“Shhh. Listen to option number two.”

The blustering stopped.

“You take this three hundred dollars.” Shaw proffered the bills. “And tell me the name of Trimbeaux’s friend. Latino. Wearing a black and gray shirt.”

“I don’t get what you’re playing, mister, but you’re looking for trouble.”

Shaw had heard some bad lines flung his way from time to time. This was one of the worst.

The man was big, yes, but not muscle big, fat big. Anyone can bluster, anyone can threaten. The danger is in the five percent who don’t, the five percent who simply look you over and silently proceed to hurt or kill.

The counterman was squarely in the ninety-five percent.

Shaw continued, “Option one or option two?”

The eyes filled with dismay. “You don’t know what you’re doing, buddy. Nobody fucks with Orin Trimbeaux.”

Another bad line.

Shaw cocked an eyebrow. “Two hundred more if you give me the Latino guy’s address . . . Or I call the organized crime division of the county sheriff’s office.”

Shaw wondered if they actually had one.

He looked around, as if there were anybody here to come to his rescue. Nope. He was on his own. Finally, a whisper, “Eduardo Garcia.”

“And he lives where?”

“I don’t know! Not his address. I think, Miller Street, near Eberhardt Square.”

It was good enough. Shaw gave him the full five. “I need something else too.”

“What?”

“A to-go bag.”

—

In midafternoon, Shaw, piloting his rental, followed Trimbeaux once again from his apartment. This time the man was in a black Cadillac Escalade. He drove to a storage locker outside of town, near the interstate. This was presumably where Eduardo Garcia’s wares had been stashed.

Shaw watched Trimbeaux emerge with two heavy suitcases. Which he stashed in the back of the Caddie. The dealer fired it up and steered onto the highway. A half hour later, the SUV turned into the weedy parking lot of an abandoned factory. Continuing past it, Shaw pulled into a neighboring property. After he parked, he climbed from the sedan and walked to a stand of trees where he had a good view of Trimbeaux in the parking lot. It wasn’t long before two cars showed up. One was a dusty gray pickup, an F250. The other a tricked-out muscle car, big-spoke chrome wheels. Its color was dark red.

Shaw started recording a video on his phone and set it against a tree, the lens facing the parking lot. Then looking through Swarovski binoculars as he nestled prone, in dry grass, he watched the transaction. Three men from what Shaw guessed was a white supremacist group—visible tats were a swastika and a confederate battle flag—bought a dozen handguns and what seemed to be several small machine guns, maybe H&Ks.

This was good enough for Colter Shaw.

—