Thomas’s exasperation came through. “I told you, if it isn’t, the explosion could level the block. I noticed on my way here that that hasn’t happened.”
Merry held up both palms. “Now, partner… I apologize if you think I’m wasting your time…”
“You are.”
“But more than that, I figured you’d want to see the dream coming to fruition. I know we ain’t never going to need to be here, but this is a big day.”
“Your dream, Merry. Your plan. I’m just the guy who knows how to synthesize methylamine. In the meantime, I told you quite clearly that I don’t want to be around this stuff. This is not a stable, safe process, and if your people fuck up—”
“They know they’ll probably die. So… they won’t fuck up. They aren’t allowed to use—anything—and my men pay close attention to what they’re doing. Other than going outside to smoke, they never have to leave the premises. We give them a cot upstairs, a lockbox for their stuff, and there’s a decent normal kitchen, too. This is just straight money back to their families south of the border.”
Merry walked over and put an arm around the smaller man’s shoulders. “Now, come on, brother, cheer up! You act like I ain’t about to make you incredibly stinkin’ rich! But between your know-how and my contacts, we’re going to be supplying this to half the labs in California and Mexico.”
“It’s a product,” Thomas said wearily. “Nothing more.”
“It’s a product that makes damn fine crystal, is what it is. Like I said… a cooker’s dream. Meth producers from here to Juarez are going to beg us for it. And best of all, the only controlled ingredients don’t come off our books. Average fellers like us, we can’t buy Nitro Funny Car fuel at Walmart. But Jenkins Racing has an inexhaustible supply.”
“You’d best keep in mind the risks we’re all taking,” Thomas groused.
“Uh huh, uh huh… And you’d do well to remember that without my help in school, you ain’t in that fancy job at Jenkins. You ain’t hobnobbing with Parker Baird and the like.”
Thomas just shook his head.
“What? What now!?” Merry asked. “Does every god-dang thing I say upset you?” The truth was, he’d always found Greg handsome, smart and strong. He’d never said it to him, never would. But he sure did like having him around.
“You’re never going to let me off the hook, are you?”
“Oh, now, come on, brother! I told you, we split this right down the middle. This ain’t no drive-by shakedown!” Merry says. “This is capitalism in full flight. And the real risk is with the meth producers, not us suppliers. This ain’t smuggling Sudafed tabs across the border. In a couple of years, you’re going to have so much money—”
“And then you’ll stop holding that stupid test over my head?”
Merry held up a hand in protest. “Man… I do not even know how to talk to you when you’re in this kind of place emotionally.”
Blackmailing him in college by getting him test results had put Thomas in Merry’s pocket. But he liked to think eventually Greg would come around, see him as a guy who got things done and created success. Maybe even eventually find him attractive, someone he would want to spend more time with.
Everybody wants love, Merry figured. Maybe he just don’t know it yet.
30
Bob watched the back of the shop and factory on Gilmore Avenue from behind the wheel of Sharmila’s BMW.
It was a quiet sort of place, red brick and thick glass inset windows, surrounded by eight-foot chain-link fencing topped with razor wire. A sign in the lot read ‘The Big Cheese.’
Two wooden picnic tables sat by the path to the back door A handful of workers were gathered at them, smoking cigarettes.
The razor wire seemed a bit extreme for a place selling dairy. Maybe they have a history, robberies and such. That Parmesan doesn’t come cheap.
Merry Michelsen had gone in fifteen minutes earlier, parking a few spots ahead of where the BMW now sat, then walking around the building to its commercial entrance. Bob had followed him from the trailer park after a two-hour stakeout.
Sharmila had been called home for an emergency. Her four-year-old son had heard about his grandfather’s violent death in a radio report, and was having a panic attack.
Poor kid. He’ll be dealing with that for a long time.
Bob got his mind back on the job. Michelsen’s parking decision had been interesting in and of itself. Instead of trying to negotiate the cheese shop’s postage-stamp parking lot, he’d gone directly down the side street, to the spot behind it. That suggested familiarity.
He’d been in there for at least a quarter-hour. He’s there on business, nothing less.
He peered past the smoking workers. In the back corner of the yard, close to the building, were a pair of diesel generators, the type used as emergency backup in developing nations, each just a little bigger than the picnic tables, like squat, oversized pill capsules.
They were both running, tiny rectangular orange lights illuminated, each vibrating slightly.
Now that’s odd. Why would a cheese factory be running a pair of diesel generators at a little after three in the afternoon? The county supervisor was adamant the place wasn’t up to anything. But the generators weren’t saving them money, that was for sure.
But it might lower their draw from the power grid, Bob figured. What are they trying to hide?
He rolled down the window and craned his neck out for a moment. Usually, a drug operation would have guards who had nice wheels, at the least. He looked down the row of cars, past Michelsen’s Lexus.
Bingo. A Cadillac Escalade, tinted windows, and beyond it, a green Audi. That’s some serious bills for cheese factory workers.
He ducked back into the car and raised the window.
Okay. My bet has to be methamphetamine. But…
That doesn’t work, if Gerry Tucker was right. They know exactly what to look for, the precursors, the system. They’re not taking in inventory that would work or help cover their intentions. And they’ve been inspected, probably without notice. Hiding cook tables, burners.
So what are they making, and how?
It took another five minutes for anyone to make an appearance. The backdoor opened.
