by Greg Barth
I looked up. She stood at the end of the hall. When she saw Enola lying in my arms, she turned and walked away.
“We’ve done something wrong,” I whispered to Enola.
She raised her eyebrows, closed her eyes, and nodded. She leaned in and kissed me softly next to my ear. “She’ll be okay,” she said. “It’ll be fine.”
I turned and kissed her forehead.
I heard Jackie in the living room, crying.
“Enola...” I said. “We need to go to her.”
“You’re right,” she said, and got out of bed.
I got up as well. I threw on a robe and followed Enola down the hall into the living room.
Jackie had her face in her hands, a crumpled tissue on the arm of the sofa next to her.
Enola sat beside her and put an arm over her shoulders. “Baby, what is it?”
“It’s Pete,” Jackie said through her sobs.
“What’s wrong with Pete? Hmm? Did he treat you mean?”
“No. He’s...he’s dead. Some...some...some...body killed...him.” She sniffled. “In prison.” She shook convulsively.
Enola looked up at me with wide eyes. “Holy shit,” she mouthed silently.
“They...stuh...stuh...stabbed...him. Over...thirty...tuh...times.”
“Oh baby, why didn’t you call?” Enola said.
“I couldn’t.”
“Dear god,” I said. “I need to make a phone call.”
“Go ahead,” Enola said. “I’ve got her.”
I went back to Jackie’s room to get dressed.
SEVEN
Selena
I WENT DOWNSTAIRS and into the club. I turned on the lights and went behind the bar, grabbed the phone and punched in a series of numbers I’d memorized long ago.
I stood listening to the line ring on the other end. A soft voice said, “Hello?”
“Val, it’s me.”
“Selena?”
“Yeah.” I spared her the lecture on getting used to calling me Amanda all the time to prevent slip-ups. I had matters that were more pressing.
“Hey, how are you? I put some more money in Gabby’s commissary account this morning for you.”
“Thank you. I need to get in touch with Ragus. Does he know?”
“Know what?”
“Okay. You don’t know either.”
“What is it?”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Jesus, Selena. Just spit it out, would you?”
“It’s Pete,” I said.
“Oh no...”
“Yes.”
“I take it back,” she said. “Please don’t say it.”
“It’s true. He’s dead. I don’t know the details. They told Jackie this morning. He was stabbed.”
“My god.”
“It was a fucking hit, Val.”
“I know that. But who?”
“Can you call Ragus? We need him here. I’ll call in the crew.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll get him. May take him ‘til tomorrow to get back.”
“That’s fine. And, Val?”
“Yes?”
“Watch out for yourself. I have no idea what this means for us.”
I hung up, took a highball glass from a cabinet overhead and placed it right side up on the bar. I selected a bottle of Maker’s Mark from the shelf and poured the bourbon into the glass, took a long drink, lit a cigarette, and propped my hip against the bar.
I couldn’t wait for Ragus. I needed to get the word out to. Our partners would need to be on guard.
The sound of loud exhaust pipes came from the parking lot. It sounded like a motorcycle. I took another drink.
The door opened and a man stepped inside. He had long, dirty blonde hair with a bandana wrapped over the top of his head. His beard covered only his chin and he wore a thick mustache. He had on leather gloves and a black leather vest covered in biker patches. Underneath he had on a black t-shirt. He wore faded jeans and engineer boots. He removed his dark shades as he stepped inside.
“Afternoon, Smokey,” I said.
“Well hello there, Amanda. What’s up?”
“We don’t open for a few hours yet.”
“It’s okay. I’m here to pick you up for a meeting with the president.”
“You’re joking, right? Tell Top Hat today isn’t a good day for me.”
Smokey walked up to the bar. I took out another glass and poured him some whiskey. He took the glass and sipped at it. “Some shit what happened to Pete, ain’t it?” he said.
I took a drink. “So word’s spreading already?” I took a draw from my cigarette.
