Blood Lines by Mel Odom

Victor said. “I learned to add, and I learned when things don’t add up. And you? You don’t add up.”
    â€œMaybe I should just call it an afternoon,” Thumper suggested. “I got things to do and places to go.” He slid his chair back.
    â€œIf you leave before I’m through talking to you,” Victor stated, “you aren’t going to live to see morning.”
    Thumper tried to cover his nervousness by reaching into his jacket for a cigarette.
    Fat Mike eased the hammers back on his shotgun. The clicks sounded ominous and loud enough to be heard over the music.
    â€œChill, bro.” Thumper’s voice sounded strained and brittle. “I’m just going for a packet of cigarettes.”
    â€œLeave your hands on the table where we can see them.” Victor leaned back in his seat and fished out his own cigarettes. He slid the pack across to Thumper, then added his Zippo lighter. “Smoke one of mine. Keep it friendly.”
    Thumper took the pack, shook a cigarette out, and lit up. He almost looked calm. Except for the fact that his hands were shaking as much as a man going through the DTs. He breathed out a thick plume of smoke.
    â€œYou guys are waaaayyyy too intense, bro,” Thumper said.
    Victor smiled, but the effort was cold and calculated. There were people who’d seen that smile who never walked the earth again. He thought he could stop short of that with Thumper. In fact, Thumper—if he could be reasoned with—could make other things much simpler.
    If Victor had not been able to figure out a way to use Thumper and his cop connections, he and Fat Mike would have buried the guy tonight. In fact, Fat Mike had been happier with that idea than with what Victor had in mind.
    Thumper made a show of smoking calmly. “I’m starting to feel offended. I have to tell you that. That business we’ve been talking about doing? That’s pretty much over at this point.”
    â€œGuess what, genius,” Victor said. “Once I figured out you were a Fed, whatever business you and I might have had was taken off the table.”
    Thumper’s eyes hardened. “We were talking about a supply of meth.”
    â€œI got to be honest with you about that,” Victor said almost pleasantly. “That was just me and Fat Mike setting you up. We were just yanking your chain.”
    Thumper glowered at him. “Setting me up for what? To rip me off?”
    Listening to the desperation in Thumper’s voice, Victor knew that someone was monitoring the encounter. Maybe Thumper hadn’t worn the wire to the meeting, but that didn’t mean he’d arrived without any backup.
    â€œWe got hookups,” Victor said. “You want something, we know a guy who can get it for you. We just take our cut out of the middle.”
    Thumper looked at Victor, then at Fat Mike, then back again. “You guys have got cooks working for you.” He was referring to meth cooks.
    Victor fanned the photographs in his big, callused hands. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    Thumper snarled a curse that was loud enough to draw the brief attention of two bikers at a table only a short distance away. Victor looked at the men for a long, hard minute and they looked away.
    â€œYou know what I’m talking about,” Thumper stated angrily. “You garroted Hobo Simpson. Garroted him and dropped him into a hole somewhere out in the woods.”
    Victor smiled coldly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œYeah, you do.”
    â€œIf you got proof of that, then arrest me.” Victor shoved his hands out in front of him. He hadn’t planned the move and it caught Fat Mike by surprise too. Fat Mike shifted uneasily and for a moment Victor thought he was going to bring the shotgun into play.
    â€œI ain’t no cop.” Thumper sounded sullen.
    â€œYeah, you are.” Victor spread