Disposable Souls

by Phonse Jessome

  The street would find Greg’s killer first, and the street stopped at Snake’s door. It had ears, and what it heard made it back to the clubhouse, fast. The Stallion grapevine would give up the shooter. The club would know who it was long before the police did. The club didn’t have to prove shit in a court. Justice started and ended in this room. There was only one way for me to plug into that kind of information, that justice. I felt every eye in the place as I walked across the bar and entered the back office. I drove my fist through the glass on the trophy case. It felt good. I pulled my Stallion cut off the hook, lifted it to my face, and smelled the familiar sweetness of the leather treatment that kept it soft. Felt the warmth of the leather against my skin. I pulled it over my shoulders and headed back into the bar.

  Every patch in the place was standing now, looking from Snake to me. The curved Nomad rocker leading up from my waist to my heart meant he had no real say over this set of colours. I wasn’t a member of his charter, I was another member of the homeless Stallion elite. I nodded to the stairs to show him proper respect in his house. He headed up to hold church. The patches all fell in line behind him. Gunner stayed in place, staring at me, a wry smile on his face, joy. I hated like hell to kill that feeling, but I had to.

  “You finally come to your senses?” he said as he walked toward me. “Jesus, is that blood?”

  “It’s Greg’s.”

  “What the fuck? He in a car wreck? He okay?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s dead. Someone cut him in two with a machine gun. Took my partner down, too. I think maybe they were gunning for me.”

  Gunner didn’t say a word. He reached out and pulled me to his chest. We stood there for a moment in the middle of the crowded clubhouse. No one made a sound.

  Every Stallion charter has a space set aside for church. Some have small rooms, some use kitchens or bars. The bigger charters have better rooms. In the mother house, it’s like the boardroom in any office. A long wooden table sits in the middle, surrounded by high-backed leather chairs. In this boardroom, the walls are covered in the Satan’s head corporate logo printed on rows of flags. Each flag signed by the members of a Stallion charter. The Halifax flag hangs above the tallest chair at the head of the table. Snake was in that chair, waiting as we entered. The other patches were in place around the table. Gunner took his seat at the opposite end of the table, furthest from Snake. I closed the door and stood at the back of the room. A long time since I’d been to church.

  Snake slammed a wooden gavel onto a Satan’s head carved out of oak on the table in front of him. The meeting was underway.

  “Brother,” Snake said, “you’re standing here covered in blood, wearing that cut. It was yours, could have been again. Not so sure this is how that is gonna work. Don’t know that you’re ever going to walk out of here. Talk.”

  “Didn’t expect to put it on again, Snake, but here I am.” I looked at the faces around the table. “Someone attacked our family tonight, brothers. Gunner’s, mine, the Stallion family. Greg was shot to death. Say what you want, he was the son of the founder, too. ‘An attack on one, an attack on all. Blood for blood, nothing slides.’ Not a fucking thing.” The Stallion code.

  Snake looked at Gunner. I couldn’t see my brother’s expression, but I knew he wanted payback as much as I did.

  “You know you can’t just walk into this thing and then walk out again when this ends,” Snake said. “You’re a cop, brother. Not many in this club trust you anymore.”

  “That’s my doing. I own it, and I’ll try to make it right. The badge was a job, Snake. This is who I am, who I need to be.” I realized it was true.

  I was never at home behind the badge. It was Ronald’s dream for me to be a cop, the opposite of an outlaw, he used to say. The ultimate proof I could rise above myself. I did it for him, for Greg, for two dead men, not for me. I still hated the drug lords who killed Ronald Gosse, always would, but I also knew I’d never been accepted as a cop and wondered now if I would ever be accepted here again.

  Gunner stood and walked over to me. He embraced me again as he had downstairs. He turned back to the table.

  “Brothers?”

  Grease moved first. He was seated at Snake’s left. He walked the length of the room and put his hands on my shoulders. A warmth spread from those hands and filled my heart. The cranky old bastard hadn’t said a word to me since I betrayed the club. He’d taken it harder than most. Probably because he was more of a father to me than the old man ever was. I watched the tears fill his eyes, knew he saw the same thing. I pulled him close, slapped his back.

