Ocean Prey (A Prey Novel #31) - John Sandford Page 0,47

and one of Romano’s loan managers. The same system can get you a gun.”

Weaver asked, “Is there money in that? Guns?”

“Oh, yeah. Not millions, but a steady income stream. There are guns all over the confederate states, which means a lot of them get stolen,” Tennan said. “And as they say, shit slides to the coast, which means Florida. Buy guns cheap here, sell them up north. In Philly, you could get a grand for a good Ruger semiauto, stolen down here and sold for a hundred bucks. All those northern states are tough on handguns, like they are on payday loans, which spells ‘opportunity’ for the mob boys. It’s like cigarette smuggling, but with bullets.”

“A thousand percent is an attractive markup,” Bob said.

Tennan said, “And it creates more need for a money laundry down here, if your man’s right about the warehouse.”

Lucas said, “The gun distribution system might work for drugs, if the bartenders were willing to get into it.”

“I’m sure some would be,” Tennan said. “You don’t see a lot of rich bartenders walking around.”

Lucas: “You know anything about Romano’s son-in-law?”

Tennan shook his head: “Not much. Name is Larry Bianchi. He’s good-looking. That I know. The story is, Romano’s daughter met him in high school, he started banging her, they got married maybe because they had to, Don being Don. He basically runs errands for his father-in-law. He and the daughter have a couple of kids. Actually, it might be four or five.”

Bob: “You know anything about the lights warehouse? That operation?”

The agent was shaking his head. “Don’t know about that. Basically, Don’s supposed to be retired. He’s fallen off our radar the last few years. Didn’t have a rep for killing people. Breaking elbows, cutting off thumbs, maybe, but not killing them. And only when he felt he needed to make an example.”

“Nice,” Lucas said.

Weaver said, “We need to know what he’s doing, we need surveillance. We need to find a reason to punch into that warehouse. I looked up the place on Google Maps, the satellite view. It’s across the street from a Quality Inn. I’ve talked to a fixer up in Washington and she’ll get us rooms on the second floor, looking across the street. From what I can tell from the satellite photos, we should be able to see all the entrances to the warehouse.”

“I hope she didn’t reserve the rooms for the FBI,” Lucas said.

Weaver was moderately insulted: “Of course not. We reserved them for members of an Everglades National Park research team.” He glanced around the room at the suits and ties: “The surveillance team is gonna need jeans. Plaid shirts. We’ll check in this afternoon.”

“What are we looking for exactly?” one of the agents asked.

“We’d like to figure out what’s going on in there. Are they peddling drugs? Are they collecting guns? Are they really selling lights? What? If we see anything that looks even a little bit illegal, we get a warrant and a SWAT team out of Miami and we hit the place and we take it apart.”

The agents exchanged glances among each other, and then one of them said, “It’s something. I mean, thank God, it’s something.”

* * *

They spent an hour sorting out assignments. When they were set, they had two agents for each of two rooms, with somebody watching the Romano building all the time. Weaver would have another room for himself. Weaver asked Bob and Lucas if they wanted to take part in the surveillance—“It’s working off your tip,” Weaver said—and after a bit of discussion, they signed up. They’d begin checking in that afternoon, as soon as everyone had their plaid shirts.

As the meeting broke up, Lucas said to Tennan, “Interesting necktie. Haven’t seen a bolo in a while.”

“Yeah, well, with my girlfriend in the modeling business, I’m now fashion-forward,” Tennan said.

“Really . . .” Lucas looked more closely at the tie. It appeared to be an antique. He said, “I once told my wife if she ever found me wearing a bolo tie, she should shoot me in the head.”

“Maybe you’re not fashion-forward,” Tennan suggested.

“I normally am,” Lucas said, slightly annoyed by the suggestion that he wasn’t. “But you know, I run to Italian wool and British leather.”

“Those were good, back when Esquire magazine mattered,” Tennan said. “Still are, for older guys. If I were you . . .” He reached out and poked Lucas on the left nipple. “I’d look into a more square-cut, American look. Shoulders. A faint hint of cowboy.