by Zahra Girard
I’m so shocked I don’t know what else to do but laugh.
“What? I don’t have that kind of money. I didn’t even have the five grand you wanted earlier.”
“You’ll have to figure something out, if you want you my services..”
“Are you serious? You’re going to let me, Crash and his friends, and Kendra — and don’t forget little Josie — all suffer because of your greed?”
“This is business, not charity, Violet. I’ve told you my price. Now it’s up to you to agree to my terms or not.”
Piece by piece, everything I care about is being ripped away from me. And again, there’s that word. Business. This business has stolen my heart, the man I love, my best friend — everything that I care about is being torn away from me. And all for business. Fucking business.
What else is this business going to take before the end?
“I do have something I can offer,” I whisper. I surprise myself by not crying. By holding back the tears and the roiling anger and nod my head.
“What’s that?”
“You can take my bar.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Crash
“Look alive, you pieces of shit; you’ve got a visitor.”
The sheriff’s deputy slams on the bars of the cell with his nightstick, jolting me out of the dark thoughts that I’ve fallen in to. It won’t be long before the sheriffs start poking around our cargo truck and, even as dumb as these bastards are, it won’t take them too long to find the guns we’ve got hidden away. Not only have I lost the woman that I love, I’m about to fail my club, too.
Dying doesn’t seem like too bad of an out. It probably wouldn’t take too much work to provoke one of these deputies to use deadly force. Suicide by cop isn’t an elegant way out, but at least I’ll die with the satisfaction of having beaten one of their stupid faces in.
I look up at see an old man. Rotund, carrying a bottle of whiskey and a few bags of what smells like fresh-fried donuts.
“What the fuck do you want, Bowen Dale?”
“I heard you boys got yourselves into a bit of trouble.”
“And, what, are you a lawyer, too?”
He nods. “I have been known to stand in front of a judge’s bench from time to time. But I doubt you boys could afford my services when it comes to legal representation. No, I’m here to see if you all would like some donuts.”
“Thanks, BD,” Blaze says, leaving his bench and heading to the cell door to take a donut through the bars. He takes a big bite. “These are fucking good.”
Mack and Snake both join him seconds later, Mack takes a cruller and Snake an apple danish.
“You don’t want one, Crash? They were made maybe five minutes ago. Best shop in town, and better than anything you’ll find for miles around. They don’t even serve shit this good in Aspen.”
“I’m fine. But if you think I believe you drove all the way here to fucking bring us donuts, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”
“Oh, these donuts aren’t just from me. They’re from Violet, too. Her and I had a little chat.”
“Did that thoughtful lass send that whiskey, too?” Mack says. “Because after all the shit that’s gone down tonight, I’m feeling a wee bit thirsty.”
“The whiskey isn’t for you, Mack. It’s for the sheriffs.”
“Fuck them, BD. Those khaki-wearing motherfuckers don’t deserve it.”
Bowen Dale winks. “Yes, they do. Just trust me.”
“What the fuck are you getting at?” I say.
“All will be revealed in good time,” he says, then he turns and leaves the holding cell area.
Through the small window in the door to the holding area, I watch him converse with the deputies. There’s a lot of laughing, back-clapping, and BD looks to be turning on the charm with them. Then, after a little nudging and cajoling, BD and the sheriffs all take a nip of the whiskey and BD looks to wave goodbye. I’ve had enough, and I turn back to my brothers, who are finishing the last of their donuts.
“That old man is fucking useless. He’s left already. We need to figure out a way to get out of here and get back to the truck before shit goes even more wrong.”
“And how the fuck do you suggest we do that?” Mack says. “You want me to tunnel the fuck out of here like it’s the fucking Shawshank Redemption? I’m not a fucking gopher, goddamnit.”
The door to the holding cell area opens again, and BD walks in, whistling and twirling a set of keys.
“Time to go, boys,” he says.
“What, and just waltz out there with all the fucking sheriffs around? Are you fucking nuts, old man?” Mack says.
“No. And they won’t be a problem.”
BD walks to our cell, slips the key in the lock, and opens it.
“Are you serious right now? Or are you just trying to get us all killed?” Blaze says.
“Oh, I’m serious. There’s a reason I didn’t want to give you any of this whiskey; I’ve laced it with benzodiazepine. They’re a fun class of psychoactive drugs that includes roofies, and they have the lovely side effect of anterograde amnesia. They won’t remember a damn thing after they’ve been dosed. Their last memory will be of me walking out the door after sharing a couple shots with them and, when they snap out of it, we’ll all be long gone.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Then how the fuck aren’t you doped up right now?”
He laughs. “I have a high tolerance for this shit. Thanks to an active social life and an openness to experimentation. Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”
We start out, and it’s eerie as hell walking through the sheriff's building, seeing every one of the officers conscious, but doped up and practically unresponsive. We’re nearly to the door when I get an idea and double back, taking just a minute to break into Sheriff Cartwright’s office to steal myself a prize to remember tonight by: that expensive bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon that Violet first used to buy our freedom.
Once outside, Bowen Dale points toward a dark van sitting at the edge of the parking lot.
