Fifteen minutes later, I was in line at the deli, waiting for the cashier to ring up my order, when I noticed two men walk in. Both were dressed in Devil’s Rangers cuts. Knowing that the deli was far from their Davenport clubhouse, I wondered what they were doing in Jensen. As good as the food probably was at Red’s, I had an inkling that it wasn’t the deli that had brought them into town.
“Pete here?” one of them asked as they stopped next to the register.
“He’s in his office,” said the cashier, looking uneasy.
“Tell him that Ronnie is here and I want to talk to him,” he said, grabbing a mint from the candy dish next to the register. He was tall, thin, and had a dark Mohawk. There were pockmarks on his face and he had a small white scar near his lower lip. As he popped the mint into his
