by Brian Ewing
“And you two have already met Tiny.” Púca rose his hand towards the obese man standing by the door.
Tiny grunted, or coughed up a chicken bone, Sisto couldn’t tell which, but politely nodded.
“Look, I am glad you are coming to hang out at the event.” Púca said to Fitz, walking around his desk and putting his hand on Fitz’s shoulder. “I have some business going on throughout this thing, but it would be great to catch up. Maybe we can grab a drink later and rustle up some stories about the old days?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Fitz accepted on both his and Sisto’s behalf.
“The shop closes at five but Tiny will make sure everything is squared away down there. I should be at the clubhouse by lunch to get ready and be at the complex by dinnertime. Where are you two staying?”
“Figured we would just go to Bakers Bed & Breakfast. Been a long time since I stayed there.”
Púca nodded. “Well, why don’t you two check-in there and then head to the complex and relax? The back lot is being renovated so it looks like a damn junkyard but everyone will be posted up there the next two nights. Bands, bikes, and beer.”
“And bitches.” Tiny perked up.
Annoyed at the outburst, Púca acknowledged the heavyset man, “How could I forget the fourth ‘B’? Yes, bands, bikes, beer…and bitches.”
Tiny shriveled up at the realization he spoke out of turn, leaving the man at a daunting six-foot-four, instead of the presumed six-six that Sisto was sure the man held when opening the door. Fitz thanked Púca for the hospitality and gave knuckles to Cary and Tiny on his way out. Sisto followed promptly behind Fitz, nodding and giving no indication he had wanted to bump knuckles with any of the men in the office. The two were quiet as they walked through the back office and the open garages. They started the engine on Fitz’s Harley-Davidson Electra Tri-Glide. The purr of the engine made the two men feel better about speaking out loud.
“That went better than I expected,” Sisto said as he hopped on the passenger seat.
Fitz had a look of concern but said nothing. He put on his sunglasses, then helmet, and started towards the bed and breakfast he mentioned in the office.
CHAPTER 20
After bagels and coffee, the event started to head out of the national park shortly after Mason had broken Andrick’s train of thought. Mason, Andrick, Rug, and Freddy had all their gear packed and ready to leave aside from the camping chairs they had sat around the small fire the night before. Mason asked the guys to wait as the majority of groups took off. Andrick watched Rug and Freddy’s faces as Mason explained where Mole had been. Supposedly, Mason was going to wait until they got settled in Saratoga City, but guilt or lack of sleep must have changed his mind, Andrick assumed.
Andrick watched Mason’s body language go from rigid to confident, as he explained the situation behind Mole’s quick exit from life. As he explained how Mole was stealing and fucking children, any guilt about taking out one of his own, melted away from him like butter on a hot baked potato. Freddy and Rug had understandable reactions when they had first heard, starting to get emotional and frantic. Mason reminded them to think about all the times of Mole’s side hustles. Mole was always trying to rob a convenient store or try to force a strip club into using them for protection and paying them a percentage for the week they were in town.
The two men did visibly get their bearings together after those reminders that Mole was not a saint. What was being accused of their perished friend, was definitely something within his wheelhouse. Mason had told the two how he asked Andrick to fill in the empty spot in the Spokane chapter with the three of them. His test to see if he deserved it, was to take out the man that chose to steal from his brothers and steal the innocence of children. After that argument, Rug and Freddy had no grounds to dispute anything.
“Are you sure?” Rug had asked, pleading with Mason in hope that he was mistaken.
Mason nodded. “I triple checked and even drove down to Little China myself. I spoke with the father of a twelve-year-old girl that had cigarette burns on her arms and back and a black eye after Mole had rented her for the night.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Freddy muttered.
“He wasn’t the man we thought. He was a liability. I made sure none of that shit fell back on us, and now, there is no way it ever can.”
“What about his bike?” Rug asked.
“Already had loaded in that pickup truck Mole and Andrick took last night. It’s getting brought to Púca’s garage to get stripped.”