“We got a couple of full-patch members locked up with him. We heard about it pretty quick.”
“Is this what Top Hat wants to discuss?”
“Yeah. You need to hear what he has to say.”
“You guys have anything to do with this?”
“What? We’re partners. Fuck no.”
I grabbed a couple of to-go coffee cups and lids. I poured my bourbon in one, and Smokey poured his in the other. I topped them off and put the lids on. “You’re driving,” I said.
I came out from behind the bar and we went out the front together. He put his glasses on and got on his big cruiser. He kick-started the bike. I climbed on behind him, put my arms around his waist. He released the kickstand and put the bike in gear. He revved the engine and released the clutch.
It was a nice afternoon for a ride on a bike—warm, no traffic. I was glad it wasn’t later in the day. Anytime you visit an outlaw motorcycle gang’s clubhouse, you’re stepping into a volatile situation. This time of day, general bad behavior would be the extent of it. I wouldn’t want to be going there in the evening once the guys were amped up on crystal meth.
The bike club was further out of town than the lounge. Smokey turned up a private drive that wound up a long hillside into the forest.
The clubhouse was two miles up a dirt and gravel road lined on either side by tall oaks. Smokey drank from his coffee cup on the ride up. He didn’t slow down as he drank, and the bourbon blew out of the cup and streamed around the side of his face. I positioned myself so it wouldn’t blow on me.
He took a turn and the clubhouse appeared on our right. He pulled up and parked near the front. A kid stood on the covered porch. I didn’t know his name, but the insignia on his jacket told me he was the sergeant at arms.
I got off the back of the bike and dusted my jeans off. I ran my fingers through my long hair to straighten it out and followed Smokey up the steps to the porch.
The sergeant of arms greeted me with, “Shit. To hear Top Hat talk, you’re supposed to be a babe.”
I held my arms out on either side of me and looked down at my body. “What?” I said.
“Too skinny’s what.”
“There’s no accounting for taste,” I said.
“Yeah? Well, at least you’re something to look at until the babes get here. Y’all go on inside. He’s expecting you. You’ll have to wait for him, though. He’s having his cigar.”
Top Hat had a reputation for smoking cigars. He favored the Cuban Punch cigars that he’d brought down from Canada. He dipped the tips in Drambuie cognac. These being expensive, hand-rolled cigars—and contraband at that—he didn’t allow anything to interrupt his enjoyment of them.
Smokey opened the door, and I stepped into the clubhouse. The dimly lit front room was a large meeting area, kind of like you’d see inside a community center or a church. There was a weight bench off in one corner, a battered bar ran along one wall. The few liquor bottles behind the bar were all near empty. A pool table was in the center of the room and a card table off to the side.
Posters, centerfolds, and clippings from pornographic magazines covered the walls. Breasts and nipples poked out from everywhere. Legs and knees jutted from the pictures. Enough vaginas spread on the walls that you could earn a degree in gynecology just passing through the room. Not all of the pictures were professional, a lot were old
Polaroids. I could see women’s undergarments hanging here and there, tacked to the wall.
Smokey saw me looking around. “Hope you’re not offended. We don’t get many non-club visitors.”
I sipped at my bourbon. “It’s a little overwhelming.” I said. I paused and studied a few of the posters as if I was in an art gallery. “What’s your take on the objectification of women in these pictures, Smokey?”
“Pretty cool, ain’t they?” he said.
I smiled and turned away from the posters. “You boys do like the birth canal, I guess.”
We walked up to a TV table in the back of the room, a stack of DVDs and video games piled up next to it. There was a closed door off to the left. That was Top Hat’s office. We stood outside and waited on him.
I sipped at my bourbon. There was a long, awkward silence as we waited. I was about to say something completely arbitrary when the office door opened. Top Hat stood in the doorway. “Come on in, y’all,” he said. Top Hat had a deep, bass voice.
