“That’s what I told him, but he’s still taking it hard.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine once I talk to him. Speaking of which, where is he?”
“At Terrell’s. While you were sleeping, he made an appointment to get us some new guns. This time, loaded with real bullets.”
“That should help. When will he be back?”
Jones pointed to a nearby security monitor. “Actually, I think that’s him now.”
Payne glanced at the screen and saw an Escalade pull through the front gate. A minute later, Greene walked through the front door.
“Guys!” Greene shouted. “Where are you?”
Payne and Jones made their way to the foyer, anxious to see why Greene was so excited.
“What’s gotten into you?” Jones asked. “You seem happier than before.”
“That’s ’cause I am! You know how I went to get you guns? Well, I came back with more than that. Something much better.”
“I hope you didn’t buy a missile, because Jon doesn’t carry that much cash.”
“No.” Greene laughed. “I got some news on the Posse!”
“On the Posse?” Payne demanded. “How did that happen?”
“Well, I went to the Fishing Hole to talk to Terrell about the dummy bullets. I figured if I bitched enough I could get him to cut us a deal on some new guns. Unfortunately, he was on the phone when I rolled in, and his boys said he’d take a while to finish. So instead of waiting by his office, I strolled out front to check out the talent. And that’s when I saw him!”
“Him?” Jones asked. “What the hell were you doing watching a guy dance?”
Greene rolled his eyes. “The guy I saw was a customer.”
“Was he cute?”
“Anyway,” Greene said, ignoring Jones’s teasing, “I saw this guy leaning against one of the brass railings, his hand and arm just dangling over the side. And guess what I noticed?”
Payne guessed. “A Posse tattoo.”
“Give that man a prize! Can you believe my luck?”
“Did you talk to him?”
“I tried, but he saw me staring at his wrist. I don’t know how he noticed me—I mean, I was being really careful—but he did. Next thing I know, he’s whispering something to the buckwheat next to him, then bolting from the club. Thankfully, the buckwheat at the bar knew everything we needed to know. Well, not everything, but he knew a lot.”
“And trust me,” Jones said, “I want to hear every last word. But first, you’ve got to explain something for me. You keep saying buckwheat. What the hell does that mean?”
“Sorry, man, it’s a Southern term. You remember that Little Rascals character, Buckwheat? You know, the one that Eddie Murphy played on Saturday Night Live?”
“O-tay,” Jones chuckled, using Murphy’s famous expression. “I remember.”
“Well, there are brothers around this part of the country that are really rural. Nappy-looking hair, old work clothes, messed-up backwater language. Well, we call those brothers buckwheats. And trust me, this guy was a buckwheat and a half. Fucked-up dreadlocks, gold teeth, taller than me. Shit, I almost felt bad for the punk.”
“Buckwheat, huh? I’ll have to remember that term.”
“Guys!” Payne yelled, unable to wait any longer. “What did he tell you, Levon?”
“Sorry, Jon.” Greene gathered his thoughts before continuing. “I went up to him all cool-like, just watching the girls for a while. After a couple of minutes, he turns to me and starts talking. As luck would have it, he recognized me from my playing days, and we started bullshitting about football. After this goes on for five minutes or so, I decided to push my luck. I asked him about the guy with the tattoo.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“He said he worked with the guy. He wouldn’t give me many details but said all the brothers he worked with had the same kind of tattoo. It was a requirement for their job.”
Jones frowned. “I didn’t know gangbangers had jobs, other than shooting each other.”
Greene shrugged. “Apparently, these guys do.”
“Or,” Payne added, “maybe they aren’t bangers. Maybe the tattoo isn’t what we think it is. Maybe it isn’t a Holotat.”
“Well, that gets me to the next part. This guy is pretty quiet about his friend, but he’s unable to shut up about himself. He keeps rambling on about his job and stuff. He says he cooks and cleans for a bunch of people every day, and the only time they let him leave is to pick up supplies. Then he mentions the guy with the tattoo is the one who brought him to New Orleans. I guess