Rug and Freddy looked in Andrick’s direction a long, hard moment. Andrick thought he saw Rug want to say something but after thirty seconds of silent analysis, simply nodded his approval.
Mason spoke softly as if he were trying to have a teaching moment with young children. “Let’s get these chairs put away. We got a few more hours of driving then we can relax for a few days in Mustain.”
Most of the motels and hotels within five miles of the event grounds they would be convening the next few nights had been sold out weeks ago. Andrick had claimed he had to get an apartment further away because he had not been as prepared as some of the others. In truth, Andrick specifically chose an Airbnb a month ago under a false name and chose to be in the Northernmost part of the city South of the event, Saratoga City. Until recently, he didn’t like to shit where he ate but after the revelations that had presented themselves recently, Andrick had given up on remaining undetected. It had already been paid for and set up, however. Andrick decided he would put the quaint home to use, making it his own personal blood palace over the next few nights.
Apparently, Púca was teetering the line of legitimate businessman and dirty money launderer. The event that was being held in Mustain was at a recently acquired business complex that was in process of being renovated. Púca saw an opportunity to lease out the complex to some of the larger establishments in the city at a cheaper rate. He would take in a fortune by his estimates, which put him in a very good mood most recently. Andrick overheard not only was he providing the event and letting a few hundred people stay in the wing of the complex that was already renovated, but he was also going to be having all the food and kegs of beer catered the next two days. Andrick imagined the prospects were happy they would not have to be modern-day slaves and get up at the ass crack of dawn to scrounge up breakfast sandwiches and coffee.
Andrick followed the brigade of motorcycles through the industrial complex, towards a massive, fenced-in building. The fence had banners that said ‘Future Home of Irish Wolf Business Complex’. The parking structure was already full of hundreds of motorcycles, recreational vehicles, and single SUV’s and trucks usually reserved for prospects to drive and do slave work, occupying the asphalt painted spaces. Dust was thick in the air as the cyclists in front of him had to wrap around the back of the complex. Andrick followed Mason and his remaining entourage to a makeshift parking lot, filled with spray-painted lines and directions for additional parking.
The back of the complex had been just as massive as the look of the front area. There had been some taped off areas that had laminated pictures of what was to come, including a set of tennis courts, basketball courts, a small putting green, and a ramada for employees to smoke. Already constructed was a volleyball court with regulation dimensions, smooth-grain white sand, and Andrick even thought he saw sprinklers around the edges to cool off the sand in the summer. At that moment, Andrick realized if he had gone the normal greedy path that most follow in life, Púca may have been someone he could look up to as intuitive and even respect.
Andrick could already see Freddy getting excited at the prospect of showing off some volleyball skills, as the group of men walked up to a check-in table. Apparently, for liability reasons, Púca had been taking everybody’s ID and taking a digital snapshot in case anything was to happen. Andrick pulled a fake ID out of muscle-memory. While he was feeling out his newfound mentality of giving zero fucks, he still wanted a bit more time to kill as many as possible.
The table had four people sitting with a metal lockbox and laptop each. The woman Andrick walked up to had looked like she would work inside the building being constructed, not wrangling savages for a massive kegger in the back of one.
She smiled at him as she accepted the false identification that he passed to her. She ran a blacklight over the card, causing the invisible ink to reveal itself. Andrick had paid almost two thousand dollars when he had first gotten stateside from Hoskins, Alaska. He did odd jobs and waited until he befriended a degenerate with connections, asking for four fake identities. All four cards were pristine and very passible and from different states. Each identity also came with a valid social security number and birth certificate, courtesy of the seedy underworld of Seattle’s lawbreakers. After he had those, he just walked into the DMV, explained he just moved to Seattle, and showed his current credentials. They then replaced all four of his fake cards with state-issued driver’s licenses for less than the cost of a fancy dinner out.
“Thank you, Mr. Walsh.”
