His gloating caused a leaden sorrow to seep out of Crawford’s heart and spread through the rest of him, but he kept his expression as blank as possible, unwilling to give Otterman any advantage over him.
If he let emotion dictate his reaction to anything—anything—Otterman said, he and Conrad were as good as dead. Their survival depended on cold calculation, not emotional reflex. He had to play this out smarter than Otterman did.
“You’re also remarkably predictable,” Otterman continued.
“How’s that?”
“My man’s shotgun would have been too bulky for you to sneak in through the window, but you would have kept the other’s switchblade. You probably thought I’d forgotten that, but I hadn’t. I’ve been watching for it. You will regret later that you didn’t use it sooner. And, I believe, despite your best effort to appear unconcerned for Conrad here, the only reason you haven’t is because I’ve still got this pistol at his head.
“Now, remove the knife from wherever you hid it—I’m assuming your boot—and, with the blade end pointed toward you, set it on the table, then return your hands to it, palms down.”
In his mind, Crawford was chanting swear words, but he remained calm as he reached into his boot, slid the knife from it, and followed Otterman’s instructions. Otterman picked up the switchblade and tossed it out of reach, along with the steak knife he’d been using.
Crawford turned his head and spotted where they’d landed against the far wall, leaving him no hope of reaching them. As he came back around to Otterman, he made brief eye contact with Conrad. “Bringing him here was a wasted effort,” he said to Otterman. “He’s got nothing to do with anything.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Was it a coincidence that he and I were in the same nightclub yesterday?”
“He’s a drunk. He’ll drink wherever he happens to land.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter if that was coincidence or not. He’s helped to pass the time while I was waiting for you. See, here’s where your predictability comes in. I knew I wouldn’t have to bother coming after you, not after you’d seen Pat Connor’s video of your kid. Bet you shit when you got that text.”
Crawford kept his features stony.
“And,” Otterman continued, “I knew the pimp would crumble under pressure and point the way here. All I had to do was sit back and wait, knowing you’d show up and bring the fight to me. And here you are.”
His complacency was almost more than Crawford could stand, but he forced himself to keep still and maintain a conversational tone. “What kind of deal have you got going with Smitty?”
Otterman made a derisive sound. “He’s only a messenger boy.”
“Between you and who?”
“Rednecks with more cousins than teeth. I doubt many of them can read, but they supply surprisingly good quality weapons.”
Guns? Otterman was about guns? Crawford’s brain kicked into high gear, but he tried to act as though this was common knowledge. “The feds are on to you, Chucky. ATF is—”
“Your bluff is no more convincing than your indifference.” Otterman flashed an evil grin as he picked up the coin that had been lying beside his plate and began rolling it over the back of his left hand while still cradling the .357 in his right.
“Nobody is on to me, Ranger Hunt. Eventually you might have picked up on my profitable sideline. No matter how well one covers his tracks, there’s always a trail, which is why I moved around so much in the early days of my career. You’ve proved yourself to be good at finding those trails, even from your computer desk. You’re almost as good at detection as you are at shoot-’em-ups.
“But you’ve been so preoccupied lately with Georgia. Pretty name. Pretty little girl. You’ve also been spending time with Holly Spencer, lady judge with a smokin’ ass, who’s gone on TV singing your praises. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on there, but I think I can guess.” He bobbed his eyebrows. “In any case, your mind hasn’t really been on your work lately, has it?”
At the mention of their names Crawford’s blood ran cold. Still, he kept his features schooled. “Enlighten me,” he said. “Smitty buys the guns for you and takes a percentage when he delivers?”
Otterman laughed. “Would you trust that lying turd with a cache of expensive and highly marketable weapons?”
“Good point.”
“Take another guess.”
“Smitty never touches the guns, he only launders the cash through his clubs.”
“I never touch the merchandise, either.”
“I see,” Crawford said, even as he was beginning to. “You’re merely the conductor. Others are playing the tune. Even while busy gun trafficking, you hold down a full-time job and still find time to make speeches to pillars of the community about economic growth.”
“See how well it works?”
“Flip sides of the coin.”
Otterman looked down at his left hand and smiled. “You’re thinking way too hard. This is merely a habit. Don’t read any symbolism into it.”
“Who do you sell the guns to?”