Thirteen
Ghost slowed and turned his bike in at Flash Customs, whose lot was currently full of cars. With summer approaching, and the local economy booming, there were plenty of Knoxville residents looking to revamp, trick out, and customize their boats for the coming river season. Ghost found a parking spot near the back, along the guardrail that offered an up-close view of the water, and Walsh, Fox, and Mercy snugged their bikes in close behind.
He took off his helmet, and surveyed the lot as he gave his hair a few absent fluffs. A father and son came out of the building, the son swinging a plastic shopping bag and talking excitedly, pointing off toward the water, and the boats tied up at the dock.
“The crowd can work to our advantage,” Fox said. “They won’t want to talk in front of customers.”
“I want you to come back with me,” he said, turning to Walsh. “You two poke around front where you can.”
Fox’s mouth twitched – doubtless he’d wanted to be a part of any interrogation – but Ghost would rather have his trusted VP at his side. They were familiar, used to working together in these situations. Walsh made for an excellent, impassive good cop of the two of them. And he wanted Fox scoping for cameras or other little clues the rest of them might miss.
“I’m hurt, boss,” Mercy said, with a fake pout. “You never want me to go in the back.”
“I need them talkative – not pissing themselves. Come on.”
Inside, the office was crowded with shelves and clothing racks near the front, offering t-shirts, keychains, travel mugs, and, the closer you got to the counter, more practical items: microfiber towels, boat wash, wax, decals, seat covers. A long counter dominated the back of the space, behind which were displayed posters and pricing charts, ads for fancy motors and paint brands. A middle-aged man and a teenager stood behind the registers, wearing Flash Customs polos. Ghost recognized the man: he was the co-owner, Dave Connors.
Customers milled about the aisles: a husband and wife, the wife holding a t-shirt on a hanger up to her chest and doing a twirl for her husband, laughing. A set of parents with a whole gaggle of children demanding keychains. Lots of noise, voices tumbling over one another.
Fox and Mercy melted off to the sides – or, well, Fox melted. Mercy stood out like a sore thumb, too tall, and long-haired. Ghost noticed several people give him startled glances, their gazes lingering on his cut.
Ghost and Walsh bellied up to the counter, and the teenager glanced up first.
“Hi, welcome to Flash Customs,” he said in a bored voice. “How can I…” He trailed off when his gaze fastened on Ghost, and his eyes widened. His Adam’s apple jumped in his skinny throat as he swallowed. “Dad,” he said, and there was nothing bored about his voice now.
Gotcha, Ghost thought. There was no way this wasn’t one of the two kids Tenny and Reese had spooked last night.
“What?” Dave said, bored, harried. He cursed at his computer screen, clicked the mouse a few times.
“Dad.”
“What?” He looked, finally, and Ghost wished he had a camera; his face went white and then red. Belatedly, he snapped his mouth closed, and then crowded his son out of the way. “Kenny,” he greeted, aiming for normal, casual. He did an admirable job of smoothing his features.
But it was too late. Ghost had seen that first, unguarded moment of panic.
“Hey, Dave,” he said, trying to hold back a smirk. “Could we have a word?”
“Uh…” He glanced around his shop, a little wildly. Behind him, the son ducked into a door marked Employees Only. “Sure. You guys have a boat, right?” He gestured toward the thick, spiral-bound catalogues chained to the counter. “We’ve got lots of new…”
“This isn’t about boats,” Ghost said, quietly. “And you know it.”
“…mods.” He pressed his lips tight together, and regarded Ghost a long moment. Flicked a glance toward Walsh, whose impassive expression revealed nothing, and offered no respite.
Dave drew himself upright, hands braced on the counter. He spoke quietly, too, in the hopes his customers wouldn’t overhear. “Look, whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. I’ve got no beef with the Dogs, but I’m not interested in –joining the team, or whatever. If you’re buying up the city, you’ll have to do it without my shop.”
Ghost grinned. “Good to know. But that’s not the word I was talking about. Your boy there.” He nodded to the door the son had slipped through. “He and a buddy were trying to vandalize my bar last night.”
Blended panic and indignation flared in his gaze a moment. “My son–”
“Almost got his head caved in by someone a lot meaner than him. One of my boys stepped in and intervened, and kept things from escalating. You should be thanking the Dogs right now, and not condemning us.
“Now, in a second, I’m gonna raise my voice, and I’m gonna stop being coy. When that happens, we can have our conversation out here, in front of everyone, or back in your office. Your choice.”
Dave scowled. But finally jerked a nod, and lifted up the panel in the counter to let them through.
In the office, the teenager sat hunched in the desk chair, nursing a Mountain Dew, legs drawn up to his chest. He shot to his feet when they came through the door, face white with terror. “Dad–”
“Go mind the register, Jimmy. It’s alright,” Dave said.
