Making the Cut - SD Hildreth Page 0,1

next three weeks, Slice.”

I glanced up from my notes and pressed my hands into the edge of the table as I flexed my forearms. I knew I didn’t need to flex on Otis, but it had become habit when someone questioned me. Throwing my size around was second nature, and I was a rather intimidating son-of-a-bitch to most people, Otis included. As he twisted the lid off the bottle of beer and tossed it into the trash, I began to stand from my seat.

“Well, that’s what they asked for and I sure as fuck can’t change it. So, what’s your recommendation, Otis? Give ‘em fifty? Seventy? Fuck that. We’ll look like a bunch of incompetent twats. Get a hundred of ‘em found. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you have to run an ad on Craigslist that says AK-47’s wanted: will pay top dollar, find a hundred of ‘em and get ‘em in here,” I said as I tapped my finger on the notepad sharply.

“In three weeks?” he asked as he sat down across from me.

I nodded my head and lowered myself into my chair, “Yep.”

“God damn, Slice, that’s a huge order. We ain’t got any AK’s right now. Jesus. I’ll get Hollywood on it, we’ll see how it goes,” he paused as he raised the bottle to his lips.

I shook my head from side-to-side, “No, we won’t see. Not on this deal, you’ll make it happen. Corndog gets out in six weeks. And these guys are serious players. They’re Sureños. More specifically, if I even need to say it, a bunch of ‘em are from Calle 18, mostly from Los Angeles. These motherfuckers are all about respect. They’re not an MC, but they operate under the same principles and they even have fucking bylaws. If you’re in the gang and fuck something up, they don’t shun your ass, they kill you. If we do this deal and it goes as planned, we’ll be set with these bastards for good. If we don’t, Corndog loses his credibility in the joint. Hell, they’ll probably kill him. These sons of bitches don’t fuck around. They’ll cut a motherfucker’s head off just for principal. Hell, I’ll do about anything to some prick if I don’t like him, but cut off a head? Yeah, I’m thinkin’ not.”

He pressed his beer bottle onto the table, lowered his head, and peered over the top in my direction, “You mean those MS-13 motherfuckers? This is who you’re talking about?”

I nodded my head, shrugged, and grinned, “That’s them. The notorious MS-13. You know those poor motherfuckers started down in Salvador or somewhere. The fucking cops don’t even fuck with ‘em, they just let ‘em run dope. Poor sons of bitches don’t have any money down there, so they turned to dope. Now, they’re the entire reason we can’t go to Mexico and drink coconut flavored drinks with little umbrellas in ‘em on the fucking beach. Well, not if you’re white anyway. They’re cutting off heads of their own people in the street. Fuck that, I’ll stick around in the good old US of A.”

He stood from the table and faced the door. After a short pause, he turned to face me and pressed the web of his hands into his hips, “For fuck’s sake, Axton. I hate this shit. We make a good damned sum of money selling guns to everyone else who buys ‘em from us. And those MS-13 fuckers are some crazy assed Mexicans. They’ll kill an entire family just to prove a point. Do we really need to do this?”

I stood, cleared my throat, and spoke with a tone of authority, “We may not need to for money, and we sure as fuck don’t need to for credibility, but we’re gonna do this for Corndog. Did you forget what he’s done for us? For the fucking club? Huh Otis? And since when was it your fucking place to question me?”

He stood silently, narrowed his gaze, and slowly raised his hands to his face. It was a habit he’d had since he was in his early teens when we first became friends. If he was getting ready to agree to something he didn’t naturally agree with, or when he was preparing to make a move, he always raised his hands to his face first. As he encompassed his temples in his palms I smiled, knowing if I had him on board mentally, this deal was in the bag.

Otis was a rather large man by anyone’s