Disposable Souls

by Phonse Jessome

  Murphy shoved his hands in his pockets and backed up against the wall, afraid of the little prospect. Gunner shook his head. Williams took the chair and began to work the computer controls. The monitors showed every angle of the property through the security cameras outside. The monitors went black, and then they all showed the same image as Williams pounded the keyboard.

  “Here it comes.” The screens showed the glow from the Fairview Cove Container Terminal. “Watch to the right.” Williams pointed to the monitor nearest him. A blur emerged where the road passed in front of the clubhouse. It was silhouetted by the lights from the cranes. A dark vehicle: small, high, an SUV, for sure. It stopped in front, hidden by the gates.

  “Is that it? Can you make it clearer?” Snake leaned forward, putting his hands on the desk beside Williams.

  “Hang on,” Williams said. “Just wait.” Giving orders now.

  The front gates opened, and a small shadow raced inside the compound. The gates closed before there was a clear view of the SUV. The cameras were useless; you could see the person, but it was so grainy you couldn’t make out any detail.

  “Now what?” Gunner asked.

  “Nothing for five minutes.” Williams punched the keyboard, and the numbers in the top left corner of each screen skipped ahead.

  The shadowy figure walked out through the compound and slipped between the gates. The vehicle emerged from behind the wall and drove up into the dump. Williams punched the keys, and the time code began to race again. He slowed it just as a set of headlights came down the hill and blinded the cameras. A second later, the SUV was gone.

  “Fuck,” Snake said. “Who the hell was that? What time did that happen?”

  “Three-thirty this morning.” Williams pointed to the time log on the monitors.

  “Who the fuck would come here and dump a fucking body? Fix the image.” Gunner slapped Williams in the back of the head.

  “It’s the light. The light from the terminal is blinding our cameras. It won’t get any clearer.” He tapped on the computer keyboard. The image on the screens got worse. “See?”

  “What about the side door? Did he get inside? Search that tape again. And put the live feed back on the top row. I want to see what the fucking cops are doing,” Snake said.

  Gunner turned and headed back past the lockers. Grease was the only one who hadn’t gone on the run last night. If someone knocked on the clubhouse door at 3:30, Grease was the brother who opened it.

  Gunner found Grease back at work. The old man knelt on the floor beside the cradled motor. Black-rimmed glasses and a visor with an LED light helped him see the work. He held a dome-topped piston in his right hand; with his left, he steadied a connecting rod that stuck out above the open engine cases. The cylinders were gone now. Gunner knelt on the opposite side of the cradle. He knew when not to interrupt Grease.

  “Hold the rod,” Grease said without looking up.

  Gunner wrapped his fist around the thin steel connecting rod. It was about an inch wide where he held it and widened around a circular opening just above his fist. He’d never helped Grease before and didn’t understand how the engine worked. Holding the rod gave him a connection to his own ride he’d never felt before. He realized it was also a connection to Cam. From the time he was old enough to hold a wrench, you couldn’t pull Cam away from Grease.

  There was a channel at the base of the piston, and Grease lowered it in place. The opening in the top of the rod lined up with two matching holes, one in each side of the piston skirt. Grease reached for a stainless steel tube not much bigger than his thumb. He slid it through the smooth tunnel, marrying the piston to the rod.

  Gunner released the rod as he watched the white-haired biker grab what looked like a pair of pliers with a rounded blunt end. He eased a small metal ring onto the nose of the tool and pushed it into the opening in the hollow stainless steel tube. There was a groove cut into the outer edge of the piston to hold the ring. There was a small snapping sound, and Grease removed the tool. He repeated the move on the opposite side. The tube could no longer slide out of the piston and connecting rod. He looked up.

  “Locked and loaded. That was the bastard. Tiny little clip. Fucking motor company buying Chink garbage now. Two-cent clip wrecks a five-thousand-dollar power plant. Fuck.” He wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and picked up the second piston.

  “Hey, Grease, hang on a minute.”

  Grease held the piston in his hand.

