He raised his glass of whisky in toast. “Never point a gun at something unless you’re—”
“Prepared to shoot it,” I said.
He glanced at me and grinned. “He tell you the difference between being prepared to and being ready?”
“He did.”
“Earl was ten years my junior,” he said. “But when he spoke, we listened. Earl didn’t talk often, but when he did it was in a man’s best interest to be listening.”
“You said ‘we listened.’,” I said. “‘When he spoke, we listened.’ Who are you talking about?”
“That bunch of former hoodlums who were out here the other day. We used to run in a pack, like wolves. Always together. Drinking, fighting, pulling off jobs. Bumped into your father when he stopped to help me with my fence. The old house was here back then, and I offered him in for a shot of whisky. When he came in, Virgil shot out of his chair like he’d been shot at. ‘Earl McNealy,’ he said. ‘I’ll be damned. I thought you were in jail.’ Your dad laughed and said, ‘Not that I’m aware of.’ Ended up they did a couple jobs together in your father’s youth. He was young then, but he was experienced.”
He stood, walked to the bookcase, and returned with a framed photo. “Have a look.”
The frame contained four old photographs that were each about four inches square in size. Centered and matted in a much larger frame, the display was proof of Cactus Jack’s allegiances.
In one photo, the images were easy to recognize. A much younger Jack and my father were standing beside a pickup truck. Each dressed the way Jack was currently dressed, they could have passed for brothers. My father looked to be thirty at the time.
I nodded aimlessly while looking at the photos. One was of Jack and a man I didn’t recognize. One was of my mother and father, both smiling like they’d won the lottery. The last one included my mother and father, Jack, and another woman.
I tapped my finger against it. “When was this? The other one with my mother and father, both smiling?”
She was smiling like I’d never seen her smile. Seeing her that way brought a smile to my face.
“One on the upper left?” Jack asked. “Your mom was pregnant at the time. Doesn’t show it, but she was. Think it was ’79. They’d just found out about it. It was right before we went to Phoenix to see Bob Dylan sing. I remember, because she wouldn’t drink at the concert.”
I traced my finger over their photos, drawing a small outline around them. My eyes drifted to the photo of Jack, my parents, and the other woman. “What about the one with you, them, and the other woman?”
“Was the bicentennial,” he responded without giving the question any thought. “1976. The picture’s faded, but you can see the red, white, and blue thing your mom and Victoria made in the background, beside the bricks.” He fished a pair of glasses from the pocket of his shirt and put them on. He stood, walked to my side and tapped his weathered finger against the glass. “Right there. Those two women had paint all over them. Slung that shit all over the yard, too. Spent half the day painting that old section of fence to look like a flag. Drank two bottles of wine doing it, too. That damned flag. They fought about that. Your mother wanted it because it was the 4th of July.” He turned the couch. “Your father started out as a patriot. After they kicked him out of the military, he took exception—”
“Military?”
“Oh hell,” he said, facing me. “You didn’t know?”
“He never said—”
“Wasn’t something he cared to talk about.” He took off his glasses. “He was Special Forces. Had the paratrooper tattoo on his forearm. Surely you noticed it.”
“He had a tattoo of a knife and a bird’s wing, or something. I can’t really remember exactly what it—”
“Paratrooper tattoo,” he said. “173d Airborne Brigade. Hell, your father fought on Hamburger Hill.”
“Hamburger Hill?”
“Don’t tell me…” He looked at me like he was disgusted with me. “You’ve never heard of it?”
“No, sir.”
“Greatest loss of American life in a war—any war—over a one-week period. Hundreds upon hundreds of Americans wounded and killed. Your father was a platoon sergeant. After his lieutenant was killed, he took charge of the platoon and ordered ‘em up that hill. Twenty-nine men started that journey with him, and sixteen of ‘em made it home alive. Worst goddamned battle of the war, and your father spearheaded the assault to win the battle. Was a pretty big deal, back then. Still is now. He got an award of some sort for his actions. Then, when he came home, they stripped him of his awards and kicked him out of the military. A man in his unit stole machineguns from the armory.” He sipped his whisky, and then gulped what was left. He shook his head. “He didn’t do it, but he knew who did. He wouldn’t tell ‘em who it was, so they made an example of him. Gave him the boot. Took his rank and his pension.”
Filled with pride to the point of bursting, I coughed a dry laugh and nearly started crying in the process. “He wasn’t a snitch,” I said under my breath.
“No, Son, he wasn’t.” He stood. “Got a bad taste in his mouth about the government at that point and decided the best way to get back at ‘em was to take their money. In his eyes, they owed it to him for the sacrifices he’d made.” He gestured to my glass. “Finish your whisky. I ain’t making two trips unless I have to.”
I did as he asked and handed him the glass. While he poured another round of courage, I studied the photos. In the one with my mother in it, I decided they were 28 and 27 years old. They looked a little younger than I remembered them being. It was nice to see them together and happy before I was born.