  One by one, the senior patches stood, and the men I rode with walked to me. There were eleven men at the table; three stayed seated. They were all members who patched in after I left. I respected that. The embraces my brothers gave me were real; those men were not yet my brothers. In the end, Snake stood and walked to me. He looked in my eyes.

  “Welcome home, brother. Don’t make us kill you.”

  I was back.

  Downstairs, the party was rocking, even without the patches. The band took the stage without Gunner. A top-heavy blonde in six-inch platforms stumbled to the bar. Her Ride-a-Stallion T was cut up the middle to reveal a deeply tanned stomach with a jewelled Satan’s head piercing just above the navel. A cupid tattoo stamped her left hip, his arrow pointed down into her crotch. Her denim miniskirt was split at the side. From a distance, she was a hot ten, but up close, Jimmy could see the beef-jerky complexion of a meth head. Lot of makeup trying to hide it, but there just isn’t that much makeup. She smiled at Jimmy, reached over and touched the gash on the side of his face as she placed an empty glass on the bar. He wanted to plunge a knife into her stomach and carve out that Satan’s head, use it for himself.

  Williams poured her drink and watched her stagger away, maybe still a ten from behind. He could feel her touch on his face. He reached up to touch the spot. A piece of the mirror must have caught him. Gotta give the fucking Indian credit, he went down shooting. Jimmy hoped he left behind a good scar. Better than a tattoo. He looked past the staggering blonde to the stairs.

  Neville was alive? He’d seen his shirt covered in blood. The fuck must have been wearing a vest, but there was no damned way a little Kevlar could have stopped that much lead. He emptied a clip into the bastard’s back, saw the shirt take the heat as the slugs cut through. Worse than seeing him still breathing, he was wearing a Nomad patch. Jimmy’s crowning moment, gone.

  One of the Litter Box Boys arrived and headed to the bar. Good kid. A real earner who didn’t go for all that rap bullshit most of the boys were into. Still sporting the baggy jeans, white T, and half-cocked ball cap, but Williams knew his heart wasn’t in it. If he was here, it was business. Jimmy flagged the prospect by the door to come back and take the bar. He led the street kid to the backroom.

  “Hey, man, some fucked-up shit out there tonight. Cops shutting every corner down. We not going to make the mark tonight, not even close.”

  No surprise. Even if Neville survived the shooting, the Indian cop should be gone. Cops would turn up the street temperature either way. That would eat into profits, but that was collateral damage. If the Litter Box came up short tonight, tomorrow would be a banner day. Addicts are great customers.

  “They saying anything?” Williams asked.

  “No, man, just asking shit, but word is some priest got killed, and a cop took some hits.”

  “Priest, what fucking priest?” Williams knew he’d only shot two people, both of them cops. There was some old fuck in the garage when it went down, but he ran before Jimmy could tag him.

  “Don’t know, man, but one of the hos saying it’s Gunner’s brother. He got a priest brother?”

  “Yeah, man, he was at the blessing. No one would kill a priest. Hos don’t know shit,” Williams said it even as the panic began to grow inside. He knew the street girls were the first to hear
anything. Even when their mouths were full, their ears were working.

  “Look, tell the boys to shut it down. Don’t worry about the mark. We’ll make it back tomorrow.”

  “You the man.”

  The kid headed back into the night. Jimmy flipped open his cellphone. He punched in Phil’s number.

  Chapter 16

  Sunday morning

  A car I didn’t recognize sat in my driveway, near the garage. I slowed the bike to a stop in the street and watched the driver’s door open. Carla Cage stepped out. Reaching inside my pocket, I pushed the button on the garage-door opener and rode past her as the door slid up. She walked in as I took off my helmet. She was wearing a loose sweater above her jeans and still had the riding boots on.

  “Cam, what are you doing wearing that patch?” There was tenderness in her eyes. She looked soft and beautiful in that bulky sweater. I felt something in my chest move. My emotions were raw, and I didn’t want to deal with them or with her.