  “Who was here last night, bro?”

  “Couple of the boys from the Box stopped in for a beer, imported some real fucking music and showed me how to use your stereo, too. All Skynyrd, all the time now, bro.” He smiled as he moved to position the second piston.

  Gunner could almost see the oily fingerprints on his touch screen.

  “Anyone else? Tape shows someone at 3:30 this morning.”

  “What?” Grease leaned in over the engine, adjusting the black glasses. “Oh, yeah. The dancer. I didn’t let her in.”

  “Dancer, what dancer?”

  “That little bitch with the schoolgirl gig. Don’t know her name.”

  Gunner knew it.

  “What did she want, Grease? It’s important, bro.”

  Grease lowered the piston to the floor again and wiped his hand in a rag.

  “She was bitching about some trick gone bad. Said she needed the club to fix her shit.”

  Gunner ran his hand through his close-cropped brown hair. The dead body was a Stallion problem after all.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Told her to fuck off outta here. I’m not into helping strippers. Those bitches always have some drama going on, man. You know that.”

  “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, man,” said Gunner. “Nothing. Dumb bitch dumped that body across the street, and now we’ve got cop trouble.”

  “Body? She didn’t say shit about a body, bro. I woulda made sure she got it the hell out of here if she said she had a body.”

  “No worries, bro. We’ll deal with it.”

  Gunner stood, and Grease returned to his work. There was no way to undo the damage. Distancing the club was the only option now. He wanted to go question the dancer, maybe kill her, but the cops might be on to her by now. There was no way he could get close. Williams would have to handle it. The dancers were his problem anyway, and if he got busted, well, fuck him and the Harley he rode in on. Wasn’t much of a prospect, anyway.

  Chapter 3

  I banged on the door with the side of my fist, heard a muffled voice from inside.

  “Sorry. Everyone went to bed. You’ll have to come back.” Jimmy Williams, I was sure of it. Mostly because the cover on the peephole didn’t move. He was too short to use it.

  “Fuck off, prospect, and open the door.”

  The deadbolts began to slide open. Good to see the club tattoo still carried clout with the prospects.

  I pushed past Williams and headed down the hallway. Snake and Gunner were standing near the bar. I saw Grease huddled over a stripped-down twin cam. He had two pistons sitting on top of the connecting rods and was ready to lower the cylinders over them. He’d need help with the rings. I fought the urge to go help him. Figured he had a gun nearby and might use it. Losing that old man’s respect is the biggest price I paid for my decision to walk away. I shook off the regret.

  “Offer a brother a coffee?” I said to Gunner.

  “Something better in the cooler.” Gunner nodded toward the centre of the room.

  “No, Gunner, he’s on duty,” Snake said as he moved toward me. “Oh wait, he can’t be on duty or he wouldn’t be in the middle of my fucking clubhouse.” He eyed Williams as he spoke.

  “Now, Snake, don’t shoot the prospect. At least not on my account. I checked my badge at the door.” I reached into the
cooler and pulled out a can of beer. I’d regret it, but I needed to put Snake at ease.

  Snake and Gunner walked over and did the same. Three brothers-of-the-road drinking in silence; what better way to greet the day? Long time since I’d felt the cold bite of a morning brew. Williams stood nearby without a beer. I think he was pouting. What was the club coming to? I glanced back and forth between my brother and the president of the Halifax Charter of the Satan’s Stallion Motorcycle Club. Gunner was wearing an Under Armour workout shirt. His muscles rippled through the black fabric with every move, his biceps popping below the sleeves. Big brother was getting bigger. Snake was, too. He was showing the strain of too many years and too many beers. His paunch fell over a chrome pistol belt buckle that fought to stem the tide. His long blonde hair looked bleached, grey stubble on his face telling the tale. I tipped my beer to the framed picture of my proudest moment as a mixed martial artist. As long as it hung in the house, I knew I still had some status.

