Outlaw MC

by Dwayne Clayden

  “There’s still something there.”

  “Biggest mistake of my life. Can’t change the past.”

  “No, you can’t, but the future is wide open.”

  Brad laughed. “I didn’t know you were a philosopher … or a romantic.”

  “I’ve had at least ten relationships in the last few years. I consider myself an expert on fucking up relationships. If you need help, I’m here for you.”

  “Great, a single guy is giving me relationship advice.”

  The distinct rumble of Harleys halted their conversation. The bikers turned into the parking lot. Brad snapped photos of bikes, license plates, and riders.

  The riders dismounted and entered the bar by the back door. Brad zoomed in and took more photos. Over the next half hour, more bikes arrived.

  Brad set his camera in the backseat. “Too dark to take photos, maybe you should take another walk and make sure we haven’t been spotted.”

  “Sure. I could use another smoke. I’m tired of this gum.” Devlin grabbed a radio and wandered back to the bar.

  This time Devlin was gone for almost twenty minutes. The passenger’s door opened and he slid in.

  “Jeez, I didn’t see you until the last moment.”

  “We’re good. No one’s watching us. They’re in the bar drinking and having a good ole time.”

  “I’d love a drink,” Brad said. “You know, check out the bar.”

  “You’d stand out like an advertisement for police recruiting. You’d be made in a second.”

  “I had my first beer in that bar,” Brad said.

  “I thought you were a Bowness brat. Forest Lawn is enemy territory.”

  “That was the plan,” Brad said. “No one would know me here and tell my parents. We thought Forest Lawn was a ghetto then. Like ‘the hood’ in some gangster movie. That added to the thrill of being there.”

  “Was it bad?” Devlin asked.

  “Nah, no worse than the Bowness bar. Still, I got a rush from it.”

  “Nothing changes—you still live on the edge.”

  They sat in silence. “Nothing we can do tonight,” Brad said. “Might as well pack it in.”

  “How are we gonna get the film developed?” Devlin asked.

  “I’m dropping them off with Sergeant Sturgeon Monday morning.”

  “How about we check out the Gypsy Jokers next Saturday?”

  “Got nothing planned.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday Night

  Brad hit the last step on the stairs and signed into The Cuff, a private bar for police officers and their guests.

  Devlin grabbed him before he got a drink.

  “What’s up?” Brad asked.

  “I checked on the jail guards as best I could without raising suspicion. Eleven guards worked during the time we had Lenny hidden. They all checked out. They had good police careers, retired, then became guards. Nothing unusual in that.”

  “What about court clerks?”

  “There’s about thirty of them. All I can check is for criminal records, but if I do that, then someone in records will know what I’m doing. I don’t have much info there. Same with the records clerks. I hit a dead end. For now, at least.”

  “Not likely the guards, but court clerks and records clerks are a possibility.”

  “Last night, the home of a Gypsy Joker club member was firebombed,” Devlin said.

  “What? Anyone hurt?”

  “Four Gypsy Jokers were sleeping inside. One died. The others got smoke inhalation and some nasty burns. Paramedics took them to the Foothills Hospital.”

  “Jeez, how’d this happen?”

  “Jokers partied last night at the Bowness Hotel bar. A few stayed with the club member who rents the house. About 0230 hours, neighbors heard glass breaking and a car peeling away. I talked to the fire captain. He says someone tossed a five-gallon jerry can through the front window. The gas splashed throughout the room. It burned fast and swept to the bedrooms. The biker who died was sleeping on the couch. Three others were asleep in bedrooms at the back. Neighbors called the fire department, then pounded on the back door, waking them up.”

  “Who did this?” Brad asked.

  “My guess is the Soldiers. Revenge against the Jokers for killing the Head Hunters. Also, a message to the Jokers—we can get you where you sleep.”

  Brad bought a tray of beer for his team and set the tray on the table. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “You brought beer,” Knight said. “You’re forgiven.”

  “What’d I miss?” Brad asked.

  These young’uns think they have the answer to the biker problem,” Knight said.

