The Golden Chalice by Sienna Mynx Page B

yet to deal with what he knew to be true of his longest-held and most trusted friend.
    He eased his hand inside his coat pocket and withdrew his phone. His chest heaved and fell with deep intakes of breath to steady his nerves. He pressed the number pad with his thumb.
    “Monk. Long time no speak.” From across the street, Lee had a clear view into the Kosher diner Monk often visited for lunch when on the West Coast. He saw him lift his head from the dinner plate and keep the phone pressed tight to his face.
    “Been waiting on this call, Lee.”
    “I’m sure. Here’s the deal. I need to unload the Chalice.”
    Monk snapped his fingers at the table across from him. The men seated there rose and walked to the rear of the diner, leaving him alone near the picture window. “So it’s true. You do have it.”
    “I do,” Lee answered. “My lady has a knack for making the impossible possible. The Chalice was mine when she was. You know how it goes.”
    “That’s one cold bitch of yours. I heard the rumors of the Briscol Bank taking an unexplained hit, but I had no idea Pops stashed the golden cup there. Well done, friend. Pops thought he had us by the balls by keeping its existence from The Order. You used his daughters and got what you wanted. Couldn’t have played it better myself.”
    Lee’s jaw tightened. He seethed with mounting rage.
    Monk licked his fingers. “You called the right person. My buyers will pay for its weight, no problem. The kind of payment you want, well, you know it’ll be tricky setting up an untraceable account for the transfer. I’m thinking you already got someone on it?”
    “I hear you’ve taken in a boarder?” Lee asked.
    Monk chuckled. “Fuck, I need to tighten my security. Let me guess. That little Mexican motherfucker Escobar gave me up?”
    “I’m not pleased,” Lee answered.
    “It’s only business. Consider me Switzerland. Neutral, man.”
    “Business? You and Cumminskey are thinking of taking advantage of my position now?”
    “No, I only meant—”
    “I’m no rookie, Monk. I know what plays have been made behind my back. I’ve made the same plays at one time or another. So let’s talk business. We could get nasty, and I’ll let some no-name fence to take the Chalice and move it. Hell, I know a country or two that would gladly give me a kingdom for it.”
    There was a pause on the phone. Lee squinted at Monk, who didn’t move a muscle in his seat. Finally, the dirty scumbag spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m listening.”
    “Two conditions.”
    “Just two?”
    “Two conditions and I’ll consider giving you a pass.”
    Monk licked his lips. “I’m listening.”
    “I want to know everything you can find out on the Nigerians. And how Abahti is tied to them. And of course, you give me Cumminskey. Those are my terms.”
    “Nigerians? Who are they?”
    Lee ended the call.
     
    ***
     
    Only locals knew El Diablo’s, a Portuguese restaurant on the west side of Chicago. It happened to be one of Eddie ‘The Butcher’ Cumminskey’s favorite watering holes. He forked the spicy yellow rice and black beans doused in hot sauce into his mouth, chewing, observing. His men covered the doors. Eddie checked his watch once more. He happened to look up when a tall, black, sharply dressed man walked in. Eddie tracked the man with his eyes; his paranoia had him seeing threats from the most unlikely sources. He needed to deal with the Lee Sullivan issue fast. He tired of living like a man on the run.
    The cell phone on the table began to buzz. Eddie tossed his fork to his plate and picked it up. “What took you so long?”
    “You wanted information. I have some,” Abahti drawled.
    “About motherfucking time.” Eddie relaxed. “Chocolat?”
    “The one and only. She’s making a run for it. Prague. From there she’s headed to Madrid. Thanks to you and Monk, of course. If you deliver the money, she’ll be ever so grateful. Monk will receive a courier envelope with