Free Bluetick Revenge by Mark Cohen Page B

the line and I explained the situation in general terms.
    “Livingston can be a little overbearing,” he said.
    “Roger that,” I said.
    “Can they hear you?”
    “Yes.”
    “On a scale of one to ten, with one being unconscious and ten being nuclear, where’s Karlynn at?”
    “Seven,” I said.
    “Do you mind sitting in on the interview?” he asked.
    “Not at all,” I said.
    “Put Adrienne on,” he said.
    I looked at the female agent and said, “He wants to speak with you.” She walked toward me and I caught a subtle whiff of perfume
     as I handed her the receiver. I don’t like it when a woman’s perfume overpowers my olfactory, but she’d chosen a light fragrance
     and applied it with such caution that it was barely noticeable.
    “Hi, Matt,” she said. I heard only her end of the conversation. “That’s about the size of it … This is nothing compared to
     what she’ll face on the witness stand … I know that.… We can always rescind the deal…. It’s against policy … Talk to me .
     . . All right … All right … Thanks, Matt … You too.” She placed the receiver back in its cradle, then looked at me and said,
     “You can sit in with us.” Karlynn shot Livingston a look and he rolled his eyes again.
    The female extended her hand to me and I shook it. “I’m Special Agent Valeska,” she said. “This is Special Agent Cliff Livingston.”
     He came forward and I shook his hand.
    “Mr. Keane was a federal prosecutor,” she told her partner. “I think we can bend the rules a little.”
    They had the receptionist issue me a visitor’s badge, then led us through a maze of hallways to an interview room. It was
     about ten by fifteen and very plain. The paint was off-white. The carpet was tan. The ceiling was suspended. The rectangular
     table was topped with a walnut laminate. The chairs were metal and uncomfortable. I took a chair in a corner and opened my
     book. But Livingston began the questioning in his booming voice, and it soon became apparent that I was not going to be able
     to concentrate on my book while sitting only a few feet away from the three of them.
    “All right,” Livingston began, “I want to ask some more questions about the Sons of Satan.” He handed her several dozen mug
     shots and surveillance photos. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
    “I recognize all of them,” she said. He took her through them one by one while Adrienne Valeska took notes on a legal pad.
     The feds were trying to construct an organizational chart for the gang. Some of the men had nicknames such as Throttle, Pig,
     and Monster. All were members of the Sons of Satan. One of the surveillance photos featured my old friend Anvil, though his
     legal name was apparently Robert Alton Pugh. Livingston’s questions about Anvil were typical of the questions he asked about
     the others.
    “What can you tell me about Anvil?” he asked.
    “He’s one of Thad’s enforcers,” she replied.
    “What does he enforce?”
    “You know, rules. Like guys who get out of line or people who don’t pay.”
    “Have you seen him assault people in that capacity?”
    “Not very often,” she said. “I’ve seen him get in bar fights, but if he’s really going to hurt someone he usually finds a
     way to do it where there won’t be any witnesses.”
    “Has he ever killed anyone?”
    “Not that I know of,” she said.
    “How long has he been with the gang?” Livingston asked. She shrugged.
    “Maybe two years,” she said.
    “Does he work?”
    “He doesn’t really have a job, but he works on computers and stuff. And he likes books.”
    “Where did he come from?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “He never talks about it.”
    “What else can you tell us about him?”
    “He’s crazy,” she said with a bit of a snicker.
    “Why do you say that?”
    “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “It’s like he’s got two different personalities. Sometimes he’s real quiet—just sits by himself