  “Let them kill each other,” Steele said. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I’m fine with them killing each other,” Knight said. “It’s the collateral damage that’s the issue. Cops will be next.”

  “Then arrest them all,” Steele said. “Let them know we’re pissed.”

  Brad set down his beer. “Nice in theory, but they know we haven’t got anything to charge them. We’d tip our hand, and they’d tie things up so tight we’d never know what they’re doing.”

  “So, we let them go on killing?” Steele asked. “We clean up after?”

  Roger Kearse, a newspaper and TV reporter, pulled up a chair next to Brad and grabbed a beer. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Ah, shit. Kearse liked to hang with the cops and get drunk. On more than one occasion, a patrol car took him home. Kearse was a decent guy, by cop standards. He liked cops, and his stories painted the street cops in a good light and he was a fan of TSU. He was hard on city administration, which made him popular with cops, but he was a pain in the ass. Like a pit bull, once he sunk his teeth into something, he didn’t let go. He was short and overweight with the start of a bulbous drinker’s nose. No matter how much he drank, his blue eyes sparkled, and he didn’t miss a thing.

  “You boys look serious. Care to share with me.”

  “Nothing to share,” Brad said. “We’re just talking about the new art exhibit at the Glenbow Museum.”

  “That’s funny, Coulter. You should do stand-up.” Kearse drained half the beer then grinned at Devlin. “Nasty stuff last night with the biker firebomb retaliation.”

  Devlin rolled his eyes. “I can neither confirm or deny the existence of bikers.”

  “Just a bomb then?”

  “I can neither confirm or deny the existence of a bomb.”

  “Does this have something to do with the biker war?” Kearse smiled.

  “I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of a biker war,” Devlin said.

  “Really? Four dead Head Hunters and a couple killed in their home. A drug dealer dead. Last night another biker killed and three injured. The numbers are getting big. It’s more than a disagreement. It sounds like a war to me. What do you think, boys?” Kearse scanned the faces around the table.

  No one spoke.

  Kearse slid a beer to Brad as if sharing from his stock. “Sarge, your boys are pretty tight-lipped. Tell you what. I’ll even buy a round, which, you know, I don’t usually do.”

  “If you’re trying to get us drunk so we spill the details, you can try, but you better get out your credit card,” Brad said.

  “What you don’t say is speaking loudly.” Kearse drained a beer and grabbed another. “I’d bet the mayor has muzzled your chief, who told the deputies to zip it. Devlin’s getting his TSU buddies to help shake up the biker gangs. Street cops are no match for the bikers. But TSU is. All hush-hush.”

  “You should get out of TV and write fiction,” Brad said. “That’s a bestseller.”

  “What about the fire last night? Arson? Revenge?”

  “Fire is bad,” Devlin said. “You can quote that.”

  “Uh huh. What about the prisoner execution?” Kearse leaned forward. “Look, I’m on your side. What’s the plan? Come on, let me in on this.”

  Brad leaned across the table. “Okay, you’re
right, but you can’t write anything. Not yet.” He looked around the bar and spoke quietly. “We got funding—a lot of money. I can get all the cops I need. We’re going to get better guns, the best surveillance stuff, and warrants whenever we want.”

  Kearse held a beer halfway to his mouth.

  Brad lowered his voice to a whisper. “We follow the bikers. We turn someone in one of the clubs. We get information to the clubs that there’s a big shipment of drugs and guns coming by train. Two boxcars full. We lure the gangs to the rail yards. When they open the rail cars, we’re inside, and we open fire and kill them.”

  Kearse slammed his beer on the table. “Don’t screw with me.”

  Brad laughed.

  “Okay, ya got me,” Kearse said. “I do like the idea, though. But you’re going after the bikers, right?”

  Brad shook his head.

  “This biker stuff is national news,” Kearse said. “If something big happens again, the networks are gonna send out a big-name TV anchor or two. Then I’ll be shit out of luck. I need to stay on top of this. You gotta give me something.”

  Silence.