  There are no gold watches for retired outlaws, a body bag sometimes, but no watch. Those of us who get out alive are attached to the club for life. As the tattoo says, Stallion Forever Forever Stallion. I was the only man to ever wear the Stallion patch and a badge. Most bikers and more than a few cops will tell you the body bag was the better option. It’s good they agree on something. Members out in good standing are welcome in any clubhouse for a beer, a game of pool, or to work on their ride, as long as it is still a Harley. Snake didn’t want me standing there, but he would never violate the Stallion code. That’s the one-percenter’s way. Guys drop out, condemn society’s rules, and choose to live under an even bigger thumb. I was out from under it, but the Stallion tattoo will always remain over my heart. It was my father’s baby, love the prick or hate him.

  Even a founder’s son out in good standing is banned from church, the weekly meetings where club business gets hammered out. I figured drug deals, prostitution, and extortion were still the big-three money-makers. Not every Stallion is a criminal, but every patch knows the score. The guys in the OMG unit say just being a Stallion makes a man a criminal, that wearing the patch is a form of extortion. I can’t argue it. A Stallion rolling is a message to anyone dealing in drugs or sex. The streets belong to the club, and it better be getting its share. The rumble of a Harley can be the most terrifying sound in the world. To some, it speaks of violence and death. I knew it when I rode under the patch, and I know it now.

  “So, bro, what’s with the clowns outside?” Snake broke the silence.

  “If I could pick up my badge for a minute.” I put the half-finished beer on a table. “We have a dead body over there, Snake. Famous one, at that. It’s that guy on the billboard out front. Appreciate it if you could keep that secret for a while.” No point in hiding it. The news guys would have it soon, and offering Snake some inside information, even short-lived, might pay off.

  “The preacher? No shit.”

  “The one and only. I need to take a look at your tape from last night. You have a pretty good angle on the street.”

  Snake ran his hand through his blonde hair and looked at Gunner.

  “You’re asking from behind the badge, not as a bro. So the answer is ‘fuck off.’ Pick up that beer or hit the road. Your call, pig.”

  I stepped in closer, my fists tight at my side. Snake held his ground. We eye-fucked each other. You can’t give quarter in a clubhouse, not even with the president.

  “I’ll ignore that this time. You’re tired. But remember, I am still that guy, bro. Always will be.” I stood a second longer and then eased back, took another drink, and nodded to Gunner as I headed out. As the door slammed behind me, I heard the crash of a beer can. The prospect got a taste, after all.

  My adrenaline spiked, keeping me jacked and on edge on the way to Sandy Gardner’s home. Blair can read me better than most; he stayed quiet during the drive. Being called a pig didn’t mean anything, but having it come from Snake inside the house was a problem. It was an insult to Gunner I couldn’t let pass. Still, I regretted threatening Snake. We needed that video.

  We drove silently through Waverley on a highway that hugged Lake William and offered a great view of its small tree-covered islands. Realtors call the highway “an idyllic meandering road.” They also advertise private lakefrontage with the top-dollar properties. They don’t mention the highway that slices between the front door and water beneath the overbuilt hilltop homes. The private docks and power boats dotting the lakeshore are proof there is no shortage of people willing to dodge a little traffic to get to their private paradise.

  Gardner’s estate was an exception. His seven-acre peninsula jutted into the lake on the side of the highway. There is serious money in the God game. Those same realtors would call his house “a classic rancher.” I thought “strip mall” worked, too. The V-shaped single-storey home sat at the end of a long driveway of multicoloured brick pavers. The inner drive opened to a circular plaza big enough to be called a concourse. A sculpted cherub, surrounded by flowers, was pouring water from a vase into a pond in the middle of the space. I knew a coke dealer who had a spread like this before downsizing to a small cell. A large copper-and-brass dollar sign sprayed water into his pond. Salvation was a different kind of drug, but the profit margin seemed to be the same.

  The opposing wings of the house reached out from double doors to shelter the cherub and the parking concourse. A three-bay, two-storey garage sat tucked into the treeline on the left side of the driveway. A smooth slab on the opposite side was cut into three tennis courts. Beyond the courts, the lake wrapped around the side and back of the property.