“The other woman in the picture,” I said. “Was that your—”
“Victoria?” he asked. “She was my wife. Passed in ’01. Same thing got her that got your aunt, God bless their souls.”
I stood and walked toward the kitchen. “Can an outlaw have a woman in his life without lying to her?”
He handed me the glass of whisky and hopped onto one of the six barstools that surrounded an island. “Your father and I are both proof of that. Absolutely.”
I rested my forearms on the edge of the countertop. “How?”
He removed his cowboy hat, rubbed his sun-spotted head with his hand, and then put the hat on. He tugged it down tight. “Be honest with her.”
“But. There’s things that—”
He raised his brows. “Things you can’t talk about?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Then, don’t talk about ‘em.” He took a sip of whisky. “Big difference between lying and not speaking. You an outlaw, Son?”
I laughed. “I suppose so.”
He grinned. “Welcome to the club. How long you been with this gal?”
“We’re just starting out.”
“She knows you’re an outlaw?”
“She does.”
“Be honest with her up front,” he explained. “Tell her that there’s things you won’t be able to talk about, and that she shouldn’t ask. If she can’t respect that, she’s probably not going to do anything but cause you problems. If she can accept that there’ll be bits and pieces of things she’ll never know, she’s a keeper.”
Being in Gray’s presence provided me with a sense of relief that I had never known. My time away from her was becoming increasingly difficult. I yearned to be in her presence and find the solace she provided. Not knowing our future was weighing heavily on my mind.
I walked to the other side of the island and took a seat. “Most of the men I run with don’t have women in their lives,” I admitted. “They think a woman complicates matters.”
He turned his head to the side and gave me a narrow-eyed glare. “They’re damned fools,” he said. “A man burdened with grief can find no grace in the absence of a woman’s touch.”
I recited what he said, mentally. “I like that. Who said it?”
He raised his glass and grinned. “That’s a Cactus Jack or
iginal.”
I cradled my glass of whisky and considered where I should start. Considering what I’d learned, I felt comfortable that Jack was a man I could trust. Gazing blankly at the golden scotch, I began.
“I run with a group of men that form an organized group. We’re criminals in the eyes of the law, but by your definition, we’re outlaws. We have a set of rules and regulations we adhere to, and we call them bylaws. We all ride motorcycles together.”
“Sounds like a motorcycle gang to me.”
I had no idea if he knew what one was. “I didn’t know if you knew what one was.”
He pushed the brim of his hat up high enough to expose his eyes. He scowled. “I might be old, but I’m not an old idiot. The Hells Angels, Outlaws, and those Mongols were riding this part of the country long before you graced this earth with your presence.”
“Well, we like to call ourselves a club—”
He burst out in laughter. He set his whisky aside and flapped his arms. “If I called myself an eagle, do you think I could soar?”
“The government labeled us a gang. We call ourselves a club to spite them.”
His gaze narrowed. “But you know what you are?”
“We do.”
“You fellas rob banks?”
“No, Sir.”
“Planning on it?”
“No, Sir.”
He tugged against the brim of his hat and reached for his glass. “How do I fit in this picture?”
“I need a spot of advice, and I don’t have anyone outside the club to talk to.”
He nodded and then looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Got a problem with one of your runnin’ mates, and you need to know what to do?”
Cactus Jack was nobody’s fool. I nodded in agreement. “Something like that.”
He took a shallow drink. “Let’s hear it.”
I blew out a sigh. “A daughter to the neighbor of one of the fellas was raped a month back, give or take. She was—”
“Kill him,” he said dryly. “Only thing that’ll stop a rapist from raping is to kill the son-of-a-bitch.”
“We did.”
He glanced at me. “Already took care of it?”
“There were three of them. Two held her down while one raped her, and they took turns. Left her laying in the alley behind the bar.”
His jaw tightened. He looked away and shook his head. “Saw that on the news. They gave descriptions of the men’s tattoos. Said they were all wearing black shirts, or something. Surveillance camera caught a glimpse of ‘em, but it was grainy.”
“Black vests,” I said. “They were wearing black vests.”
He finished his whisky. He drew a long breath. “Sons of bitches.”
“Here’s the problem,” I said. “The girl I’m seeing has asked about one of them. She’s not nosing around, and she doesn’t even realize the man’s dead. She’s asking for a fried who is wondering of his whereabouts.”
“You sure she’s not working with the cops?”
I nodded.
“How sure.”
“The positive type of sure,” I said. “She’s the daughter of an outlaw. Lives by the same set of moral values we do.”
He exhaled a long breath. “I’d explain to her that the man’s gone, and that he ain’t coming back. Hell, you might even let her know what he did. It’ll let her come to terms with his absence easier than if she knew nothing. Tell her you’re not willing to discuss it, and there’s nothing else to know, so don’t bother asking. If she’s okay with that, I’d say you’ve got a keeper.”
“If she’s not okay with it?”
He pursed his lips. “Wasn’t meant to be.”
My gaze fell to the bar. “That’s kind of what I thought.”
“What else?” he asked. “That long face tells me you’re not done.”
