Page 48 of The B!tch is Bad

Chapter 15

Creed

“All right. We have no choice but to let you go.”

The plan was to let Klozov know, in not so many words, that we’d bury him if he didn’t pay us back our money. And leave.

It was a fine line to walk, wringing straight bank from a con man who probably lived day to day off whatever his last hit had been, then taking him to the ground anyway.

But I had some aces up my sleeve, as I’d discussed with Ford and Lytton. They now backed me up quite literally along with Wolf Glaser and Slushy as we stood at my bar in the wine tasting room of Pictures of Lily. Baron Funkhauser, Duji, Tuzigoot, and Santiago Slayer meandered at the end of the bar, helping themselves to various varietals, uttering such deathless comments such as,

“An ideal companion for manic depression. Will last longer than your belief in life after death.” That sounded like Tuzigoot.

Duji kissed his fingertips. “The wheat yellow color reminds me of bottles peed in when you’re on the road.”

Slayer agreed. “Good with pork or pancakes, this amazeballs is ready for self-medicating any time of day.”

Baron Funkhauser gagged on his. “This has a nose of burnt plastic, melted toast, and deck shoes minus socks.”

Klozov sat stiff as a dry Quaker on his stool. Fingertips splayed and touching each other, still as a frozen shadow. “I understand. You think I made off with some wine. But I’m trying to prove to you I didn’t.”

I planned to answer calmly, but Ford butted in, pointing at the ground.

“Your time to pay your debt has passed, you lame-ass. You might as well just jump out the fucking window and shoot yourself on the way down.”

“You tell him!” agreed Wolf Glaser.

I turned back to face my men. “Now, now. I’d like a chance to get back some of this capital this guy has sucked from this vineyard.” I turned back to the murderous culprit. “Oliver, I introduced you as my most reliant wine steward. I brought you into this circle of trust with these men, and everyone welcomed you because I vouched for you.”

Even in the face of this mortification, Klozov was adamant in his innocence. He declared, “But I didn’t do anything to harm you, man! Ask any of your members and clients! I’m the most trustworthy wine merchant to hit this valley.”

Wolf Glaser could stand it no more. “Oh yeah? Then why did we find incontrovertible evidence that you swapped barrels on your ghost gun to not only smoke Sean Wildstar, but Thomas Massengill as well!”

Klozov screwed up his already screwed face. “Who?”

Wolf blared, “We hacked into IBIS, where they link the LANs and grooves.”

“Yes,” agreed Slushy, who stood by as always in a suit with a lime green tie. “It’s the national firearms database that links bullets with crimes. Never heard of it?”

Klozov’s face nearly vanished into a rotten, deflated apple. “What?” He smoothed out a bit when he added, “Why would I have ever heard of that? I’m not interested in crime. I’m a businessman.”

Wolf took a step forward. “We’ve got the poo to prove it, you jagov!”

This time, Klozov rose from his stool, causing every last manjack behind me to tense in anticipation. Klozov was too smart to run, though. He just waved a limp arm at Wolf. “Okay, now you’re talking squat.” I noticed he didn’t say “What poo?”

“The poo outside Sean’s window matched the poo on your shoe, you imbecile!” Wolf shouted. “And the bullet found in the wall of Thomas Massengill’s scrapbooking room after he was shot through the head!”

“Scrapbooking? Now you’re just sounding like the crafting channel.”

I stood, too, shoulders squared to Klozov’s limp ones. “And you worked for Goodfellas Winery with Massengill before you came here. Slushy just talked to the owner. He had a lot of missing wine at Wine on Main, too.”

Klozov held his palms to us. “All right, all right, all right. I think I might know where Massengill stashed some stolen wine.”

I wanted to slap my forehead. “But some of the wine just went missing last week, you cretin! Massengill was murdered last spring.”

Klozov’s features were a study in surprise as he ignored me. “I think I know the hiding place. Can I meet you here in say two days to bring it to you?”

Lytton blared, “So you fucking admit you murdered Massengill just to get control of the stolen wine? Hate to inform you, but that’s even worse than just grifting off Creed here.”