“The keys are in the ignition. Your bikes are in lockup at a yard on the other side of town. I’ll be heading there shortly to retrieve them for you, and I’ll have them waiting for you out back behind the Timberline Tavern.”
“Thanks, old man,” I say, extending my hand.
He shakes it. “Word of advice, kid: don’t go into those mountains. Violet filled me in on what’s going on while she and I were bartering for your freedom. I know about your plan. And I also know that, now that you’ve been picked up, the Death’s Disciples will be on high alert. And likely Switchblade is already moving Kendra to a different location. You will need to figure something else out. Though, for a few more of those guns, I could help you with that.”
“I still can’t believe Violet bought our freedom,” I say as I eye the black van that’ll carry us out of here. Things are still a mess, but they’re a whole hell of a lot better than they were before.
Maybe we should just get the hell out of this town. Head back to Max Paisley’s, strip every gun from the truck, and steal one of those sweet rides he keeps. We can be out of this town before anyone knows it.
It’s only a half-thought, but it’s tempting.
And this mission with Kendra is shot, anyway. With the Death’s Disciples moving Kendra to god knows where, there’s no chance to rescue her.
I need to get back to focusing on the business of the club. Salvage the one thing I can: our gun deal.
“She did. She wasn’t happy about it, and she wanted me to tell you that, once your business is done — and I’m supposed to fucking lean into that word ‘business,’ she was very specific about that — she doesn’t want to see you again.”
It hurts to hear that. Hurts deep, right to the heart, but I don’t have time to process that pain. I’ve got more important things to focus on than moping in the parking lot of the sheriff’s office.
“How much did it cost?” I say. It’s more id
le conversation than anything else. Words spoken as I open the door to the van and prepare to hop inside.
“Her bar.”
I stop. Foot half raised, resting on the step into the driver’s seat, hand gripped tight to the door handle for support.
“What? You took her fucking bar?” The urge to throttle this old bastard rise in me so strong it takes all my effort not to beat him to death right here and now. That bar was her life — her life — and she’s given it up to this old piece of shit, just to get me free?
“She gave it to me. Offered it. I’m not going to keep it, of course. I’ll probably turn it around. Sell it as soon as I can. I’m not too fond of anything public; I go to great pains to keep my name off the radar, and that bar has been in the news far too much for my liking. But I should make a tidy profit off it. Not a bad bit of business, if you ask me.”
I see red. Anger and violence that overwhelms everything else in my vision, and I reach out, snatching that old man by the throat and pulling him so close I could bite his fucking nose off.
“You took her bar? Her fucking bar? And you call it just business?” I growl, and I tighten my grip on his throat over the sheer fucking audacious greed of this old bastard.
But he hardly blinks. His cheeks color, his eyes bulge a little, but other than that, he doesn’t betray any emotions although I’m about to choke the life out of him.
Then, though I have a tight grip on his throat, I feel something hard and steely press into my ribs.
I look down.
A gun.
And BD smiles.
I release my grip and he fixes the collar of his shirt with one hand, while keeping his gun trained at me with the other.
“I might be old, but I’ve been in this game a long fucking time, kid. And I’ve left more dangerous men than you in lonely gutters the world over,” he says. Then he takes a step back, still keeping his gun aimed at me. “I’ll give you that one free, more on the account of the sheer fucking inconvenience of dealing with you and your friends’ dead bodies in the parking lot of the fucking sheriff’s office than anything else. Now, get the fuck out of here.”
“Wait,” I say. I can feel my throat tighten in regret and pain; I can hardly imagine the pain Violet must be feeling now, with everything she’s lost in the last few days, and with how much of that is because of me. “You said our plan is off, that the Death’s Disciples are moving Kendra. OK, I get that, that makes sense. But we can’t let those fucking animals keep her. We can’t abandon her. She’s an innocent woman, she’s got a daughter who is the sweetest damn kid in this whole fucking world; you can’t say the thought of her being in Switchblade’s hands doesn’t make you sick.”
“No, I can’t say that I like the thought of that.”
“Then help us. Give us something. Because right now the entire world is going to shit, and guys like me can take it, but people like Violet, like Kendra, like Josie? They shouldn’t have to suffer that. Help me protect them.”
He lowers his gun a fraction and a thoughtful look crosses his face. “You might not be able to get to Kendra, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get her back. Roger ‘Dread’ Deacon, the club’s president, is devoted to his wife, Julie. But she’s not one for staying out late, which is an odd quality to have if you’re the club president’s old lady. Especially since her husband likes to stay out all hours. It’s about this time that Julie usually goes home to their place at the end of Maple Street. She likes to watch a little television or do some light reading before going to bed. You get my drift?”
“Thanks,” I say. And I get back in the van.
He comes and raps on the window, and I slide it down.
“Two things. First, you keep my name out of it. Forget I even exist. And second: go easy on her. Julie’s a nice woman, all things considered, and her husband might not want to trade if she’s damaged goods.”
* * * * *
Their house is unguarded. There aren’t even bars on the windows. Living in a small town like this, where crimes just don’t happen unless they’re the ones committing them, has made these Death’s Disciples careless.
