“I assume I am meant to be intimidated. But you would have to try a little harder than that,” he told me, tone just this side of bored as he looked at me.
“How about I take that nice big cup of pointy new pencils and start sticking them into your orifices until you start doing some talking?” I offered. When a beat passed with no response, I reached for one of said pencils, then studied him. “What do you think? Ear first?” I asked. “Not as big of an impact as an eye, of course, but more painful than a nostril.”
Again, I got nothing of the man.
Which was, I had to admit, impressive. The one-percent badge should have been enough to scare him. But my full-on crazy on display was getting no response?
This man had ice in his veins.
“How about we have this talk in my office like a couple of civilized men?” he invited, waving toward the back of the building.
“You are making a mistake if you are expecting civility from me.”
“Well, then more comfort for me at least, then, my knee is tightening up,” he said, turning, then walking away, waiting for me to follow.
I did, tucking the pencil behind my ear and keeping my hand free for my gun, should I need it.
But when I got to his office, Hammond was sitting at his fancy-looking office chair, rubbing both sides of his knee over his pants.
It didn’t escape me, though, that he had a holster attached to the underside of his desk.
“Old war injury?”
“College football,” he admitted. “Blew my knee out during my last game of my senior year. Fucked up all my plans.”
“So you turned to brokering crime instead?”
“Was being an outlaw biker your dream job as a child?” he shot back as he reached into his top drawer to find a bottle of ibuprofen, the pills rattling as he shook a few into his hand, then threw them back with an old cup of coffee from his desk.
“I need his name, man. A confirmation that it is who I think it is.”
“I connect people who share… mutual interests,” Hammond told me, leaning back in his chair, his fingers interlocked on his stomach. “Beyond that, it is not my business what they do.”
“Even if one of said clients had a woman beaten half to death when she was walking out of work?” I shot back.
To that, Hammond’s face went a little dark.
“I don’t, and never would, condone violence against women. But, as I said, I have no business with the actual deeds done after I connect two like-minded people.”
“Yeah, well, these two like-minded people need me to pay them a visit and have a chat about how to treat a biker’s old lady.”
To that, Hammond let out a sigh.
Sure, it was soon to call her my old lady. But I knew things were heading in that direction. And I also knew that anyone who moved around in our sorts of circles understood one thing about clubs like ours.
You don’t fuck with someone’s old lady.
Hammond, of all people, would be acutely aware of that fact.
“Listen, I am a businessman,” Hammond said, exhaling hard. “I have a client who says that they really love basking in the glow of an unexpected fire. I hook them up with someone who is a fire enthusiast. That is as far as my involvement goes.”
“And that’s why your brain matter is still safely inside your fucking skull and not painting the walls of this office right about now. But I’m running fucking low on patience, and I am going to need you to give me a nod if some fuck named Frederick Lasso was looking for a friend who likes to work on cars and have impromptu street fights.”
“A nod, huh?” Hammond asked, knocking his knuckles on the surface of his desk.
“Just a nod. For that part anyway. I’m gonna need a name of that friend too. Figure that can’t hurt your bottom line too much since your money comes from the schmucks like Frederick.”
“Not for long, though,” Hammond sighed, but he gave me a nod.
“Fucking knew it. And the names?”
“I’m not giving you the car guy,” Hammond said. “I know him. He took a job without much explanation. He wouldn’t have tried to take out some random woman.”
“But the other one?” I asked.
“The other one you can have. He’s been nothing but a headache anyway. He goes by the name Gunny. Five-ten, medium-brown hair, with a smushed nose and a ‘No regrets’ tattoo on his neck, but it’s fucking spelled wrong. And he still hasn’t figured that out yet.”
“Alright,” I said, nodding as I got to my feet.
“Hey,” Hammond called as I made my way to the door.
“Yeah?”
“I know your type likes to handle your own problems. But if you ever need to outsource…” he said, waving a hand at his office.