‘Funny,’ I reply, my tone, dry as a bone. ‘I heard the same about you.’
Our words hang in the air like meat on a hook. Tony’s jaw twitches as he sets the sausages down.
‘So what now?’ he asks.
I glance at Waylynn, and then back to Tony. ‘Now we find out what you know about this.’
I step forward, pulling the phone from my coat pocket and show him the photo.
‘Not mine,’ he grunts. ‘I’m just a humble butcher.’
‘We know. We want to know what it means.’
Fat Tony laughs. ‘If you’ve found this, they’re not sending you a message. They’re declaring war.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m not getting involved. Been there, done that. Got the scars to prove it.’
Waylynn grabs a boning knife, flips it expertly in her hand, and slams it into the chopping board.
‘You’re already involved, Tony. You just haven’t bled for it yet.’
Tony’s smile fades, eyes flicking to the knife.
‘You think threats work on me? I’ve seen tougher kids than you fed through that grinder.’
I lean in closer. ‘Then you know what happens after the grinder, Tony. Dust. No fingerprints. Nothing. Just mince meat. I’ve heard the Thames takes bags of it quite well.’
‘You’re bluffing.’
Waylynn interrupts. ‘He doesn’t bluff.’
‘Let’s take this out back, shall we?’
We step past the swinging carcasses as we walk through to the back room. Waylynn with her deadpan stare flicks on the grinder. The machine roars to life, the mechanical growl drowning out any conversation.
‘I know you know something,’ I shout, but Waylynn doesn’t wait for a response. She grabs his hand, and shoves it towards the mouth of the machine. Not in. Just close enough for the metal teeth to whisper a threat.
Tony’s face cracks. ‘Alright, alright!’ he barks. ‘It’s the Pinedas!’
That name. That’s...Tarran’s maiden name.
Tony pulls his hand back while my mind races. He cradles it like a wounded animal. ‘The mother,’ he says, spitting the words out like they taste foul. ‘She’s bitter, mate. Proper twisted. It’s not the kind that fades with time either. She’s carrying that grudge like the bleedin’ family heirloom. Knows damn well the Sanchez lot put her old man in the ground. Now she’s out for blood, and I ain’t talking about a slap on the wrist. She wants ‘em wiped off the map.’
‘Why do you know all this?’ I ask.
‘She’s been knockin’ on doors, whisperin’ in ears. She’s rallyin’ the hard-nuts, the hitters.’
‘And her daughter?’
His jaw tightens. He looks away, suddenly interested in the bloodied cleaver on the counter. ‘I didn’t say names, mate.’
I step close. ‘But you are.’
Tony’s fingers twitch. ‘Look, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ else. You want answers; you talk to someone else who don’t mind losin’ teeth.’
‘You’re scared of her.’