It’s a quick job to break into their house. Blaze kicks down the door with one solid blow from his tree-trunk sized leg, and we chase down Julie in her living room, wearing her flannel nightgown, and get our hands over her mouth before she even has a chance to scream.
In just a couple minutes, she’s tied up in the back of the van while we speed down the road to Max Paisley’s auto repair.
The parking lot to the auto shop is empty, except for Max Paisley’s tow truck. There’s a light on inside.
“Snake, you stay here and keep an eye on our prisoner,” I say. “And Mack, you stay here and keep an eye on Snake. Blaze and I will go in, see what the fuck Max is doing here.”
Side by side, Blaze and I enter the building, blood pumping and adrenaline flowing, expecting anything from the hardened old bastard who runs the auto repair shop.
“You ready, brother?” I say as we stop outside the door. “I wouldn’t put it past him to shoot at us. Max seems like the type of bastard to hold a grudge.”
“After what Snake did to his cars, would you blame him?”
“No. But we’ve got a job to do. And if he won’t cooperate, we’ll have to take him out. Got it?”
We open the door. Step inside.
It’s lit up like the day inside. Every single light is on, and there’s some old Nina Simone song blaring on the radio, and Max Paisley is flat on his back under our cargo truck.
He seems unaware we’re here, but I have a hard time believing a man like him wouldn’t be paying attention.
I slam the door behind us.
“Yeah, I see you,” he calls out. “Knew you were here the second you pulled into my parking lot. I might be old, but I sure as fuck ain’t blind or deaf, and you boys sure as fuck don’t sneak as well as the Viet fucking Cong.”
“What the fuck are you doing to our truck?” I say.
“Fixing it. What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?”
Stupefied, I take a second to gather my thoughts. “Why are you fixing it?”
“You shocked I’d still do my job after all the shit you and your friends pulled? Yeah, I am, too,” he says. Then he slides out from under the truck and wipes grease from his hands with a rag. “But I got a call from Violet about an hour ago. She wanted it done ASAP and there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for that girl. So, against my better judgment, I got my ass down here and fixed your fucking truck. She also asked me to remind you of your fucking deal, and that, when this shit is over, she wants you as far away from Carbon Ridge as fucking possible.”
“Jesus, Crash, what the fuck did you do to Violet?” Blaze whispers.
“Long fucking story. But it’s for her own fucking good,” I reply. Then I turn back to Max. “So, is it ready?”
“Oh, it sure is. I even had time to adjust your fucking suspension, so your ride to wherever the fuck it is you’re going should be smoother than a baby’s ass in a silk diaper.”
“Thanks, Max,” I say.
He shrugs. “You’re welcome. Now, do like Violet asks and get the fuck out of Carbon Ridge.”
Blaze and I get the truck out of Max’s shop, and we’re hardly outside for a minute before Bowen Dale pulls up into the lot in an enormous flatbed truck, with all of our bikes on the back. He hops out, a wicked grin on his face and a gun in his hand. When he notices me looking at his gun, he winks at me.
“How the fuck do you pull this shit off, old man?” Blaze says, walking around to the back of the flatbed truck. He, Mack, and Snake start to work unloading the first bike.
“Son, there is no more potent nor more dangerous combination on God’s green earth than money and cojones. I happen to be blessed with the balls to dream big, and the money and talent to make it happen.”
The three of them get the bike on the Tommy Gate on the back of the truck and, using the hydraulic lift, get the bike on the groun
d.
“Well,” Blaze says. “If you’re ever in Lone Mesa, look me up. I owe you a beer for getting my bike back to me.”
“Oh, I don’t imagine I’ll ever be seeing you again but, if I ever find myself out there, I’ll take you up on that offer.”
After all the bikes are unloaded, Bowen Dale hops back into the truck and drives away without another word.
“I hope I’m like him when I’m old,” Blaze says.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be the talk of the whole fucking trailer park,” I say. “Now, we got to get back on the road. Blaze, since you want to settle in to your old man identity, you can drive the cargo truck. Get your bike loaded and strapped down. Mack, Snake, you two will ride point on your bikes. I will take the van and play a little Driving Miss Deacon.”
“Where are we heading?” Mack says.
“Head back to the highway, make a turn toward Denver. Once we’re well on our way, we’ll have Julie make a call to her husband. Then we can set a trade: her life for Kendra’s.”
* * * * *
A two-hour drive out of Carbon Ridge in the dead of night gets us far enough away that I feel secure in flashing my headlights as a signal for everyone to pull over. Julie hasn’t spoken the entire time; either her husband’s trained her well in how to be a good hostage, or she’s so scared that she doesn’t have it in her to open up her mouth. Either way, I’m happy. Treating a woman like this — like some piece of meat to be bargained with — doesn’t sit well with me, even if she is the wife of a piece of shit like Roger ‘Dread’ Deacon.
We pull into the lot of a gas station, and I head inside to buy a burner phone.
“Call your husband,” I snap as I hand the phone to her. “There’s a rest stop ten miles east of Denver just off the highway. Tell him you will be there at 4 a.m. and if he’s not there with Kendra, unharmed, and that piece of shit Switchblade, I’ll be dropping pieces of you all around Carbon Ridge for him to find. Got it?”