by Jessie Cooke
“Adonis, what does that tattoo mean?” Rose asked. Landon was surprised that she wasn’t freaked out by the idea of someone permanently scarring her “baby.” Maybe she’d move on to that, but for now he was curious too, but hadn’t wanted to ask.
“I was a medic in the army,” he said, leaving it at that. No one said much until he finished and once he drained his glass of tea and convinced his mother he didn’t want more food Landon said:
“So, are we going to talk about you taking off and breaking your mother’s heart when you were sixteen?”
“Landon!” Rose scolded.
“It’s okay, Ma,” Adonis said, not taking his blue eyes off his father’s face as he said, “I guess the only way to explain it was that I just got tired…of everything. Leaving was the wrong way to deal with it, I guess…but back then I just didn’t know what else to do.”
“You were tired?” Landon said, feeling the anger rise up inside of him. “Tired of what, exactly? Were you tired of being waited on hand and foot by your mama? Having everything you wanted and needed handed to you and not having to work for it? Is that what made you so tired that you had to run away?”
“Landon, stop!” The men kept their eyes on each other and ignored Rose’s pleas.
“I notice you weren’t too tired to take that new motorcycle I’d just bought you when you left. And you weren’t too tired to take the money out of your college fund, were you? And that rucksack! That’s the only thing I had left from my time in the service, and you just took it, like you had a right to. Then you waltz back in here five years later, again, like you have a right to. You think being a medic and tattooing ‘Doc’ on your neck is going to impress us to the point that we’ll forget everything else you did? You broke your mother’s heart.”
“Please stop!” Rose’s face was covered in tears, but Landon could only see her out of the corner of his eye. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off his son.
“You finished?” was what Adonis said when he finally spoke. When Landon was quiet for a few beats Adonis went on, “You don’t have to worry…sir.” His voice was low, deep, and thick. For the first time in his life, Landon was almost frightened of his own son. “I don’t plan on staying around here,” Adonis said. “I came home to see my mother and as soon as Grant’s got his shit together, we’ll be going into business together on the Southside.”
Landon raised an eyebrow. “You’re going into business on the Southside? What kind of business are you going into over there? Drug dealing? Pimping? Car theft? Burglary…?”
Adonis shoved his chair back from the table. Rose was crying, Landon stood up so as not to give his son the advantage of looking down on him, and with a steely look in his deep blue eyes, Adonis looked into Landon’s green ones and said, “All of the above. You know how much you like being in that 1%, old man? Well, guess what? I’m going to own my 1%. I’m going to own this whole fucking city one day. After you’re gone nobody’s going to remember your name, but when I’m dead my legacy is going to live for fucking ever.” With that, Adonis Marshall bent down and kissed his mother on the cheek and leaving the rucksack on the floor, he turned his back on his parents and walked out of his family home for the very last time.
2
Doc picked up a newspaper in the prison visitor waiting room and looked at the date. He chuckled when he saw it was almost a year old. It figures. He flipped through it, reading a couple of articles about Vietnam, and scoffed at what a bunch of shit the media was feeding the public about what had really been going on over there. When his eyes landed on one about the two hundred thousand soldiers returning home, he tried to ignore it. It would only be more shit…and even if it wasn’t, he’d lived it, he didn’t need to read about it. He was just happy to be out of the fucking jungle. He was happy to trade the noise of clattering choppers and moaning soldiers for traffic and neighbors who played their music too fucking loud. He was glad he’d never have to sit bored in the barracks while eight other motherfuckers read their letters from home out loud…or wake up in the dead of night and hear one of them crying. If he lived to be a hundred years old, he would still be happy until the day he died that he’d never, ever have to carry a severed limb in his arms and hand it to the men in the Medevac just after they loaded up the piece of a man it came from. Fuck that. His father could keep his doctor bullshit. Doc had bigger and better plans. His father thought that saving lives made him a big man…but Doc had proved during his time in the army that anyone could do it. Fuck his old man. He was going to own those lives his father had wasted his life saving.
He shrugged off the thoughts of his father, turned the page again, and a name in the headline caught his eye. It was the man he was here to see, the man who held the key to his future…even though Doc was the only one who knew about it yet. The headline read:
Boston’s legal community cheers as word of the arrest of Mason Carlisle he leader of the Southside Skulls, spreads through the city.
The date on the paper was July 18, 1974. Doc was deep in the jungles of Vietnam when this all went down, and he got word via one of the only letters he received while he was deployed. The letter was from his friend Grant Benning, aka Hawk. Hawk grew up on the Southside. His stepfather was a Skull and when Doc got fed up with living with his emotionally abusive, narcissistic father, Grant talked him into becoming a prospect for the Skulls. Doc jumped at the chance, especially since his parents had just bought him the Harley Davidson that he’d begged them for on his sixteenth birthday. Things didn’t go exactly as planned from there, however. The Southside Skulls were barely staying alive and they had more enemies in the city than allies. The cops were all over them – everyday there was some kind of a shakeup – and not willing to spend his next birthday in prison, Doc joined the army instead. If there was one virtue Doc possessed, it was patience…and he used his time in the army wisely. He made contacts with many men, and friends with the ones he knew he would need later on down the line. He now had a friend with access to a stockpile of old army weapons, one with a family in Tennessee who grew high quality weed, and another with a direct link to one of the most powerful cartels in Mexico. He had contacts who were demolitions experts, snipers, safecrackers, communications experts, mechanics…the list went on and on. Doc had a notebook that he carried like a bible when he was in Vietnam. It was filled with pages of phone numbers, addresses…and most importantly, names and specialties. Not a minute of his years in the army was wasted…and now, he was ready. His visit to Mason “Mad Dog” Carlisle would be the first step toward putting his plan into action.
