******035:

Rafe

I refused to meet with Victorine Newport and her gang even though they traveled to be with us, and when Justine came and asked me personally, I declined politely, stated I was far too busy preparing for a concert, a release party, press crap and the imminent birth of quintuplets. She could deal with our lawyers, which is where any such meeting should take place. Unless of course, I had plagiarized the Rolling Stones, or Aerosmith or someone worth bowing to. Victorine Alissa as a band was not even on my radar. I did them a favor considering them as collaborators.

We were being pitched a new song by an old friend who had given us a hit song two discs back, and about five years ago, but he'd worked with us on a bunch of other music, and he was professional. He really believed in his song.

Mutt had heard it once and was already coming up with keys for it, Ben had picked up his guitar, and I was humming along with my eyes closed, hearing the harmonies as we listened for the second time when I looked up at an off note deeply involved with the basic structure of it, trying to hear myself on stage singing it to a crowd.

I know my hands moved, clenched, unclenched, rose and fell when I was in this zone. I'd seen video footage of myself. It was somewhat comical. But I'd seen video footage of others and knew it wasn't an uncommon phenomenon. Someone behind the glass was mimicking me. I squinted against the fluorescent glare and saw someone I didn't know.

It was a man, not a huge guy, Latino, dressed professionally, slacks and tie, rolled up sleeves  attesting to a working man. His eyes were deeply darkened, possibly by the overheads, and they were shadowed giving them an even deeper set appearance, cautioning me about confrontation. I could see the tattoo's covering both of his forearms from here, and instantly had some kind of apoplectic seizure without anyone else knowing about it.

The SX3 was clear.

They didn't bother to hide themselves, but he was not dressed in street attire. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

I flat out knew others in the room, probably most of them, as I glanced around, would have seen and noted the tattoos. There was a reason the sleeves were rolled up. Yet, nobody had stopped the guy, nobody was looking directly at him, and he was standing in front right at the glass, his hands mimicking my movements.

His eyes darkened on mine as he realized I'd made him. He chin jerked in my direction and my brows rose. I pointed at myself slightly, barely with one finger at waist level and his nod was almost as disguised. Are you kidding? Here? Now?

I took off the headphones, loosened the ear buds and called a break, as I sauntered levelly out the door, without a word to anyone. That in itself would have been a break from procedure. I was not habitually rude to my guys.

"What are you doing here?" I didn't even bother with preliminaries, as it was obvious he hadn't either.

"I need to chat with you. I'm in no way threatening you, that's why I'm in plain sight, and with clear intentions. Is there someplace we can talk?"

His accent was slight, businesslike and educated. But definitely Mexican. His head was fashionably shaved as mine had been a year ago once upon a time. His facial hair only covered part of his face. I'd guess he was in his mid-twenties, and he carried a perfect air of authority--- he was someone high up.

"We can talk right here, in plain sight, you're right. What do you want?" I was barely civil. He was here for one reason, and he wasn't going through acceptable channels. I should have had him kicked out.

He nodded, his eyes still on me. "I'm warning you off the investigation. You're encroaching on business you don't want any part of."

"Lists of operatives and favor calling, government officials who owe the cartel their livelihoods? Yeah, I know what I'm encroaching on. You made it personal the other night, coming to my home, accosting my daughter, and my niece."

He waved this aside. "There will be repercussions. Drop your investigators."

"Are you threatening me? Here? Now?" I asked calmly. The thing is I went to school with, grew up with, saw every day---- these guys. And yeah, a certain healthy respect for them was pertinent, but a certain lack of intimidation had been acquired.

His eyes looked like obsidian they were so black. No pupils at all. His cheek twitched like Tom Cruise in--- well, all Tom Cruise movies. He was really good at the whole jaw/cheek twitch.

"I came here in good faith, because of your successful band and your respectable, but cool reputation. If you choose to ignore my warning, I'm just telling you in advance, there will be repercussions."

"Yeah, I'll have my security guys take you downtown." I warned back. I was again, as tall as this guy, he could have been Jack's really courteous brother.

But he smiled wickedly. "I am downtown." He smirked, and reached in his pocket, pulling out a card, he gave it to me and turned smartly on his heels. I watched him go and then turned back to the studio rooms. Everybody was looking at me curiously, and with no little trepidation. My guys would have nailed his ass instantly upon seeing me with him, but were too wise to confront in this situation, waiting to see how it played out. I knew Mutt would have been out of there in a heartbeat if I'd given even the slightest sign I wanted help.

I looked at the card. Maximiliano Guiterrez. I looked up. No, that was the card, but that wasn't the man. The man was a goon, a minion. On the back were written three words--- Find the necklace.

Gees, they were onto it all. We were right about what they were after, and why. This was most likely not related to the cartel as much as it was to the US government. And that frankly scared me far worse than the gang business it sort of looked like. It meant that they were scared of what we could do, and they would try to stop us.

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