Unbeknownst to the luscious redhead E. Jones, Leonard ran drugs between the Carver’s son Dillon and Chance, and Wes was sure the steroid-riddled thug had once robbed a poker den at gunpoint, depriving Wes of a sizable pot he’d won. But was the guy capable of such a grisly murder?
A burgundy van pulled up next to Wes and braked abruptly. The passenger side window zoomed down.
The driver was bald and skinny, with poppy eyes. “Wesley?”
“Yeah.”
“Get in.”
When he hesitated, the van started to pull away.
“Wait!” He opened the door and swung up into the seat before the van was moving again.
“I’m Nick,” the driver said, wrangling the large steering wheel. The area behind the front seats was an organized office, with built-in cabinets and computer equipment. A heavy-set guy with glasses sat behind a desk typing on a keyboard.
“Chance said you need an ID?” Nick asked, pulling into traffic.
“Yeah. One good enough to pass muster in the casino.”
“That’s all we do, man. You got the cash?”
“Three hundred, like you told my buddy.”
“With that baby face, it’ll be five.”
Like he had a choice. “Okay.”
He’d had the forethought to transfer ten of the two hundred fifty Franklins from the Velcro’d lining of his jacket to his wallet. He pulled out five of the bills and handed them to Nick, reveling in the heady feeling. Money was power—he understood why his dad had gone into investment banking.
Nick used a thin piece of wood to push the bills into the slot of a padlocked metal box that was bolted to the floor, then jerked his thumb toward the back. “Mister will take care of everything. Go on back.”
Wes duck-walked into the rear of the swaying van and sat where Mister pointed, in front of a screen. Two printers the size of washing machines took up a good portion of the floor space. The cabinets were stocked with plastic cards, seals, and various inked stamps. This was a high-tech operation.
“Did you bring your real driver’s license?”
Wes removed the card from his wallet and handed it over.
“Atlanta, Georgia. I suggest a driver’s license from a southern state to go with your accent. How about Alabama?”
“That works,” Wes said.
The guy tapped a few keys, and a template for an Alabama driver’s license appeared on one of the flat screens. He started typing in Wes’s name.
“Shouldn’t I use a fake name?”
“It’s up to you, but it’s better to use your own name in case someone asks to see a credit card or something else with your name on it to corroborate your ID.”
Wes pursed his mouth and nodded.
“Age.” The guy looked at him over top of his glasses. “I wouldn’t go more than twenty-six.”
“Okay.”
“Give me a street address you can remember, but doesn’t belong to anyone you know.”
He could remember something relating to Meg. “Sixty-nine Vincent Street.”
The guy frowned. “Sixty-nine is the most commonly used street number on fake ID’s. Give me another number you can remember, Casanova.”
“Thirty-six.” Meg’s bra size.
“Thirty-six Vincent Street. What town? Should be a real town in Alabama, smaller is better.”
“Ozark.”
“Ozark, Alabama,” Mister said, typing and nodding. “Not bad.” He pulled out a drawer full of folded T-shirts in all colors and designs. “Take off your jacket and put on one of these shirts.”
“Why?” Wes asked, panicked.
“It’s really better if you’re wearing something different in your ID picture than what you’re wearing when you present it.”
“Oh.” They’d thought of everything. He slipped off the jacket and pulled a plain brown T-shirt over the gray Skrillex T-shirt he wore.
Mister pointed. “Look into that camera and give me an expression like you’ve been standing at the DMV all afternoon.”
He heard a click.
“Okay, now sign your name on this digital pad.”
Wes did.
“Take off the T-shirt, and sit tight for ten.”
“You’re sure this will fool the casino?” Wes asked.
“If you get banned from a casino,” Mister said, “it’s something you did, not me.”
Fascinated, Wes watched as the man created the fake driver’s license layer by layer. He’d prided himself on creating authentic-looking fake tickets back when Carlotta was party-crashing, but this was hardcore. When the license came out of the printer, Wes couldn’t believe it. “It looks perfect.”
“Which you don’t want,” Mister said. “The issue date is over a year ago, so we need to make this look like a year-old driver’s license.” He dropped it on the dirty black floor of the van and stepped on it a couple of times, ran a piece of sandpaper over the edges, then used a curling iron to put a bend in it like Wes’s real driver’s license.