“I’m not,” I said. “There’s one more thing. Well, really, two.”
He stood. “Don’t know about you, but I’ve got nothing planning short of dying, and I haven’t set a date for that yet.”
While he poured another shallow glass, I continued. “The fella she asked about the man who’s missing was convinced she was working with the cops. Her asking made him nervous as hell. He kidnapped her and took her out to the—”
He spun around. “Kidnapped the gal you’re seeing?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he know you were seeing her?”
“Yeah.” I pushed myself away from the bar and stood. “He was convinced he was doing what was in the club’s best interest.”
His gaze narrowed. “When you say ‘club’, you’re meaning your gang?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Every time you call it a club, I think of a bunch of women sitting around playing bridge.”
I chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He gazed at the floor for a moment. He took a sip from the glass and met my gaze. “So, this fella you run with kidnapped this gal, thinking she was a rat?”
“Yeah. He kidnapped her, took her out in the desert, and made her dig her own grave at gunpoint.”
He pushed the brim of his hat so high it nearly fell off his head. “Well I’ll be dipped in shit and rolled in oats. Made her dig her own goddamned grave?”
“Yep.”
“This gal. Did she stay together through all that?”
“She did.”
He seemed intrigued. “Didn’t say a word?”
I shook my head. “Not one.”
He chuckled. “She’s probably madder’n a sack of snakes about it, though. Ain’t she?”
“She’s convinced it was a test,” I replied. “That it was nothing but a way I devised for me to determine her worth. She doesn’t realize who ordered the kidnapping, because he had two flunkies do all the leg work.”
“She lives her life thinking that, sooner or later she’s going to grow angry about it.”
“That’s one of the things I’m afraid of.”
“Out of curiosity, what prevented this numbskull from puttin’ a bullet between her eyes? If he was doing as he says and protecting the gang?”
“I found out what was happening. Hell, I got there while she was digging the grave. Ten more minutes, and it would have been over. I put her on the back of my bike and rode out of there like a bat out of hell.”
“If you keep her, you need to tell her the truth on this one, Son.”
“I’m thinking you might be right.”
He lowered his chin and glared. “If you keep her, you need to tell her the truth on this one, Son.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does she know the fella who organized it?”
“She does.”
“Do they get along with one another?”
“They do.”
He took his hat off and rubbed his head. After a few sips of whisky, he put his hat on. “You’re in a pickle, Son.”
I finished my whisky. “That’s what I’m thinking.”
“How many people know the truth?”
“Me, him, and the two flunkies.”
“Four men can keep a secret, as long as three of ‘em are dead,” he said.
“It gets worse.”
He coughed out a laugh. “The hell, you say?”
“If I’m keeping this girl, I’ve got to tell the men what happened. It’s the only way they’ll accept her as being trustworthy. I’m the president of this clu—gang, and I’m not going to have the men questioning my decision to let her into my life. If they know up front what she’s been through, they’ll immediately accept her. I owe it to her to tell ‘em.”
“Agree with you on that one.”
“Well,” I said. “When I do, one of them is going to fly hot, and it’s hard saying how he’s going to react. He’s kind of sweet on her, and when he hears about the other guy kidnapping her, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Sweet?” he gave me a confused look. “What do you mean?”
“His little sister died in a car
wreck. She reminds him of her. He’s looking after her like a brother.”
“The fella that kidnapped her made his bed,” he said. “Now, it’s time for him to lay in it.”
He and I agreed on that issue. Although it was going to be tough to tell Panzer the truth, it had to be done. There was the possibility he’d accept it better than I expected. In time, I’d know for sure.
I set my empty glass on the bar. “That’s all I’ve got for now.”
He extended his hand. “Glad you stopped by. You’re welcome any time, Son. Any time. Bring that gal with you, sometime. If she doesn’t turn tail and run after she finds out what really happened.”
I shook his hand. “I will.”
He nodded at our hands as we shook. “You know what started the handshake?”
“I guess not.”
“Outlaws started it, 1,500 years ago. Extending your empty right hand showed that you weren’t armed. If the other fella shook your hand, he was showing you that he wasn’t armed, either. It became a friendly gesture. I come in peace.”
“Interesting.”
He nodded his head toward the living room. “Read every one of those damned books in that bookcase. Might look like a dumb old fart, but I’m not. I’ll make it a point to teach you something new each time you come by, how’s that?”
“Sounds good.” I faced the door. “Wish me luck.”
“Do you know what luck is?
I turned around. “What’s that?”
“A fool’s means of justification.” He tipped his hat. “You’re no fool, Son.”
I hoped like hell he was right.
23
Gray
Price was staring at the clock like a mindless idiot. He’d been in the same position for ten minutes. Wondering if he’d had a seizure, I leaned onto the edge of the bar and rapped my knuckles against the countertop. “Hell-o?”
His gaze drifted into mine.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
He gave me a blank look. “Who says there’s anything going on?”
“I just did.”
Price had been in the bar for two hours. He’d barely spoken, short of answering my questions with one-word responses.
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