We stepped into his office, a small cluttered room with a thick cloud of cigar smoke hanging in the air. An old desk on one side was piled high with envelopes, papers, magazines, beer bottles, and overflowing ashtrays. There was an old PC monitor and keyboard on the desk. Bookshelves loomed tall behind the desk. Pictures, trophies, toys, and biker memorabilia filled the shelves.
Top Hat took a seat behind the desk. Smokey and I sat on a couch facing him.
The smell of cigar smoke was overwhelming.
Top Hat was a large, heavyset man. He had long blonde hair and wore a beard and mustache. He was dressed in a tight black t-shirt and had colorful tattoos on his hairy forearms.
“Thanks for coming out, Amanda,” he said.
“So what brings me here today of all days.”
“You know about Pete?” Top Hat said.
“I heard. Yes.”
“All of my arrangements were with Pete, you understand?”
“I get it. But you’ve been doing business with us since Pete went down. This doesn’t change that.”
“Actually it does. Pete’s death is one of them...” He turned to Smokey. “What do you call those thingies again?”
“A qualifying event,” Smokey said.
“A qualifying event. Exactly.”
“So you want to renegotiate,” I said.
“Not exactly. I just wanted to do the courtesy of letting you know we’re not going to be doing business anymore. Effective immediately.”
I leaned forward. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I’m not supplying you guys any more meth going forward.”
I shook my head. “Why not? That makes no sense.”
“I’ve been made another offer.”
“From who?” I said.
“You don’t need to know that.”
“I do need to know that.”
“A guy named John Mozingo.”
“Never heard of him,” I said.
“You will.”
“Look, Top Hat. You can’t just stop selling to us. What about your commitments?”
“My commitments were with Pete. That agreement died with him. I don’t know what happens to the meth after it leaves my hands or what commitments you have to supply to any other middlemen or end users, but you’ll need to get it somewhere else.”
“Your agreement died with Pete, huh?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Mozingo had Pete killed, didn’t he?”
“That’s a strong accusation, honey. You don’t need to be going about saying things like that. Especially if you don’t know what’s what.”
“You know it’s true,” I said.
“It’s not that I don’t like doing business with you. I do. But there’s some shit going on. It’s in my best interest to be on the side of the winner.”
“Do you have any idea how cowardly that sounds right now? You run an outlaw biker gang, but you don’t want to be loyal in a fight? Give me a fucking break.”
“Amanda, I’m doing you a favor by even having this meeting. Take my advice; you don’t want to have any dealings with Mozingo. Best thing you can do is bury Pete, gather your winnings, and get the fuck out of town. It’s over here. Go play someplace else.”
“You’re betraying Pete. You know that.”
“See it however you want. I can’t turn down this offer.”
“I get it. You’re afraid of Mozingo.” I shook my head in disgust.
“It’s not about being afraid. It’s about doing what’s best for the long term.”
I stood up and put my hands on his desk. I leaned over and looked this big man in the eye. “I only have one question for you then. When the fight starts for real, whose side are you on?”
“Don’t fight these guys, Amanda. You won’t win.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“That’s not a fair question. The teams aren’t evenly matched.”
My lips tightened. A furrow formed across my brow. “Forget the teams. What if it was just him and me?”
“Him and you how?”
“Whose side would you be on then?”
He chuckled. “The winner’s,” he said.
“If evenly matched, you’d stay out of it? Until there was a winner?”
“You don’t even know who you’re talking about. There’s no way to balance it.”
“Even still.”
“Get it through your head, girl. I’m not getting involved in a fight.”
I stood up straight. I drained the rest of the bourbon in the coffee cup. “Yes you are. Whether you want it or not, you’re going to be involved. And I think you’ve already chosen sides.” I turned to Smokey, who still sat on the couch. “Take me home,” I said.
I walked out of Top Hat’s office.
