Rust would argue that he has a good balance too, and his balance earns a helluva lot more.
My mind starts going into business mode, weighing how much Rust nets through the garage and RTM each year—which I’m guessing tips the low seven-figure range—compared to what this must bring in. “What’s the risk?” It must be worth it.
He shrugs. Not in an “I don’t know” way, but in a “who cares” way. “The cops are too busy chasing the idiots. The gangbangers, the joyriders. I’ve protected myself. There are enough layers that very few people could ever point out my involvement. The ones who do have as much to lose as I do. I’ve been running this ring for five years now and I know who to trust and who not to. Besides . . .” His face screws up with doubt. “I have police along the entire Western seaboard in my pocket. They’d tip me off if I were under investigation.”
An eerie silence fills the space as I absorb his words, his confidence.
“Isn’t it dangerous, though, having all this sitting here? It wouldn’t be hard for the cops to figure out who’s behind this if they see Deda’s name on it.”
A finger comes up. Rust’s “listen carefully” index finger. “It’s not about what they know. It’s about what they can prove.”
“Deda used to say that.”
“And he was right.” Another long pause. “So?” His arms stretch out in front him. “You wanted in. Now you’re in.”
I always knew I’d be doing something involving cars. This? Well, this is definitely . . . something.
My gaze lands on a big Ford F-250. It’s probably three years old, but it’s been well taken care of. Whoever owns the fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror must have been pissed when their truck disappeared.
The phone in Rust’s pocket—I’ve seen him with various cell phones enough times to recognize that they’re burners—breaks into the eerie silence. No more than five words are exchanged before he hangs up, the air around him humming with energy. He’s excited. “You ready?”
I simply nod.
“Good. Because you’re about to get your hands dirty.”
The sky past the mountain range to the east is just beginning to lighten as we pass by the security gates at Pier Two in Astoria, slowing down to take in the black smoke rising from the pillars on the cargo ship about to set sail. The gray-haired guard glances up but then lets his attention fall back to the book he’s reading. I wonder how much he’s getting out of this.
“His name is Edgar. He has two daughters—one already in college, one about to start,” Rust explains as if reading my mind. “Tuition is forty thousand a year. He’s willing to look the other way for help in paying that. That’s the trick in this business . . . everyone has a weak spot. You just have to find it, and then buy them their peace of mind.”
Continuing on down the street about five minutes, Rust pulls into the driveway of a quiet motel, his wheels crackling over the loose gravel of the parking lot. The few spotlights actually working highlight a rental office with blue plastic waiting chairs and those faux wood panel walls that my grandparents had in their basement. Not welcoming, but then again, I’m guessing the people who stay here don’t care about being welcomed. Rust continues down to the far end, where the lights are all burned out. I can’t even make out the numbers marking the mud-colored doors.
“Tell me we’re not going in there,” I mutter.
Rust chuckles. “My prissy little nephew.” He parks alongside a black SUV. The window rolls down, and Vlad appears, another day’s worth of scruff aging him even more. His gaze flickers from Rust to me—my clothes black and ruined from a night of pulling apart cars—and back to Rust. In Russian, he spits out, “Why are you here?” I’m beginning to think he can’t manage sounding civil, ever.
Rust answers in English. “Why not?”
Another gaze my way, this one harder. Still in Russian, “Do my father and I need to be worried about the future of our business relationship?”
Rust’s lips curl back in a smile that is anything but pleasant. “I trust Luke more than I trust anyone else,” he says, his voice calm, easygoing . . . full of warning.
I clench my fist and force out a gritted smile, imagining punching that fuck square in the jaw. I’d probably end up knocked out, but at least I’d get the first hit in.
Another second’s pause and then Vlad mutters, as if bored, “The crates are all loaded. The ship will be leaving within the hour.”
“And the second delivery?”
“Da.” Yes. “Already in the containers.”
“Good. What’s going on over on the other side?”
“Your business is only on this side.” He does a cursory glance around before heaving a black duffel bag through the window to Rust.
The weight of it as Rust drops it onto my lap is surprising. He watches me, nodding toward it.
I pull the zipper. My heart rate spikes as stacks of cash appear.
“How do we look?” Rust asks.
How the hell should I know! I want to snap, frustrated with always being in the dark. But I’m guessing that it’s not about what I know; it’s about how I present myself, with Vlad sitting right here, watching. If they’ve ripped us off, we’re going to find out as soon as we count. And now isn’t the time to count.
“We look about right,” I answer, keeping my voice as even and steely as possible.