The Perversion Trilogy: Perversion, Possession & Permission

by T. M. Frazier

  “Hello, Mona.”

  Five

  SIXTEEN YEARS OLD

  It’s after dinner. The dishes are done, and the nightly rituals begin.

  Marci smokes a joint in the living room while my new brothers argue in Sandy’s room over a video game.

  Belly’s seated at the head of the dining room table. I’m to his right.

  I don’t know what he did after dinner before I arrived, but since then, Belly and I sit together while he shares stories of his time with the MC or explains the importance of one thing or another in my new world. Every night, I learn something new.

  “Bedlam distributes guns for Clan Egan. We mule all the way from Miami to Mississippi. It’s a good business to be in if you’re not on ATF or Homeland Security’s radar. Which is why the clan uses us. They are, but we aren’t.” He reaches for the bottle of whiskey. “Not yet, anyway.”

  I’ve heard of the clan before, but I don’t know much else besides the name. “Clan Egan?”

  Belly sits back in his chair. “They’re not local. Miami based. They’re a spin-off of the Irish Mob. Most of them are American born. They’re run by a man called Callum Egan. Nice enough fellow if he’s not holding a blade to your fucking throat.” He stares at the ceiling and chuckles at whatever memory he’s recalling. He shakes his head. “Where were we? Oh, yeah, Callum Egan runs the clan which brings me to what I really wanted to talk to you about tonight. Leadership.”

  He pours out six shots of whiskey, sliding three over to me. He points to the first one, and we both knock it back in one swallow.

  “Ahhh.” He sets down his empty shot glass. “You feel that burn? That means it’s good shit,” he rasps. “Okay, leadership.”

  “Leadership?” I ask. “Why do I need to know about that? I’m not the leader here. You are.”

  “I won’t always be.” Belly leans his elbows on the table and glances over his shoulder toward the back room. “I love those boys, Grim. With everything I’ve got. They’re not my blood, but they’re my sons. Just like you are now. I don’t have a lot of talents in this life, but one I do have is recognizing a leader when I see one, and I see it in you.”

  “But—” I start, not knowing what exactly I’m about to say, but it doesn’t matter because it’s Belly’s turn to interrupt.

  “Just shut the fuck up and listen to your pops,” he growls, followed by a wink. “You may have missed the whole spanking and time-out parts of having an old man when you were a kid, but I’m not above doling those out now so you don’t feel like you missed out.” Another wink.

  Belly always means the words he says, but he has his ways of letting you know that he’s saying them because he genuinely gives a shit. I like our nightly talks. I like having an old man. A dad.

  I genuinely give a shit about Belly, too.

  “Leadership,” he begins again. “The most important thing you need to know about it is to never appear weak in the eyes of those you lead. Weakness is seen as a mistrust of your own decisions, and if you don’t trust yourself, your men won’t trust you either.”

  “Never look weak,” I repeat.

  “The second lesson of leadership is to always and I mean always obey the laws and rules of Bedlam. Especially, the rules you pass down. Don’t just obey them. Revere them like they were handed down by the Almighty himself and delivered into your hands. You’ve got to hold yourself accountable before you can enforce those laws and punish those who betray your trust.”

  Belly points to the second shot glass, and we both take our shots. This one doesn’t burn nearly as much as the first. Belly’s choice of whiskey is something he has imported from…somewhere that isn’t here. But, I don’t think it’s Kentucky or Tennessee. I’m pretty sure it’s more like a Chevron station because the shit tastes like gasoline.

  “Questions?” he asks, flipping his now empty glass upside down on the table.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, honestly. “I mean, Bedlam doesn’t follow the rules of the city, the county, the state, or even the country. Why make any laws at all? Isn’t it the whole point? To do what we want?”

  Belly glares at me with a stern expression on his face. “No, it is not the point.” He stabs his index finger into the table. “The point of Bedlam is family. A fraternity. A brotherhood. It’s about doing things our way, not just any way.”