Although Doc knew well what happened back in July of 1974, he read the article anyway. Details were what made the world go around, and Doc knew that the majority of the population weren’t smart enough to know that. He had a photographic memory and he only had to read something once to memorize the details. But he read everything twice, just in case.
Mason “Mad Dog” Carlisle, 43, is being held in the Suffolk County Jail on a $1,000,000 bond. On Friday, July 19th, local law enforcement, SWAT teams, and federal agents stormed Carlisle’s home on a warrant. At press time, details of the warrant were not readily available, but we were told that it was issued by Judge Granger and related to the murder of a drug dealer found in a dumpster behind Joe’s Crab Shack three weeks ago. It’s also being reported by police that discovered in Carlisle’s home was 100 grams of cocaine, 60 balloons of heroin, $40,000 in cash, stolen credit cards, and counterfeit $20 bills estimated to have a worth of $10,000 if circulated on the street. An anonymous source reported that smoke bombs were thrown through the windows of the residence prior to police entering by breaking down the front door with a battering ram. The suspect, Carlisle, was apparently sleeping at the time. A female whose name has not been released was also present in the residence at the time and taken into custody as well. The drugs and money were said by police to be found lying out in the open in Carlisle’s “game room.”
Detective Sean Brady, one of the officer
s instrumental in the takedown, was cited as saying, “Mr. Carlisle will be going away for a long time and from the condition the Southside Skulls are in already, we’re hoping that without a leader we will be able to dismantle the rest of the club in a matter of weeks. This is great news for the community.”
According to public records. Carlisle started the 1% motorcycle club in 1965. They were made up of a collection of retired servicemen originally and expanded quickly, becoming one of the most lethal gangs in the history of Boston. No one knows what caused the eventual downfall of the gang, but over the past five years at least ten of the members have been arrested and eventually incarcerated on charges ranging from drug use, sales, trafficking, gun and other weapons charges, burglary, and even murder. With low numbers, the gang became a target of other gangs moving into the area, Brady told the reporter. Carlisle is also said to have a drug problem himself, which is rumored to be a part of the club’s downfall. His arrest is only the latest in the slow decline of the Southside Skulls, which looks like it will soon be part of the history of our great city.
Doc shook his head as he folded the paper and set it aside. With a smile on his face he thought about how confident the police were that the Skulls were history. If they only knew, he thought.
“Visitor for Inmate Carlisle!” The bark of the correctional officer brought Doc out of his thoughts and back to the task at hand. He stood, adjusted the new suit he’d just bought that morning, and ran his hand over his smoothly shaved face. With a smile he said:
“That’s me, sir.”
“Name?”
“Adonis Marshall.”
“Follow me.” Doc followed him through a door the officer had to unlock and down a short, cold hall. He was directed to take a seat in a cramped cubby with a phone hanging on the corkboard wall. A pane of reinforced Plexiglas separated him from a mirror image of the side he was on, with one important difference. There were holding cells on the other side and as soon as Doc took a seat, the door of the cell on the other side of the glass slid open and a big man with a shaved head and a long, dark beard stepped out. Even in prison issue orange, Carlisle loomed as an intimidating figure. He had a scar along the left side of his face that puckered it and pulled his left eye down slightly, leaving it in a permanent squint. His eyes were black and his brows dark, thick, and low-set. He was only about five-foot-ten, but his shoulders looked like they were five feet across and from what Doc had seen of the man before and now, there wasn’t an ounce of fat underneath the tattoos that covered him from his neck down.
“Adonis Marshall,” Carlisle said as soon as they’d both picked up their phones. “Gotta say, I was surprised when they said you were here to visit me. Didn’t you cut and run a few years ago?”
“No, sir. I cut and joined the army. I spent eighteen months of the past three years in Vietnam, in the jungle. I came back bigger, stronger, and smarter…and now I’m ready.”
Carlisle chuckled. “Ready for what, kid?”
“I’m ready to take your club to a height that even you had no idea it could reach.”
This time Carlisle threw his head back and laughed out loud. Doc waited and when the other man finished laughing he said, “What are you, like twelve now?”
Doc concentrated on not letting his jaw tighten up and set the way it wanted to. “I’m almost twenty-one, sir. I was a medic in the army for over three years, half of that was spent in the jungles of Vietnam. But what you need to know about me is that I’m the smartest man that has ever passed through the doors your club. I have contacts, made in the army…veterans…who are willing to join the club. With these men and me at the helm, we can not only restore the Southside Skulls to their former glory…we can surpass anything that any other club has done to date. The Southside Skulls will be a household name in Boston, not only in 1975…but in 1985, 1995, hell…2005 and beyond.”
