelle’s idea, but I agree: we can go where the law can’t; we can rattle cages and get answers. No rules to get in our way.”
“There are people who already know to come to us,” Ghost said. “How are we gonna expand that? Advertise?” Said more than a little mockingly.
“Same way we do everything else,” Fox said, touch of a challenge in his voice. “Word of mouth. We make an example of somebody, and we let word spread.”
There were some thoughtful faces around the table; some nods. Hound looked skeptical – then, he usually did.
Ghost leaned back in his chair, and scratched absently as his bristly chin. “I won’t say it’s a bad idea. I just know we’ve got to be seen doing some good in this city – some public good. Not just bashing heads, but more normal stuff.”
“Look out, boys,” Mercy said in an undertone. “The boss wants us to go legit.”
Ghost gave him a rueful smirk. “Not yet.”
Seven
Walking through the doors of Cook’s Coffee filled Leah with nostalgia. She’d spent her childhood coloring, then reading, and then studying at these small, round tables, now filled with UT students, and mothers with their young children, and businesspeople in suits talking quietly on their cells while they lunched on lattes and fresh pastries.
Her mom was working the register, and Leah paused on her way there, in the moment before she was noticed, to do some noticing of her own. Mom had always been slender bordering on skinny, a lifelong runner and athlete, everything from tennis to mountain biking to water skiing. She seemed too-thin now, though, her clothes hanging off her narrow frame. Light fell in warm panels through the windows, highlighting the bags beneath her eyes, the way her face looked drawn, and sleepless, and tired.
Leah was startled. She talked to her mom on the phone daily, for the most part, and she’d never said anything about being worried. About, God forbid, marital strife, or personal worry. As far as Leah knew, no one in the extended family was sick; nothing terrible had befallen anyone. So why did she look like something was weighing on her?
When Leah stepped up to the counter, Marie lifted her head, spotted her, and she smiled. All gladness and welcome. All signs of stress vanished. “Hi, sweetie! How’d it go?”
Leah slid onto a stool at the counter and tried not to make a face.
Failed, apparently. Marie cocked her head and winced. “That bad, huh?”
“It wasn’tbad. The interview itself was good, actually. She liked my shoes.” She stuck one leg out to reveal the ridiculous platforms she’d worn, the tops and rubberized soles printed with pink hibiscus flowers. The rest of her outfit was black and white and muted, but she’d had to spice it up at least a little.
