Free The Devil's Redhead by David Corbett

a thick finger under each eye. “Forget it,” he said, and humped back to the bar.
    It took another ten minutes for the twins to appear. They came in one after the other, ducking into the bar with an uneasy familiarity. Their names were Bryan and Ryan Briscoe. They were identically towheaded, sloe-eyed, small and freebase thin. Frank called them Chewy and Mooch, to keep them separate in his mind.
    One of the twins approached the center of the room with an expression of mock horror, his arms spread wide as though to embrace a missing thing. This was the wiseass, Mooch. He fell to his knees and cried out, “Reverend Ben! The snooker table! How could you?”
    Reverend Ben traded glances with the two old men at the bar. Nobody looked happy.
    â€œWhat is this,” Reverend Ben said finally. “National Skanky Hustler Day?”
    Mooch rose to his feet and went to the bar, impervious to the contempt. He took out a tangled wad of cash, unraveled a bill and smoothed it out on the bar. “Drinks for everybody,” he said. “Gonna miss this place. Chump City. Made a lot of money here.”
    The other twin approached Frank. This was the sad one. The nervous one. Chewy.
    â€œWe made it,” Chewy said.
    The twins were a sight to behold, Frank thought. Youngest issue of the Lodi Briscoes, purveyors of quality feed. The twins were the family fuckups. Frank had made their acquaintance one night as they were hustling pool in a Manteca roadhouse. They had quite a little racket: Chewy suckered the marks in, knocked off to the can, then Mooch came out and finished them off. The brothers took their winnings in cash or blow. From the sounds of things, they’d played this room as well. Amazing, Frank thought, they made it out with their asses intact.
    â€œHow’d it go?” Frank asked.
    Before Chewy could answer, Mooch came up from behind with three beers. He handed them around, grinning.
    â€œGot three trucks,” Chewy said. He pulled up a metal folding chair and sat. Mooch remained standing. “All parked out in Antioch, where you said.”
    â€œWe did a follow-in out at the Red Roof in Tracy,” Mooch crowed. “Some salesman. Took his wallet and his sample bag and tied him up with duct tape. Sells ball bearings, you imagine? Went on out, used his plastic and rented us three big shiny white trucks.”
    â€œRented?” Frank said.
    â€œWell, yeah,” Chewy said. He had yet to drink from his beer.
    â€œIt’s cool,” Mooch said. “They can’t trace it to us, I told you.”
    â€œThey can trace it to your follow-in,” Frank said. “Your salesman, he’ll hang a visual on you two. You kinda stand out, know what I mean?”
    Chewy leaned closer and spoke softly. “It just seemed too much a risk to steal three trucks, Frank.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “You know, like three on a match?”
    â€œWho’d you rent from?”
    â€œThat guy in Clayton you mentioned,” Chewy said. “Lonesome George.”
    Frank froze. “Why him?”
    â€œWhy not?” Chewy answered. “No offense, but you’re making me very nervous here.”
    Lonesome George DeSantis had operated at least a dozen rental agencies, one after the other, until the Insurance Commissioner got wise to his claims record. Lonesome George’s renters tended to have accidents. They tended to have their cars rifled, too, or stolen outright. Now he operated through a straw man. Since he had his shop in east Contra Costa County—CoCo County as the locals called it—Lonesome George kicked back to Felix Randall to keep his operation afloat.
    â€œWhy him?” Frank repeated. “Why Lonesome George?”
    Mooch leaned down, close to Frank’s face. “Like my brother said, you gave us his name. You said he was a player.”
    Frank turned to face him. The boy’s eyes jigged and the skin around the sockets was