As she started to thank him, he tried to speak over her to muffle the last name from being heard too loudly among his posse. None of the men batted an eye, so it must have worked. The men walked the grounds for the next ten minutes. They were admiring the amenities but also scoping out a corner to call their own. From the corner of his eye, Andrick saw a tattooed, leather-clad gentleman darting in their direction. Andrick almost giggled at the idea someone would accost them a few minutes into the most recent stop on the event.
Could my luck be this good, already having the chance for bloodshed? He asked himself.
Unfortunately, Andrick could hear Mason from behind his left sightline, laugh, and call out to the approaching stranger.
“Cary, you crusty sonofabitch!”
The man that approached cracked the briefest of smiles, which Andrick concluded was probably a lot for that man.
“Where is Púca?” Mason asked.
“Wrapping up business at the garage. Got some friends from the old days meeting up here for the event.” The man spoke in a stern, direct tone, void of any enthusiasm.
“Who?”
“Ackerman.”
“Shit, I thought he was dead.”
“Nope, just doing odd jobs South of here in Saratoga City. The background check I ran earlier showed he does part-time at a local shop as a grease monkey. Guess he wanted a taste of the good life again. He brought some friend with him, too. Guy looked like he got hit by a bus. I didn’t like his face.”
“You haven’t liked anyone’s face since the 1980s.” Mason howled, wrapping his arm around the morose individual and escorting him with the pack of men.
Same, maybe you and I could be friends in another life, Andrick thought.
“I don’t know,” Cary said. “That fucking cripple rubbed me the wrong way.”
Cripple? You want to fight a cripple? Ha! Friends indeed.
CHAPTER 21
Sisto and Fitz had checked into their hotel room off Fifth and Archibald. It was nicer than Sisto had been expecting the SCPD to approve for him and Fitz, but then realized with an event as large as the one they were attending, most of the lower cost motels and hotels would already be reserved. To Sisto’s dismay, while checking in with the woman at the lobby counter, she handed over one digital key, not two. Bell, asshole that he is, got a single room with two queen-sized beds, instead of opting to give each man their privacy. Sisto let it go quickly, as he knew they would not be spending much time there anyhow.
They were in a hotel, recently renovated from an old bed & breakfast named Bakers. The entire area had been cleaned out and updated and the small bed & breakfast was demolished, along with a nail salon, and turned into a ten-room hotel. The place was clean and the elevator to the second floor was clean. The men exited and headed to their room, which was the third door on the right. Fitz used the key to let them in, dropping his bag in the pathway leading to the beds. Sisto stepped over Fitz’s bag on his way to the bed farthest away from the bathroom, setting his belongings down and looking out the window.
“You better not snore,” Sisto said.
Fitz shook his head, chuckled, and laid down flat on the other unoccupied bed.
“Púca should be over at the complex in the next few hours. We should head over there soon and start to let people get comfortable seeing us walking around. Got some old friends I should have awkward conversations with and get out of the way early.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Sisto thought pensively a moment.
Fitz nodded with his eyes closed, as he was sprawled across his bed with his hands behind his head.
“I don’t think I ever asked over the past year, but what made you leave this lifestyle? I know your prospect died, but I assume that’s somewhat a natural cause in biker life?”
Fitz opened his eyes and thought a few seconds before answering.
“There are a lot of reasons I needed to get out. My prospect, my cousin, was the last straw that broke me. I would have gotten out even if Tommy hadn’t been killed. I also had just gotten out of a break-up and was being evicted by the landlord I was renting from, so that timing was as good as any to wash my hands of it all.”
“I didn’t know that I shared a name with your cousin,” Sisto said, bashful that he had never taken the time to ask sooner. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. I got a question for you. Why are you such a prick?”
Sisto looked up, wanting to tell him it was because he was trying to steal Ama away from him and had already had so much taken from over the last year but refrained. “You know last year, the Vinnova case?”
Fitz nodded.
“I wasn’t smart enough on that case. I let my ego get the best of me and because of it, I lost my best friend, along with a fellow Detective. Both had been my fault. I have to live with that every day, knowing if I had taken a little more time, I may have been able to see between the lines and save them.”