  I’d been here a couple of times. It always impressed. Little brother Greg convinced me to do a security audit for Gardner. Hard to say no to a brother who helped sober you up, harder still when he wears the white collar. Blair tucked the car in front of the garage. I made a mental note to call Greg. Pastor Gardner was a friend of his, and I wanted to fill him in before he heard about the murder on the radio. First, I’d have to deal with the more difficult notification inside.

  We parked beside a white Ford Escape. A tan Mercedes sedan was parked on the other side of the small SUV.

  “Hope the car doesn’t leak anything on the driveway,” Blair said, looking out over the sparkling silver surface of the lake. “Don’t think the city could afford to fix it.”

  He tossed me a pack of gum. “I’m not asking,” he said.

  “It was work-related.” I could taste the stale beer.

  “Did I ask?”

  “Thanks.” I popped a piece of gum and stuck the wrapper in my pocket. “I’ll lead; you read.”

  “Always.”

  It was the routine we developed when we worked major crime the first time. Blair would read body language and take notes. I’d lead the questioning. Death notifications suck; you can’t let empathy get in the way. Next of kin are suspects first and bereaved second. Cold, but then police work is never warm and fuzzy. People tend to get killed by those who love them most.

  An oversized oak door opened before we had a chance to ring the bell. Bobby Simms stepped out. His bald head shone above a tight silver dress shirt that fought to contain his muscles. A black tattoo peered above the neckline. A gold cross reflected sunlight from his left earlobe. He looked like a bouncer in a high-end strip joint. His crooked smile did little to soften the look. I picked Bobby for suspect number two on my list. The vic’s husband or wife is always the front runner, so Mrs. Gardner was ahead of him.

  “Cam Neville. Well, we don’t often get to see the brother with the badge. Father Greg is a regular, of course. I guess his collar is a kind of badge though, isn’t it?” The tone was welcoming, loose.

  “Hey, Bobby.” We moved up the two steps leading to the door. “We need to come in for a minute.”

  “Sure, sure. Come on in. My name is Bobby Simms.” He reached past me to Blair. It was getting crowded on t
he stoop. He grabbed my partner’s hand. “You are?”

  “Constable Blair Christmas.”

  “Aren’t you blessed to have our Saviour’s name in yours? Come on in. What brings you here today, Cam?”

  “It’s business, Bobby. We need to talk with Mrs. Gardner. Is she around?” Simms closed the door.

  “No. I’m afraid she isn’t even in the country. She is in Africa on church business. Pastor Sandy is not here at the moment either. Can I help?”

  Widow gets an alibi pass. Time to move Bobby up the list.

  The foyer was isolated from the rest of the house by a knee wall. Beyond it, we could see the kitchen. An oak mantle capping the wall was filled with plants and framed pictures of Sandy Gardner, his wife, and their adopted son, Samuel. A white pillar stopped the wall at the entrance to the kitchen. Every surface gleamed. Floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding glass patio doors backlit the kitchen. They offered a clear view of the lake. The sun sparkled on the silver and blue waves. Fat white clouds slipped past the trees on the far shore. The view was proof that the best things in life are free. The pastor’s kitchen was proof money still buys you the best seats.

  The air was thick with the smell of baking bread and fresh coffee, a hint of some kind of cleaning agent just beneath it. I glanced around for signs of someone trying to clean up a crime scene. Nothing but sun sparkling in a gleaming kitchen.

  I remembered an old Formica table covered in dirty dishes, cigarette butts, and empty bottles. A Playboy calendar pinned to the wall above it. I wondered where I’d be if I’d grown up in a clean, normal house like this. Of course, I’ve seen good kids come out of crack kitchens and evil pricks come from mansions. Still, a little more baked bread and a little less bourbon in our kitchen might have made a difference for Gunner and me. Well, maybe not Gunner. I’ve never been inside my grandparents’ house, so I don’t know what kind of kitchen Greg grew up in. More like this than ours, I figure.