Smokey came behind me. When we walked out the front door, I turned to him. “You guys seriously need to invest in a good strap-on,” I said. “I can help you find a good one.”
“Mozingo’s a bad man, Amanda. Damn shame about Pete. We all liked him. We like you too, but not enough to kill ourselves over. It’s just how it is.”
EIGHT
Deke
WHEN DEKE WALKED through the hotel room door, Sloane was in the tub taking a bath.
He took his keys out of his pocket, placed them on the table and unclipped his small-of-back leather holster. He checked the safety on the weapon and put the rig next to his keys.
Deke removed a paper cover from a drinking glass on the wet bar and poured four fingers of scotch. He took a sip and walked over to the bathroom door.
Sloane lay in the tub, water up to her chin. She had headphones on, the thick wire running to her phone on the floor. On the edge of the tube in a neat row was a dog-eared copy of Isaac Asimov’s Second Foundation, a cigarette lighter, a blacked bowl of marijuana in an ashtray, and a glass of Chardonnay. A banana peel lay neatly folded on the closed toilet. An open bottle of Chardonnay stood next to it. Her black, plastic-framed glasses were on the floor next to the tub.
Sloane’s eyes were closed. Her lips moved soundlessly, miming the words to the song that flowed into her ears through the headphones.
Deke leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, taking the weight off of his left leg. He sipped his scotch. No exaggeration in saying Sloane was a beautiful woman.
Her delicate toenails were pedicured and painted pink. Her narrow feet were crossed on the bottom edge of the tub. Her round but petite calves and thighs lured Deke’s gaze up to the more interesting parts—her round hips, the tuft of black hair in the middle of her, swaying under the surface of the bathwater like seaweed, the hair creeping up her tummy, then the flat plain between the hair and her pucker of a navel. Her breasts were firm. Her nipples were rosy dots surrounded by circles of pink. Her collarbones were etched like delicate art. Her dark hair was wet and spread over her shoulders.
Sloane’s eyes opened. Bloodshot and glassy from the marijuana, but open and looking up at him under her da
rk eyebrows.
Deke startled and spilled some of his scotch. “Shit,” he said.
Sloane chuckled. She pulled a hand out of the bathwater and pulled off her headphones. “What are you staring at?” she said.
“The best thing I’ve seen all day. The best thing I’ve seen in any of my days.”
“Silly,” she said. Her cheeks glowed with her smile. “Pour me some more wine.”
He poured for her.
Deke took a cigarette pack out of his shirt pocket and shook one loose. He pulled it the rest of the way with his lips and put flame to it.
“It’s a no smoking room,” Sloane said.
“Yeah. That go for weed, too?”
“Couple of rule breakers,” she said. “How was your day?”
Deke took a deep drag on his cigarette. He blew out his smoke. “It sucked.”
Sloane’s face fell. “Mozingo?” she said.
Deke nodded. “Worse than ever.”
“He’s going to fuck everything up.”
“I don’t know,” Deke said. “I mean, he’s getting it done. Just being way too ballsy. Taking too many unnecessary risks.”
“Psycho,” Sloane said.
“He’s always been that way. Back when we were in the can, it was like sometimes he’d go days without sleeping, spinning out all these ideas. Then other days you couldn’t get him to say a word. Couldn’t get him out of bed even.”
“Bipolar,” Sloane said.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Thing is, this stuff he’s doing, it kinda works.”
“You believe in him, don’t you?”
“So far, yeah. But some days? Less and less.”
“I’ve heard you say he’s like a brother to you.”
Deke flicked his ash in the sink. “He is.”
“On the days I hated my brother the most, I loved him more than anybody else.”
Deke sipped at his scotch. “More than anybody?”
Sloane scoffed. “Jealous?”
“You damn right I am.”
“Well, I love him second most now.”
“That’s better.”
Sloane got the makings and refilled her bowl with pot. She held it up to her mouth, lit it, and took a deep hit. She passed the bowl and lighter to Deke.