  “Come on, guys,” Kearse pleaded. “I can be a pain, but I always treat you guys fair. I always back you. I stuck up for you about the botched raid. You must be getting some information about the Soldiers. The Jokers. Devlin, you got someone inside?”

  Devlin shook his head. “If you write that, a lot of people will die. And their deaths will be on you.”

  “I won’t write that—yet,” Kearse said. “But a guy could use a tip now and then. You help me, I’ll help you.” He set an empty glass on the table and staggered over to a group of homicide detectives.

  Brad leaned his chair against the wall, exhausted. Last night, he’d battled the demons and slept little. He wasn’t sure if his sleep had ended abruptly due to the images or Lobo jumping onto the bed and snuggling. Either way, he’d been relieved to be awake.

  He took a swig of beer and scanned the small bar. On the far side of the dance floor, a group of about twelve women sat at a table. There weren’t many policewomen on the job, and a group of ladies together in The Cuff was unusual. They didn’t look like cops.

  One lady held his interest—long black hair, sparkling eyes, and a killer smile that lit up her face. She was telling a story and the others laughed so hard they cried. Her hand brushed away her tears, then she glanced in Brad’s direction. Their eyes met. She returned his gaze, smiled, and turned back to her friends.

  Knight came back with a tray of Old Vienna beer. He set one in front of Brad. “Your favorite. It’s beer, and it’s cold.”

  Brad glanced back at the other table.

  “I said, they’re cold.” Knight elbowed him. “Earth to Brad. Where did you go?”

  “Thinking about the biker war.”

  “Bullshit. You were staring at that table of ladies.”

  “Maybe. Who’s the lady with the dark hair?”

  Knight glanced over. “Not a cop, but she seems like your type.”

  “My type? I don’t have a type.”

  “Really? Slim, athletic, stubborn, sarcastic.”

  Knight nudged Brad and tilted his head toward the door. A tall blond entered, wearing a short skirt revealing most of her long legs, and a tight white blouse with several buttons straining to stay fastened. Every male head turned, the females, too. To the surprise of TSU, Nichols raced to the door. The blond moved walked to him and they kissed—a long kiss. Jaws dropped around the room. Brad shook his head. Dull, annoying, out of shape Nichols had a hot girlfriend. I’ll be damned.

  Nichols and his lady approached the table. “Hey guys, this is my girlfriend, Theresa Walker.”

  She flashed a dazzling smile. “Call me, Teri.”

  Knight spoke first. “Nice to meet you, Teri. Welcome to The Cuff.”

  “I’ve heard about this place, but I’ve never been here.” Teri smiled. “It’s—small.”

  “Yeah,” Knight said. “For some reason people expect something else—not sure what, though. Did Nichols tell you about it?”

  “No. I work in the courthouse. Sometimes cops talk about the big parties here.” She shrugged. “Guess I don’t see the big deal.”

  “It’ll fill up soon,” Knight said. “Afternoon shift is getting off duty. Be standing room only in about five minutes. Grab a seat.”

  Brad watched as Nichols and Teri took a seat at the table. Nichols ignored Brad. It didn’t bother him, but something about Nichols wasn’t right. Nothing Brad could put his finger on, but he felt a bad vibe at the table now.

  Someone plugged the jukebox, and tunes mingled with the talk.

  Brad leaned back in his chair, nursed a beer, and did some people watching. His gaze returned to the woman with the sparkling eyes.

  Zerr and a redhead walked to the dance floor. Nichols and his lady joined them. When Brad looked back, the dark-haired lady was gone. Then he felt someone beside him.

  “Would you like to dance?” the lady with the dark hair asked.

  “Love to,” Brad said.

  They danced to Night Fever and Stayin’ Alive, and then she grabbed her drink and headed back to Brad’s table.

  “I’m Brad.”

  “Nice to meet you, Brad. I’m Sarah Park.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” Brad asked.

  “No, this one’s still good.”

  “What brings you here?”

  “Girls night out. We went to high school together. My friend became a cop. She said this was a fun place.”