  “I’m back in,” I said as I pulled the vest off and hung it on a hook beside the workbench.

  “You can’t be serious. They’ll fire you. It’s bad enough you hit the inspector, you can’t let them see you wearing that,” she said.

  “That gang I’m out of.” I moved away, back toward my bike.

  “What do you mean? They won’t fire you for what you did. Your brother is dead, for God’s sake, your partner shot. Even MacIntosh isn’t dumb enough to push it.” She followed, reaching out and touching the stain on the front of my shirt.

  I had no time for this. I couldn’t let her plant any doubt in my mind. I needed the club now and didn’t want to hear what the consequences would be.

  “Carla, the chief pulled my badge, took me off the case. I decided I am still on it. Probably not a good idea for you to be here. Bad for your career.”

  She stood in front of me, looking up but not saying anything. I started to, but dryness in my throat choked it off. She reached up and stroked my cheek. I knew there was blood there, too. I wondered if she was wearing her bloody T-shirt under that sweater. I realized it wasn’t a good idea to think about what was under that sweater. I leaned down to meet her mouth as she stood on her toes. Her kiss was soft, like her caress. She pulled her lips away and looked in my eyes, her hand still on my face.

  I took her hand, kissed it, and then pulled it down.

  “Bad timing,” I said.

  “It doesn’t have to be. We could sleep on it, see how we feel in the morning.”

  I looked outside. It was daylight. She must have spent the night in my driveway.

  “When I wake, I’m going to put that back on. I will find my brother’s killer, Carla. The club has already put the word out.”

  “Then you don’t have to put it on. They will find him, and we can arrest him. Don’t throw your life away. Father Greg wouldn’t want that, and you know it. I saw you take his cross, Cam. That must mean something.”

  I pulled it out of my pocket. The gold shone brightly through the cracks in the dried blood. She took it and opened the clasp. I leaned forward so she could put it around my neck.

  “It was never his, you know.” I felt the tears return, let them roll down my face.

  “What do you mean?”

  I told her about Ronald. I don’t know why. I think I just wanted to sort out my own feelings, make sure I was making the right choice.

  “So why did Greg wear it?” she asked when I finished.

  “I tried to give it to Ronald’s family when I got back. They said I should keep it. I felt guilty wearing it, so I hung it here in the garage. I went through a bad spell. Greg pulled me out of it. I gave it to him the day I took the oath. He said he’d wear it as a reminder to pray for Ronald and for me every day.”

  “Sounds like he wanted to take your guilt away,” she said.

  “I know. A real fixer, Greg.”

  “He looked up to you, Cam. He loved you. Why do you think he became our chaplain? He didn’t follow Gunner into the clubhouse, he followed you.”

  I knew that was true, and it had gotten him killed. The chain around my neck now had two bodies weighing it down. I was convinced something I’d done or not done had triggered the violence, that someone gunning for me had killed my brother. I couldn’t explain that to her any more than I could explain why I was walking away from the career she loved.

  “Carla, I need to get some rest. I have a funeral to arrange.”

  “Okay.” She paused as she turned to leave. “Do you think I’ll ever get past this garage?”

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to get past that patch.”

  Bad news spreads fast. Satellite trucks lined the street in front of the hospital that morning. I was running on three hours’ sleep.

  A line of cameras pointed at the pretty people standing along the edge of the sidewalk. The hospital loomed behind them. I’d tuned in at home and knew what they were saying. Words like “shocking,” “stunning,” and “unprecedented” were being sprinkled liberally over the briefest summaries of the facts. The death of a young priest was the big headline. By now, Greg was being cast as the greatest hope of a struggling faith. He was doing in death what he wanted so much to do in life, casting the Catholic Church in a sympathetic light. That would change, I thought, before this mess sorted itself out.

