While watching Cargill’s garage I play mental games to occupy my brain without distracting me from my job. In a ten-minute period I count how many people walking into the RaceTrac are wearing blue, or have tattoos, or are women. I count how many cars I can see at one time on Northside when the light is red. I count how many cars have only a driver and no passengers, then how many have more than two people. Every thirty minutes or so I walk around my bike twice in both directions to keep the circulation going. I’d do jumping jacks, but that would be more likely to call attention to myself. Not that I think Cargill and company are worried about anybody watching. The only activity I see at the garage is when a white Toyota pickup with a Domino’s decal delivers a couple of pizzas around six o’clock. I stretch my neck and ignore the rumbling in my stomach. I hear nothing of interest from the bug, just Cargill bitching about work and about how cold the pizza is. Luckily I charged my phone at the hospital so it’s got plenty of juice left.

The sun slips over the horizon and the sky begins to darken, lights in the city towers shining through a thousand windows. Traffic starts to thin out. Most of the other cars in the lot are gone by now, and the parking lot attendant is eyeballing me, so I put on my helmet and ride out of the lot with a nod to the attendant and drive around the block until I’m on the street behind Cargill’s garage. I park beneath an old oak tree. Now that it’s getting darker, I can park my motorcycle on the street without being so conspicuous, and the tracking app is still beeping, so all I need to do is pay attention to it. Right now that beeping dot is where it’s been for the past five hours, at Cargill’s garage. I’m assuming that Cargill will take his own truck rather than get a ride from someone else, but I think that’s a safe bet—his truck is so tricked out I doubt his pride would let him ride in anyone else’s car if he had a choice.

Forty-eight hours ago I was getting ready to flirt with Bobby Bonaroo and slip Xanax into his scotch. Now I’m waiting to follow a scumbag like Brandon Cargill to a secret meeting with a Sureños gang leader named Bala. Life choices by Suzie. I’d much rather be at Ethan’s house making him watch a Tom Hanks movie marathon with me. But Tane is in the wind, and if I had time and a credit card of Tane’s I could find him soon enough, but the only lead I have is this Bala.