  He pauses, more to give his next words the importance they deserve than to search for the right ones. He always seems to have those right at hand.

  “Just because we don’t recognize traditional civilian law doesn’t mean we don’t need a code of our own. Our rules are made to bind us together, not tear us apart. They make us a family. Give us traditions. Garner respect. Having a family, a unit of people who would gladly hand their lives over for any of its members means a purpose greater than our own worthless lives.” He points to the third glass. Before we tip them back, he looks at me over the brim. “Even the lawless need laws, son.”

  The third still tastes like a shot glass of lighter fluid, but it’s growing on me. “Don’t appear weak. Follow your own rules and the rules of the Bedlam,” I repeat, but I’m not repeating because I want him to know I understand. I’m repeating because Belly told me that saying the words out loud is the best way to remember them, and I don’t want to forget a thing he tells me.

  Belly flashes an approving smile. “Good. Because if you don’t follow the laws, you’re setting an example to your men that there’s wiggle room in them, and there ain’t, not when it comes to men’s lives.”

  His comment has me curious. “Have you lost a lot of men?”

  Belly refills my shot glasses and then his own. We down number four. It actually doesn’t taste bad anymore. Like glass cleaner and bile but in an almost pleasant way.

  “I’ve lost too many men. But none who didn’t know beforehand that losing their lives was a possibility. None who I didn’t do my best to protect by listening to my gut and my head. Because once you put your laws out there, they ain’t yours anymore. They belong to Bedlam. And just because you sit at the head of the table don’t mean you don’t use your fork just like everyone else.”

  Belly glances down at shot number five, and I swallow it with ease. Following his lead, I flip the empty shot glass upside down on the table. “Do the other gangs—”

  “Organizations,” Belly corrects then quickly rethinks his correction. “Well, The Immortal Kings are an MC. Clan Egan is more like the mafia.” His jaw clenches. “Los Muertos…they’re the only gang bangers around these parts.”

  “Well, do the others have laws like Bedlam?”

  Belly nods. “Yes, and they’re all different, but the core laws are genuinely the same. Don’t disrespect the organization. Don’t rat. Don’t share what goes on here with your women when you get home unless they’ve been cleared by the voting members. Don’t challenge authority. I can go on and on.”

  He points to the next glass and we down our shots. Number six?

  Funny. It tastes like water now. This can’t be the same shit we started with, can it?

  “Although,” Belly laughs, not seeming the least affected by the whiskey, other than his eyes, which are now shining under the dim light hanging over the table. “Speaking of challenging authority, Clan Egan has a rule where you can do just that, but if what you say gets voted down, you die. So to challenge the leader, you risk your life.”

  “Don’t suppose they get too many of those.”

  “A lot more than you’d think. Last I heard, at least, a few a year.”

  “Do they ever work?”

  Belly smiles. “Callum Egan’s been their leader for going on fifteen years now. What do you think?”

  He takes a swig of whiskey, directly from the bottle this time, then hands it over to me. “Oh, and Los Muertos has a good one, too. It reminds me of those old westerns where they solved issues with a duel at dawn.”

  He makes finger guns in the air. Okay, maybe the whiskey is getting to him, after all.

>   “They duel at dawn? From what you’ve told me about Los Muertos, that sounds…fucking strange.”

  He shakes his head and slaps the table. His shoulders shake with silent laughter. “They don’t actually duel! No guns are involved at all, actually. No weapons of any kind. But if a member has an issue with their leader and thinks they can do better, he can challenge the leader to a fight. The winner takes over.”

  “What happens to the loser?”

  Belly takes another swig and passes me the bottle. I do the same, swallowing two mouthfuls of delicious whiskey. “It’s a fight to the death.”

  “What happens if the leader just says no?” I ask, following the question with a loud belch.

  Belly sways in his chair. Or maybe, it’s me who is swaying. He grips the table to steady himself while I’m finding it hard to focus on him even though he’s now still.

  It’s both of us.

