later, McCoy, Che, and I were heading out, leaving Seeley and Remy to do some work on shoring up the basement for the coming shipment of guns we had coming in from Russia in a week.
It wasn't ideal to have the guns on the premises in case of any police caught wind of what we were up to, but until we dealt with a couple of the standing threats in the area, we had to keep everything close.
But if we were going to have them in the clubhouse, we wanted them locked up tight and maybe harder for prying cops to find.
"Jesus Christ, Arty," I hissed when we moved into his place, finding it stale and airless, some festering old Indian food uneaten in a bag near the door.
We were literally kicking cans of energy drinks out of the way as we moved inside.
"Crack that fucking window," I demanded to Che who moved across the room to jack it open, parting the blinds to let some light in the dark space.
The place was a wreck, but not as concerning as the state Arty himself was in.
He'd never been overly put together, and was a terrible sleeper on his best of days.
But his eyes were sunken, red, lined with bags and purple smudges. His hair looked limp and greasy. His beard—if you could call it that—was growing in. And he was still wearing the same outfit he'd been in when I'd first put him on the job.
"Arty, man, what the fuck?" McCoy said, shaking his head.
"I thought I had them. The white car with the plate. I thought I had them. But then, I lost them. I lost them around the corner of Gable. And I don't know where they went. Where could the car just disappear to?"
"Alright, bud," I said, sighing. "I am going to need you to dial back the crazy about ten notches," I said as his eyes bulged, his fingers frantically tapping at the screen.
Che moved in behind Arty's chair, head whipping to the side, breath catching, when he got a whiff of him.
"Show me the video," Che demanded, trying to speak while holding his breath.
"I've watched it a million times," Arty insisted.
"Yeah, but have you ever been around that area?" Che asked, clearly onto something that the rest of us weren't in on.
"I don't... I don't go far," Arty said, shaking his head.
Arty's safe space was about five square miles, anywhere-he could walk by foot since he didn't have a car.
"Yeah, here," Che said, stabbing a finger at the screen as Arty paused the frame. "I thought it sounded familiar. Right here, there is a small underground garage. Maybe big enough for three cars. Back when I used to race, when the cops would show up, it was always a spot everyone tried to snag, leave their cars, and take off on foot."
"But why would they park there if they weren't racing? No one was chasing them in that video," I said, moving closer, regretting it immediately when all the various unwashed man smells hit my nose.
"Paranoia," Che suggested. "Just did a drive-by, and if someone reported the white car, they could be pulled over. Better to lay low for a day, then come back and get the car before the stores in that strip mall open for business."
"Fair enough," I agreed. "Alright. We are going to head over there and ask around, see if anyone will talk. It's not a bad area, so we might find some loose lips. Arty, I need your ass to take a shower and fucking burn those clothes and the bedsheets. And take out the garbage. And eat something. Maybe catch some sleep. And then, and I fucking mean this man, only then, get back on this and see if you can catch them leaving some other time."
With that, we headed back out all of us taking greedy breaths.
"You're going to trust him to do all that?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "Once we get back, I'll send Seeley over to babysit. He'll be useless if he keeps slipping."
"Times like this, you gotta miss your crazy-ass sister," McCoy said as we got to our bikes.
I missed Gus all the time, even though I knew she was happy in her new life with her biker and all her new friends. She created more chaos than she calmed, but she did come in handy for the softer shit that the rest of us weren't known for.