Chuck Hogan - Devils in Exile

One was the work phone, labeled T for “talk,” with Termino at the other end. The ex-heavyweight was too well-known from his Brockton fighting days to be of any use here, so he was set up outside the Crossbone Champs clubhouse in Abington, one town over. They never brought personal phones on a job because the location was too easily traced.

Two Samsung phones labeled CL-1 and CL-2 were exact clones of the bikers’ own mobile phones, handy for checking voice mail and text messages, as well as accessing their contact lists. The chapter head’s clone held photos from bike week in Laconia, New Hampshire, grinning biker babes flashing tats and tits.

The phone labeled W was another work phone. The bikers’ phones had not only been cloned, but “ghosted” as well. A clone was an exact copy of the unit’s microchip, whereas a ghost modified a phone’s chipset with an embedded implant. When dialed from this W phone, the bikers’ phones answered without ringing or vibrating, automatically switching on its microphone. Any ambient conversations were then narrowcasted back to the W phone. No need to risk infiltrating the motorcycle club itself, which was a near impossibility anyway: bikers’ paranoia topped even drug dealers’ paranoia. Modern mobile-phone technology made anyone a potential walking wiretap.

The fifth phone was one of a separate pair of ghost phones, thin, high-end Razr models. These units they kept swapping in and out of the store, stashing them behind the lottery station next to the front counter like a dropped phone. They rotated them out twice a day because ghost phones burned through batteries. If not for this, they could have monitored their marks from the comfort of home, or even a beach two thousand miles away. But burning out the bikers’ batteries would raise red flags, so they had to coop out in the van to eyeball their marks so as to know when to call and listen.

The W phone was hooked up to a laptop, recording now. Transmission from the ghosts inside the bikers’ leather jackets were too muffled, but the keno plant eavesdropped clear. Three men, the two bikers and the store owner, a Crossbone prospect, were discussing a shipment of “pellets,” code for ecstasy pills.

Royce had presented them with all this, the cloned phones, the ghosts, the bikers’ mobile numbers, along with photographs and RMV printouts. A bounty of inside information.

“How does he get this stuff?” asked Maven.

They talked about Royce, talked about him a lot, especially on long surveillances, either speculating about his past or cracking on his legend — but tradecraft discussions were for some reason taboo.

“I heard him and Termino talking a couple of days ago,” said Glade, pulling one headphone away from his ear. “I think Royce owns a piece of a couple of Verizon store franchises.”

Suarez marveled. “The man is a genius.”

“Agreed,” said Maven. “But how does he get close enough to the marks to get their phones for cloning in the first place?”

The other two shook their heads, shrugging, the question beyond their pay grade.

“You know what I heard?” said Suarez. “I heard that Brad Royce lists his occupation on his tax return as ‘Brad Fucking Royce.’”

Glade smiled. Using Royce’s full name was the tip-off to the joke. “Yeah?” said Glade. “Know what I heard?”

Suarez said, “What?”

“I heard that the pope once found a potato chip? Looked exactly like Brad Royce.”

Maven said, “You know that statue, The Thinker, the guy sitting like this?” He put his chin on the back of his hand and got pensive. “That guy’s thinking about the size of Brad Royce’s cock.”

Some were old, some were new. Some Glade had stolen off the Internet. But it was enough to pass the afternoon in the back of the work van.

Starving when they got back into town, Maven landed a late-day space down the block from J. J. Foley’s. He went to the bar to order them a couple of pops, and a guy in a patrol cap turned at his voice.

“Neal.”

Ricky. Maven was a few full seconds recognizing him. Not because he’d changed, but because it had been so long. The old cap was cocked over his dented head as usual, a long-sleeved henley covering his bad arm. Razor burn reddened his neck, his hair too long over his ears.

“Rick,” said Maven.

He had never called him Rick before. Always Ricky. This threw everything off.

Ricky looked at Suarez and Glade on the other side of Maven. Maven did the introductions, and Ricky’s buddy, a small guy next to him, nodded with a quick tip of his chin, then looked back at his beer. Maven felt the contrast between them, him and Glade and Suarez, big guys, vital, energized, and Ricky and his friend, slump-shouldered, nearly invisible.

“Long time no see,” said Ricky, a Sam Adams tangled in the fingers of his good hand.

“Been busy,” said Maven, uncomfortable and showing it, nodding too much. “I’m working real estate now. With these guys.”

Ricky looked them over again. “Real estate. Wow.”

“Yeah,” said Maven. “Funny how things go.” Ricky was still sizing up Suarez and Glade, who were paying for the beers. “City Oasis?”

“Still there.”

To the others, Maven explained, “We used to work together at this convenience store in Quincy.” In this way, he was bringing Ricky into the fold and at the same time distancing himself from him: some guy I used to work with . “That dickhead cop still come in?”

“Still comes in.”

“Holy shit. Crank mags?”

Ricky was flat. “And a protein drink.”

“Right, crank mag and a protein drink. Christ.”

Then came the nodding pause they had both been waiting for.

“So, you guys, uh, eating?” asked Maven.

“No,” said Ricky. “Just hanging.”

“We’re gonna...” Maven pointed to the rear of the pub, the tables. “You wanna join us?”

“No,” said Ricky. “We’re cool here.”

Both of them going through the motions. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

This was his exit slot, but he couldn’t leave Ricky like this. Suarez handed Maven his beer, and Maven told him and Glade to go on ahead, he’d catch up.

“Man,” said Ricky, once they stepped away, “you really dropped out of sight. Like a stone.”

“I know, things happened pretty fast. I’m working a ton. I... I should have come by.”

“Yeah...”

“Said good-bye. I just got really caught up.”

Ricky nodded, letting Maven twist.

“What nights you at the Oasis?”

Ricky told him.

“I’ll come by. We’ll hang out. Still get free Sour Patch Kids?”

“All you can eat.”

“You work with anyone else?”

“He didn’t hire anybody after you left. Not enough business. On my own now.”

“Just you and Tyra.”

“Right.” Ricky showed the tiniest of smiles. Just enough for Maven to break free.

“I’ll come by then.”

“You should,” said Ricky, lifted. “Definitely.”

Maven glanced at Ricky’s buddy’s back at the bar, getting a weird low-level vibe from him, then walked back to join the other two. He took a chair facing away from the bar so there wouldn’t be any awkward cross-glances after the fact. Another ten minutes or so passed before the blushlike heat of the encounter wore off. When Maven got up a little while later to hit the john, Ricky and his buddy were gone.

As their burgers arrived, Suarez’s phone rang. It was Termino, letting them know that Royce had made a reservation at the Berkeley Grill for nine o’clock. They looked at each other, each taking a quick bite or two out of his burger, then downing the rest of his beer before heading back home to get cleaned up.