The Final Twist by Jeffery Deaver (free ebooks romance novels txt) 📕

The Baynecks aren’t technically Peckerwoods—there was some falling-out—but they’re cut from the same cloth.

“The second main gang in that area is Black. The Hudson Kings. It’s rap based, like the old Westmob and the rival Big Block. Okay, listen. They’re all businessmen first—drugs and guns mostly—but that doesn’t mean they’re not violent and territorial and will take out a threat in an instant. I’m saying: They won’t be inclined to cooperate.”

Shaw said, “I’m going to appeal to their better nature.”

Pepper chuckled. “Whatever you’re doing, make sure it’s during the daylight hours.”

“We’re here now,” Russell said. “They have a social club, hang someplace?”

“The Kings had an HQ in a storefront on Northridge. I think near Harbor. The Baynecks used to operate out of a biker bar on Ingalls. Bayview and Hunters Point have complicated boundaries, so I’m not sure which ’hood they’re in. I don’t know anybody in the Baynecks but there’s an O.G. high up in the Kings. Kevin Miller. He was a stand-up guy. Didn’t exactly cooperate, but he kept things calm. Nobody got shot. And that’s saying something.”

Russell was on his phone, checking GPS.

Pepper said, “I hope it’s a damn big reward you’re after.”

“No reward.”

“So. Last week you nearly got killed in a cult and there was no reward. And now you’re tap-dancing with the crews in Hunters Point, and there’s no reward.”

Shaw said, “Sums it up.”

“Good luck. Nice meeting you, Russell.”

“Same.”

Shaw disconnected. “Which first?”

“Hmm. Bikers’re closer.”

26

As they drove through the streets, both residential and commercial, Shaw looked around him. Hunters Point had always borne the brunt of commerce unwelcome in other parts of the city. At one time it was acres upon acres of slaughterhouses, power plants, tanneries and shipyards, all of which dumped waste into the land, the air and the water of the western Bay.

A hard place, battered and grubby, the Point was only somewhat improved over its nineteenth-century incarnation. Part workaday industrial, part slowly emerging residential and retail redevelopment, part weedy fields and labyrinthine foundations cleared of superstructure. Quite the mix: they drove by a series of vacant lots and a burned-out building right next to which was a small, Victorian-style opera house, painted bright green. Just past that was a construction site on which a sign announced this would be the future home of a division of a well-known internet company, whose headquarters was about fifteen miles south, on the eastern edge of Silicon Valley.

They soon spotted their destination. Lou’s was the name of the bar and it was right out of central set design for a 1960s chopped-cycle movie. Peeling paint, grimy windows, a few unsteady tables and less steady chairs out in front, presently unoccupied. Two Harleys and a Moto Guzzi cycle leaned at the curb.

Russell parked and the two men got out, adjusting jacket and coat to make sure their pistols were invisible.

The interior of the bar was dim and smelled of Lysol and cigarette smoke. The only décor, aside from the ignored no smoking sign, was old and fly-specked posters of surfers—more women than men—along with a wooden Nazi iron cross and a picture of Berchtesgaden, Hitler’s mountain retreat.

There were a half-dozen Bayneck crew sitting at three tables. They’d been talking, before they turned en masse to gape at the newcomers. Breakfast beers, in bottles, and coffee mugs clustered on the scarred table. Four of them were classic bikers: huge and inked, with long frizzy beards and hair to the shoulders or in ponytails. Their cloth of choice was denim. The remaining two—slimmer—had shaved heads. One wore a Pendleton flannel shirt, the other a T-shirt under a bomber jacket. Both were in Doc Martens boots. One had a skateboard at his feet. Shaw knew that in this gang culture, extreme sports like boarding and, his own, motocross, were popular.

The smallest of the bearded men—marginally the oldest, Shaw estimated—looked them over and said in a gravelly voice, “Well, you’re here for some reason. They don’t letcha wear face hair like that in the Bureau or SFPD so this’s about something else. Maybe you’re with an organization”—he rolled the word out, adding an extra syllable or two—“that might have a contrary interest to ours.”

Shaw noticed the bartender, a stocky man, balding, drop his hands below the level of the bar. And one of the shaved-headed men casually put his hand on his thigh. “This’s a private club. Why don’t you get the fuck out?”

Russell unbuttoned his jacket.

Shaw said, “Who’s got the MGX-21?”

It was a top-of-the-line Moto Guzzi, and a beautiful cycle. The body was black and the cylinder head and front brake pad bright red.

The leader of the gang cut a glance to the bartender, whose hands became visible once more.

“Mine,” said the biggest of the bikers.

“Hundred horses?” Shaw asked.

“Close enough. You ride?”

“I do.”

“Bike?”

Shaw said, “Yamaha.”

“XV1900?”

This was the largest Yamaha in production.

“Smaller.”

“Figured,” the leader said, both grunting and snickering simultaneously.

The leader said, “Now that we’re done comparing dicks, why don’t you take my young associate’s advice.” He nodded to the door.

Russell said, “We’re looking for somebody. If you can help us it’ll be worth something for you.”

“Explain yourself.”

Russell said, “I’m reaching for my phone.” He did this very slowly. He held out the picture of Blond.

The man wouldn’t know he was looking at a dead man. Karin had yet another talent apparently: Photoshop. She’d removed the bullet hole and adjusted the eyes a bit. Apparently there was a filter called “Liquify,” Russell had explained, which gave the deceased man a bit of a smile. The image was grotesque only if you knew the truth.

“He scammed our mother out of twenty K,” Russell added.

The brothers had prepared what they thought was a credible story, Russell providing most of the material. After all, he was the one who had been the director of the “mugging” theater outside of the safe house yesterday morning.

The leader frowned. Whatever this gang did for a living, robbing mothers was apparently off the table.

Shaw said, “We know he’s