That left eye seemed to squint more as Carlisle reclined back in his chair with the phone receiver tucked under his chin and stared at Doc through the window. “You think those old boys are gonna just let you walk into that club and take over? You look like a law student.”
“Looks are deceiving,” Doc said. He had cleaned himself up on purpose. Along with the clean shave and new suit, he’d cut his hair short too. He had business to take care of before he held that gavel, and looking good was half the battle. “Besides, those old boys will do whatever you tell them to do, and you and I both know it.”
Carlisle was still smiling; that was a good sign. “And I get what out of this?”
“You get to keep running your club from right where you are. An account will be set up for you, under an alias of course. Your monthly cut will be deposited like clockwork. Your name will still be synonymous with the Southside Skulls, you’ll have the respect and protection that you deserve for however long you’re inside and the second you step out, you take over the throne. This club is your legacy, Carlisle. I’m not saying I don’t want to benefit from its success, but make no mistake, I’m well aware it is ‘your’ success, not mine.”
“And what exactly are your benefits?”
“I make a name for myself,” Doc said. “I learn from the best there is, and I make money, just like you.”
“No changes without my approval?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve got a feeling I’m a fool for trusting you,” Carlisle said.
“So, your choice is, number one, that the club you dedicated your life to…hell, the club you gave up the best years of your life for…folds, and if you do walk out of here alive, it’s as a broke-ass old man…or number two, you trust me and when you get out of here, you’re a rich, powerful old man.” Carlisle was right, he was a fool to trust Doc…but Doc knew he would. Once a man had tasted the lure of money and power, nothing less would satisfy.
3
May, 1976
“Doc Marshall!”
Doc was reclined back on his bed, smoking a joint as a cute little redhead with ginormous tits was giving him one hell of a blowjob, when he heard the female voice yelling his name. The redhead, a club girl named Jamie, looked up at him with her big green eyes and said, “Sounds like somebody is pissed at you.”
Doc chuckled. People were perpetually pissed at him, especially women, which he gave less of a shit about than the men. He didn’t have anything invested in women, so fuck ’em. “If you had that monster in your mouth where it’s supposed to be, you wouldn’t be able to talk.” She smiled. Her red lipstick was all over her teeth, and the tip of his cock. Just as she slid her lips back over him, the screaming downstairs started again. Whoever that bitch was just lost her pass to the ranch. “Doc Marshall! Get your ass down here, now! Doc Marshall! Doc! Fucking! Marshall!”
“Jesus Christ!” Doc pushed Jamie back. “I’m going to kill me a bitch.”
“You want me to wait, baby?”
Doc sighed and held out his hand, helping Jamie to her feet. Damn, he’d been looking forward to fucking her tonight…all night, in every position. Jamie was one of the most flexible women he’d ever met. She used to be a gymnast and he didn’t know shit about that, other than it made for one hell of a circus in the bedroom. He kissed her on the side of the face and said, “Stay available, baby, I’ll call you if I need you.”
She smiled again and nodded. “Okay,” she said, enthusiastically. Fuck, he loved the power this position gave him. He knew he was good-looking, but without that patch that said “Prez” on his chest, he wouldn’t get half this much action.
“Doc Marshall!” The screamer was getting hoarse. At least that was a good sign; maybe she wouldn’t be able to talk by the time he got downstairs, and he could throw her stupid ass out without having to listen to her whine. He tucked in his t-shirt, zipped up his jeans, and buckled his belt on the way out the door. Three of his guys were standing on the landing of the stairs, looking down.
“What the fuck is going on?” Their spines got so straight when he spoke it was a wonder they didn’t snap i
n two. Tank, the biggest and least afraid of him of the three of them, turned to face him first.
“Hey, boss.”
“Don’t fucking hey boss me. Who the fuck is that and why haven’t one of you thrown her off the ranch on her ass?”
“I told her she should make an appointment to see you, boss,” Tank said. That was when Toolie, Doc’s mechanic, formerly the best damned helicopter mechanic in Nam, turned around. His face had a dark red handprint across it, and the best Doc could guess was they could probably lift fingerprints off of it and use them to identify her if he turned up dead. Before Doc spoke, the other one turned around. They called him Coyote. He had a beard that looked more like animal hair than human and these close-set brownish-yellow eyes. Coyote’s thick beard was currently wet with blood, and fingernail marks could be seen leading to it from one eye.
“She’s crazy, boss.” Coyote said, turning to peek around the corner again.
“I swear to God if this chick is not six-five and three hundred pounds of solid muscle and armed with a fucking Uzi, the three of you are going to have hell to pay.” The three misfits looked at each other. These were men that would drop a man with a bullet for no more than spilling his drink. But a woman was a different story, especially a beautiful woman, and as soon as they stepped aside, and Doc’s boots hit the first step, he saw her standing at the bottom of the stairs…and he saw their problem. Thank God he wasn’t as affected by a pretty face as these fools were, because this one was fucking gorgeous.