  If Greg was the martyr, Blair was the hero. The cop who took his handgun into battle against a machine gun. Reporters talked about a city holding its breath, waiting for word from the doctors. Halifax, it seemed, needed him to live if it was to survive this grim tragedy. A hero cop clinging to life, it didn’t get much better than that for the media. I figured Blair was past clinging by now. I looked across the street to the Halifax Common. People walked dogs, tossed Frisbees, rode skateboards. A city holding its breath looks just like a city enjoying another Sunday morning.

  It was easy to slip inside the hospital unnoticed. The reporters were so busy staying on top of the latest developments, they weren’t looking beyond the glass lenses in front of them.

  The hall was empty now, the crisis over. The nurse from last night was still behind the counter. She smiled as I walked up, told me I could have five minutes, and let me through the frosted glass doors into the intensive-care unit. I was grateful she didn’t ask to see my badge.

  I get this strange sense of vertigo in hospitals. The intensive-care unit made it worse. I felt the floor tilt under me as I walked past cubicles where the near dead lay below machines that did the work damaged hearts and lungs couldn’t. The air was thick with disinfectant and decay. Nurses sat in each cubicle, keeping an eye on the machines and the patients. One patient, one nurse. ICU ratio. A nurse who looked to be about eighteen was busy writing on forms in a binder, her eyes darting up to the patient and back to the papers. The man sitting at a desk outside the next cubicle seemed more relaxed. He leaned back in his chair, watching his patient and the clock. There was a nurse in front of Blair’s cubicle. She nodded as I approached, a ton of empathy in the glance. Almost cured the vertigo, she was that good. Only the best in ICU.

  Sue looked as bad as I’d ever seen her. Blair looked worse. His bed was surrounded by too many machines for it to be anything but bad. They were anchored to him with wires and tubes that disappeared beneath the white sheet that covered a body I knew to be strong and fit. Funny how frail it looked here. That brought the vertigo back. I could see lights flashing and diaphragms rising and falling, and the comforting digital mountain range running across the front of the heart monitor. The reporters were smarter than I thought. “Clinging to life” seemed pretty damn accurate. I hugged Sue and looked past her at my former partner. I’d never seen Blair so still and quiet. I didn’t like it. It had to be harder for her.

  “What are the doctors saying?”

  “He lost a lot of blood, and they don’t know if he suffered any brain damage befo
re they started replacing it. They say the next forty-eight hours will be the real test. All we can do is hope and pray.”

  I moved over to the side of the bed and took his hand. I squeezed and watched for a reaction. There was none.

  “I’m so sorry about Greg, Cam. How are you holding up?” Sue joined me at the side of the bed, leaning into me and wrapping her arm around my waist as we both looked at Blair. It felt good. “My God, who did this?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but I am going to find out. I promise you that.”

  She looked up at me. “The superintendent was here last night. She says you can’t do that. They won’t let you on the case. She says the chief suspended you. What’s going on?”

  “It’s been a long time coming, Sue. I’m going back with the club. They’ll find who did this faster than we ever could with a badge.”

  She stroked my cheek; I remembered Carla doing the same thing and felt a sense of loss that I couldn’t really explain.

  “I know it’s been hard for you. Blair says you’re the only one facing more discrimination than him.”

  “That’s only because the racists try to hide their hate from him, but it’s okay for cops to hate dirtbag bikers. No one hides it from me.”

  “I’m glad you’re going with the club. I want you to find whoever did this, and I want you to hurt them. Is that wrong?”

  “Of course not. It’s the rightest thing in the world.”

  We held onto each other and watched the machines keep the man we both loved alive.

  Greystone Drive sits on the high side of Herring Cove Road in Spryfield, right in the middle of the Litter Box. Thousands of commuters roll past it twice a day. Most don’t see it, don’t want to. I’ve burned a few nights there, hunting the illusive urban beast known as the witness. Thought I saw Bigfoot there once, but never so much as a smell of a witness. Spryfield has a hard-earned reputation as a high-crime/low-rent part of Halifax. It’s been the battlefield for some of the bloodiest drug wars the East Coast has ever seen. There are third-generation dealers working the same streets, shooting at the same enemies their grandfathers tried to kill. Greystone stands out, a tough spot in a dangerous place.