  “We like it. It’s not the fanciest bar in town.”

  “It’s quaint.”

  “Not sure this place has ever been called quaint. What do you do?”

  “I’m a teacher.”

  “I didn’t think you were a cop,” Brad said. “What school do you teach at?”

  “William Aberhart High School.”

  They chatted about music, careers, and a wide range of topics. It was late, and Brad didn’t want to let this opportunity slip away. “I was wondering, would you like to have dinner sometime?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “How about this Friday? I’m in training all week, but —”

  “Friday would be great.”

  She wrote her number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Call me with the details. See you Friday.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gypsy Jokers’ Clubhouse

  Late Thursday Afternoon

  Davidson parked the cruiser at the curb.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Gunther said.

  “Don’t be such a pansy,” Davidson said. “We’re following up on a missing girl. We’ll ask if they’ve seen her.”

  “Did Sergeant Briscoe approve this?”

  “This is our case. We were assigned to find Annie. Do we ask permission from the sergeant for everything we do?”

  “Seriously, Davidson, this is not like a random traffic stop. We’re walking up to the front door of a biker gang. There’s a reason this house is red-flagged at 911 dispatch. It means EMS, fire, or police do not go in solo. Yet, here we are—just you and me, going to poke the bear in his den.”

  “Brad asked me to follow up on the missing girl,” she said.

  “Oh, now I get it. I’m about to take a shit-kicking because you have the hots for Coulter. Why didn’t you just say that? I’m good with that. Fuck.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Davidson said.

  “Is it? Getting us killed cuz you’re trying to impress him.”

  “Shut up.” Davidson hit the steering wheel. “This is our file. It’s a sixteen-year-old girl, for Christ’s sake. It’s a routine follow-up.”

  “Routine? It’s bikers. They already killed at least ten people.”

  “Was anyone arrested?”

  “No.”

  “So, we don’t know that they killed anyone.” Davidson smiled.

  “Jeez, everyone knows they did it.”

  “You can stay in the cruis
er. A teenager got abducted by killers, and we’ve spent more than a week looking for her. Social Services haven’t heard from her. She hasn’t contacted her last foster family. She hasn’t attended school since she went missing. The principal at her old school says she hasn’t been there. So, what’s left? Coulter is worried the Jokers have her. We’ve checked everything else. It’s not gonna hurt to check here.”

  “You think they’ll say, ‘Oh yeah, we got her’? At least call for backup.”

  “Oh, my god.” Davidson grabbed the mic. “Dispatch, 432. We’re doing a follow-up on a missing person at 6501 Thirty-Fifth Avenue Northwest. Can you do a status check in fifteen minutes?”

  “Roger, 432,” dispatch replied.

  She replaced the mic. “You happy now?”

  “That’s not backup,” Gunther said. “Now dispatch will know where to find our bodies.”

  “I’m going now. You coming?” Davidson exited the cruiser and headed up the sidewalk.

  “Ah, shit,” Gunther muttered as he followed.

  Halfway up the sidewalk, the front door opened and a skinny, redheaded male, late teens, stepped out onto the porch, and closed the door behind him.

  Davidson climbed the steps. “Good afternoon.”

  “Hi,” he replied.

  “I’m Davidson. This is my partner, Gunther. What’s your name?”

  “They call me, Alf.”

  “Okay, Alf,” Davidson said. “We have a few questions. It won’t take long.”

  Alf glanced over his shoulder as he bounced on his feet. “Uh, no. I can’t help you.” His eyes wide, pleading.

  “Alf, are you okay?” Davidson asked.

  “I’m fine.” He stared at his feet.

  “We’re looking for a girl,” Davidson said. “Her name is Annie. She’s about sixteen, slim, with blond hair. Maybe you’ve seen her?”

  “You have to go,” Alf said.

  Davidson shook her head. “We aren’t leaving. If you can’t help us, maybe there’s someone else who can.” She reached past Alf and pounded on the door.

  “No, don’t do that,” Alf shouted.