  His eyes light up. He points his finger at me, moving it up and down with each word he speaks. “That’s where our first lesson of the night comes into play. Follow your own laws, or risk appearing weak to your people. So, to answer your question, he could say no—"

  “But, he wouldn’t,” I finish.

  Belly grins from ear to ear with pride. He slaps me on the shoulder, “That’s my boy.” He hands me the bottle, and I grip it by the neck, lifting it to my lips. Some of it ends up in my mouth. Most of it dribbles down my chin and soaks into my shirt.

  “Wait, you said that leadership is the first lesson of the night. What’s the second?” I ask.

  Belly snatches the bottle from my hands and smiles. “How to drink like a fucking man.”

  Six

  THE PRESENT

  The casino is a good half a mile away to the set of buildings that house my security operation, my warehouse, a large open room with a long table we call the war room, and now the brothel. The brothel holds a lobby attached to three hallways. One hallway leads to several rooms for the girl’s to entertain their clients. The other leads to their personal rooms for the ones who want to crash here. The third leads to a locked door. Behind it is a large kitchen and living room area for the private use of Bedlam, as well as my private office.

  It’s in my office where I’m holed up as I attempt to get Bedlam’s business affairs in order. Since Belly died it all rests on my shoulders.

  I hang up the phone after making sure this weekend’s gun shipment is still a go. Thankfully, it is. There’s a knock at the door. An unrelenting one. I open it to find Gabby standing on the other side, her fist raised in the air.

  She lowers her arm, tucking it against her side. “Sorry, I just don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Is everything okay? Is Tricks hurt?” I ask, my thoughts going right to the very worst reason she could be here.

  “EJ’s fine. She wanted me to give you this,” she says. She holds out a folded note. “She wanted me to tell you that Marco is too busy planning something to be bothered with her. She says she’s close to getting the proof, but needs a little more time.”

  “Do you know what kind of proof?” I ask.

  Gabby frowns. “No, she didn’t tell me. We don’t get a lot of alone time anymore.”

  “Thank you for this,” I say, holding up the folded note.

  “No problem. I gotta run.” She takes a step back then stops.

  “What?” I ask.

  She smiles, sheepishly. “Raydo is waiting for me outside the gates. I’m not supposed to be on reservation lands at all, but he promised he wouldn’t tell Marco since he thinks I’m here to meet up with someone who owes me money for a con me and EJ ran a while back.”

  “And?”

  She sways on her feet. “I kinda promised that whatever I got I’d split with him.”

  I reach for my wallet and take out all the cash inside. “Eight hundred good?”

  She takes the bills and shoves them in her pocket. “Yes, perfect. Sorry, it’s the only thing I could come up to get him to bring me here.”

  I sit back down in my chair. “Just keep bringing me word. It keeps me as sane as I’m capable right now.”

  “I will. Thanks again.”

  The second she’s out the door Sandy pokes his head in. “Grim, that chick’s HOT!” He looks in the direction of where Gabby had just left. “Was that Gabby? Man, you didn’t tell me Tricks’s friend looked like THAT.” He notices the paper in my hand. “She alright?”

  “Yeah. She’s okay.” I rub my temples.

  For now.

  I unfold the note, knowing full well it would be another quote since a full-on letter would be too risky if she were caught with it. Plus, quotes are Trick’s favorite way to communicate or sum up a feeling or situation.

  Life is a beautiful struggle.”

  - Unknown

  Ain’t that the fucking truth. The struggle part anyway. Life isn’t beautiful, or at least, it won’t be, not until Tricks comes home to me.

  Seven

  Sandy is pacing the living room when I get back to the house. He’s using all of his charm in an attempt to sweet-talk a girl into coming over.

  Not wanting to stand witness to Sandy making an ass of himself, I head out the back sliders toward my room. I’m exhausted.

  I’ve taken weapons inventory, checked in with the men who made the last mule run, and taken a call from Alby, Callum Egan’s right-hand man, to sort out the many details for this weekend’s gun shipment.