“Ama tells me you beat yourself up over it. I used to do the same thing over my cousin. Can I give you a piece of advice?”
Sisto stopped unpacking the duffle bag that was now on his bed and looked to the bearded man, expecting some Gandolf-biker wisdom.
“Shit isn’t always in your control. Do your best with what you got and that should be enough to let you sleep well at night.”
Sisto didn’t want to admit Fitz Ackerman may have been right. Furthermore, he didn’t want to admit Fitz was actually a good man. Least of all, he didn’t want to accept that he was a good man and understood why Ama would want to be with someone like him.
“Let’s get going,” Fitz said. “I lay on this bed any longer and I am going to nap until tomorrow.”
The men rode over to the directions that Púca had provided, to see an onslaught of debauchery already underway. It looked like a resort for leather-clad middle-aged people that liked to drink and do drugs, outside of business hours. While some people looked like they were just dressing the part, similar to the people that attended the renaissance fair, Sisto could spot the small groups that lived the life full-time. They had parked in the makeshift lot behind a massive, partially constructed business complex. The entrance was narrow, causing a line to form. Once Fitz drove them in and parked, the two went and checked in.
Sisto looked around, feeling like he knew he would need hot showers for a week straight, after seeing what some of these mongoloids did in their spare time. The next few hours Sisto followed Fitz around as his gimp friend while he rubbed shoulders with his old crowd. As the two were making their way from one clique to the next, Sisto saw that grumpy bastard from the garage, Cary, talking to a group of men that looked like more than weekend warriors. Sisto made a mental note to double back to that group later. He preferred to wait until Cary was no longer with them, as he instinctively got the impression the man did not like him.
Fitz introduced Sisto to a group called the Hog Hellions, a chapter of bikers out of Wyoming, that have been on the even
t circuit since the ride had been incepted years ago. The news that the group had attended the event every single year, forced Sisto to push past his fear and extend his left hand, in a cordial attempt to shake their hands and see if The Reels wanted to show any horrific secrets they may have been hiding. The men looked at Sisto, leg brace supporting his left kneecap, and sling on his right arm. There were four men, the leader of the pack being Jim Meyers. Meyers held a clean-cut face and hair, finding more salt than pepper in his trim beard over recent years. As Fitz explained earlier, outside of the life most of the people that are in the deep mix of it all, also have a reputable business on the side. Where most people do shady shit on the side for money, these people do shady shit all day and to keep up appearances with the IRS, have a side hustle of running a car wash or being a real estate agent.
The cronies behind Jim Meyers all looked like lawyers from the neck up, then working your way down, could see tattoos running down their arms and scars on the knuckles. The men politely shook Sisto’s reverse handshake. One by one, Sisto was greeted by each man’s misdoings. The Reels couldn’t pull up too much dirt on the first three men. Jim had a tendency to drink and beat on his wife or girlfriend. The second man, whose name slipped Sisto, had an awful gambling habit, which led him to rob numerous liquor stores. The third man literally was skipped over. The Reels must not have found anything too offensive, or at least not enough to bother Sisto with at that moment. The fourth man, Phil, pressed Sisto’s tolerance, as The Reels showed Sisto what Phil did for a living.
Anyone that interacted with Tom Sisto knew he always had a sneaking suspicion that orderlies and people that hang around hospitals, had the perfect setup to go violating and diddling people. Granted, our frontline medical workers are to be revered. But, he always said if he were a pervert he thought working at a hospital would be like letting a fat kid loose in a candy store. Sisto himself insisted someone had touched his junk last year when he fell unconscious after being drugged by Laura Saunders. He scoped out everyone on that floor and couldn’t definitively prove anyone rustled his package in an unfriendly way, but he was always on the lookout. Phil, a close to seven-foot ogre, got his rocks off feeling up women in the coma ward. His vision showed Phil in scrubs and a nametag with the name of the hospital and Phil’s position. The Reels knew Sisto would not stand for that kind of behavior.