he didn’t wake them so they’d complain.
He found a local channel, turned back to the bed and yanked open the bags.
One bag: fives, tens, twenties, some fifties, a few hundreds, even some ones.
One hundred and seventy-seven thousand dollars and some change.
What was left from his score from the glory days of Chaos.
The second bag: Cammy’s jewelry Valenzuela gave her, same thing from Harrietta not given to her by Benito but by her ex (not that there was much of that), Harrietta’s grandmother’s silver, Chew’s dad’s watch, the Rolex one of Chaos’s whores stole from a john that Chew claimed as his, and three guns, a .38, a .22 and a 9mm.
Third bag: the envelope with his take from the whores last night (thirty-two hundred measly dollars and some jewelry that wouldn’t bring much), the three cash bags from tonight (seventeen thousand and some change) and fucking seven fucking pairs of Cammy’s designer shoes and five designer handbags, which Benito bought her.
He’d been reduced to shoes and handbags.
But fuck, those bastards were worth a mint.
He’d have to find a fence. One who wouldn’t dial the cops or Chaos the minute he got a whiff of Chew.
Which meant he’d have to leave town for a while.
His take from Digger was out. He knew that sick asshole had whacked Chantilly. Now the cops knew, so he couldn’t blackmail his ass.
Chantilly. Total waste. Even high and used to shit, that bitch was tight.
And since they caught his ass, Chew couldn’t go and steal his bike.
His bike.
Chew’s bike was at his safe house.
The motherfucking cops would seize his bike.
Chew sat on the edge of the bed, his face falling in his hands.
“Jesus, shit, my baby,” he whispered.
It was then he thought of his other babies.
His tarantulas.
All eighteen of them.
He felt his throat get thick.
What would they do with his babies?
What if those pig cops opened the door, and they got out? They’d been born in captivity. He’d had some of them for fifteen, twenty years.
Without him, how would they eat?
“Early this morning, Denver police arrested Wayne Benson . . .”
His head shot up and his eyes went to the TV.
“ . . . a suspect in the murder of Diane Ragowski, a twenty-eight-year-old Denver resident, found murdered in her home last January.”
Denver resident.
Unh-hunh.
Porn fucking snatch.
Guess your sins got washed away, some asshole ends you.
“After the arrest, police found stashes of illicit drugs and a variety of child pornography in Mr. Benson’s home.”
A chill spread through Chew, making him shiver.
“Police report that Mr. Benson has been charged with one count of first degree murder, three counts of possession of controlled substances with the intent to distribute and multiple counts of sexual exploitation of children. He’s been remanded into custody and will await a bail hearing on Monday.”
“That sick fucking fuck,” Chew muttered.
Christ.
Well, his time in prison would be fun.
Chew found the remote, punched the TV off then tugged the bags off the bed, reached in and got the .38. He checked it’s load and set it on the nightstand.
He turned out the light and stretched out on top of the covers.
He closed his eyes.
He was almost asleep when they popped open.
Digger was talking.
Digger led them to him.
Digger was a sick fucking fuck tied to Chew.
“Shit,” he whispered, his mind turning, turning so fast, he started getting a headache.
He needed to find a fence.
He needed to find a goddamned fence.
And he needed insurance.
He stared through the dark before dawn at the ceiling.
His mind stilled when it hit him.
And when it hit him, his lips curved in a smile.
Well then, he guessed he was going to Vegas.
And after that, heading to Boulder.
Tack
Eight oh five that morning . . .
“Police report that security video shows the man who murdered the owner of a liquor store in the early hours of the morning, as well as the man suspected in two other attacks that left another liquor store owner and a night manager of a convenience store in the hospital, is one Arthur Lannigan.”
Tack sat at the bottom edge of his and Red’s bed, elbows to his knees, staring at the TV.
“Arthur Lannigan is the same man suspected in the deaths of Natalie Harbinger, twenty-six, and Camilla Turnbull, twenty-seven. Both women’s bodies were found on the same night in different locations in Englewood earlier this summer. Mr. Lannigan is also the man suspected of a rash of murders Friday night, when five prostitutes were found dead in motels throughout Denver. They’d been robbed.”
The door opened and even though Tack knew