  I’m lost in thoughts of Tricks and Bedlam business as I enter my room. So much so that I don’t realize I’m not alone until the toe of my sneaker hits something that feels very much like a foot.

  I draw my gun and aim it into the dark. Reaching behind me, I feel the wall for the light switch and flick it on.

  Sure enough, it is a foot.

  Attached to that foot is a soldier of Los Muertos. Gil. Half of the duo whose asses got kicked at BB’s Bar by me and my brothers not too long ago.

  Or at least...it was Gil.

  All that remains of him now is his corpse, slumped over on my bed. Eyes staring lifelessly through the ceiling. One leg hangs off the side with his foot at an awkward angle on the floor.

  There’s blood. So much blood. It’s everywhere, dripping down his neck and clothes, soaking into the surrounding blanket and mattress. It doesn’t take someone from one of those crime-scene shows to figure out the source of the blood. It’s obvious. There’s a handle of a knife sticking out from his head, the blade buried deep into the top of his skull.

  I step closer and notice that it’s not just any knife. This one has an ivory handle and a name expertly carved onto the side.

  My name.

  Because it’s my fucking knife.

  “What the holy fuck?” I whisper to no one.

  The knife is a gift from Belly. He gave it to me the day I pledged into Bedlam. He’d carved my name into handle himself. It was usually in my bottom dresser drawer beneath a pile of socks, but somehow it found its way from its hiding spot into this gangbanger’s head.

  As much as I’d like to be the person who’d put it there, I’m not.

  My head swims with questions as I attempt to figure out why a soldier of Los Muertos is dead in my own fucking room. I lower my gun and tuck it into the back of my pants.

  There is a commotion outside. An authoritative male voice shouts commands from the other side of the door. I don’t have to see him to know who’s shouting those commands.

  “Shit,” I swear, bolting for the window. The door sails off the hinges. I’m only halfway out when I’m pulled back in by the gang task force and unceremoniously tossed to the floor.

  I look up at a dozen or so familiar uniformed and armed men as they swarm around me with their massive military-grade guns aimed directly at me.

  “Tristan Paine, you’re under arrest for…” The rest of the words are drowned out by the rustling of the men moving about the room. I’m lifted to my feet only to be kicked on the back of my legs and forced to my knees.

>   “Well, well, look at what we have here,” Lemming whistles, taking in the bloody scene.

  I place my hands on the back of my head. My gun is ripped from my waistband. My knife, the one that isn’t planted in Gil’s head, is taken from the sheath underneath my pant leg.

  Agent Lemming wears a victorious smile. He’s so damn elated I think he’s gonna come in his pleated fucking pants. “I told you we’d get you, motherfucker.”

  “You ain’t got shit,” I hiss as I’m cuffed and pulled back up to my feet by two men caging me in.

  Lemming points to the body on my bed. “I beg to differ.”

  I clench my teeth as they push me toward the door. “The body was here when I got home,” I grate.

  “Well, then you’re innocent and free to go,” he teases. “But seriously, I’ve heard that one before. Very unoriginal. You might want to try being more imaginative next time.”

  “This is bullshit, and you know it,” I say, trying to yank free of the cuffs.

  “Is it?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He walks over to Gil’s corpse and looks him over. He points at the knife. “Okay, then, if you’re innocent, can you explain what a knife with your name carved into the handle is doing lodged into his fucking skull?”

  “You know, I was just asking myself the same fucking thing.” I don’t have time for this bullshit.

  “Okay, then can you, at least, tell me who killed him if it wasn’t you?”

  “I was working on gathering clues before you interrupted with your untimely visit.” Sarcasm drips from my every word.

  “Untimely? I don’t know about that. Seems to me like I arrived just in time,” Lemming remarks as we stand face to face. Man-to-man.

  Lawless-to-law.

  I smirk. “Maybe the poor guy had a splitting headache and aspirin wasn’t quite doing the trick.”