One of the first to greet Mehelnechuk once he was seated was Bouchard. He whispered something into the host’s ear, then shook his hand and left with a smile on his face. One by one, the other players in the Sons of Satan—some from as far away as California and even England—approached Mehelnechuk to wish him well.
About an hour later, a couple of prospects were sent to tell all of the collected Sons of Satan members that it was time to vote. One by one, they filed into the back office to write a name down on a piece of paper and stuff it in a box.
About fifteen minutes after the last one was finished, a prospect was sent to tell Buddy Boy to cut the music. Paul Potter, a 420-pound monster with a beard down to his belly button and a tattoo of a rattlesnake on his shaven head, strode to center stage. Potter was a much-respected member of the Sons of Satan. He was a good earner and a feared enforcer who would have been a viable candidate for president himself if only he hadn’t been a similarly powerful member of the Lawbreakers only a year earlier.
Potter cleared his throat at the microphone and simply said, “It’s Ivan.” As if on cue, Buddy Boy and the BJs thundered into their rendition of “Street Fightin’ Man.”
Mehelnechuk did little but grin. Bouchard, sitting next to him, clapped loudly and cheered. He shook Mehelnechuk’s hand, and the smaller man whispered something in his ear. Bouchard nodded and beamed.
Steve Schultz approached Mehelnechuk. The new national president laughed. “Don’t look so sad, Hollywood,” he said. “There’s lots of room for a guy like you.”
Chapter 3
Ned was sweating as he drove over the sun-bleached asphalt on his way to work. André had delivered on his promise to get him some wheels, but the car Ned was driving offered precious little more than basic transport. Made from a mix of parts cannibalized from a derelict Dodge Omni and a mechanically identical Plymouth Horizon, André had dubbed it a “Hor-ni,” bought it from a mechanic friend for four hundred dollars, and given it to Ned.
It was a horrible little car: one headlight shone up at an angle of forty-five degrees; the skinny, bald tires made driving in rain, snow, or even moderate winds a death-defying adventure; the speedometer didn’t work, but since the car began to shudder violently at forty-eight miles per hour, speeding wasn’t really an issue.André explained that, if he drove a more expensive-looking vehicle, his mother would realize he had quit school. In fact, Ned’s mom had long ago come to that conclusion, but in the interest of avoiding a conflict, played along.
Today, Ned was driving to Torchy’s, a hillbilly bar located in an ageing strip mall in suburban Springfield. It was across the bay, but since Ned didn’t trust the Hor-ni to cross the high and windswept Bay Bridge, he had to go around, adding an extra forty minutes to his trip.
Torchy’s was part of his route. Ned had accepted André’s job, and was collecting cash for him from bar managers and bartenders around the city. But it wasn’t working out as well as he’d hoped.
To a man, the dealers absolutely hated to pay. They’d whine and make excuses or argue. They’d short him or not be around when they said they would be. There was not a single week in which he received as much money as he was promised and he would occasionally have to dip into his own pocket to get the package up to the level André expected. Instead of eight hundred dollars a week, he was averaging around three hundred and fifty.
And he absolutely hated going to Torchy’s. Not only was it far away, but the only day the manager would meet him was on Tuesdays. None of the other guys were available Tuesdays, so it meant he had to blow a whole day on just one call. Worse than the distance was the manager. Pat Wells was a total dick. A big, ugly guy who smelled bad, Wells was the worst of the bad lot Ned had to deal with. He argued about every nickel and dime and always, always, always shorted his package. Experience had led Ned to count the money in the envelope before leaving the bar, which always prompted loud complaints from Wells about what an asshole Ned was for not trusting him.
Today’s trip was tolerable, though, because Ned had brought a friend along. Leo Babineau had been a pal of Ned’s since fourth grade. He quit school about the same time Ned did, but didn’t have any plans beyond getting stoned and playing video games.
Leo was totally out of weed, was bored with his games and was being harassed by his mom and stepdad to get a job, so he was delighted to hear Ned wanted him to tag along. It was something to do, a great relief from the nagging, and a great opportunity to score some free weed.
As they pulled into Torchy’s parking lot, Ned said: “Be prepared, this guy is a total asshole.”
“Can’t be worse than Conrad,” Leo said, referring to his stepfather. “Won’t bother me, I’m just here to watch—but I got your back, buddy.”
As soon as they opened the door, Wells snorted: “Aw shit, look who it is.” He was alone in the empty bar except for his equally robust pal Pete Mulligan. They looked very much the same—big men with even bigger bellies. Both had mustaches, buzz cuts, thick necks, and powerful tattooed arms. Mulligan laughed.
“Hey, Pat,” said Ned with a forced jocularity. “You know what I’m here for.”
“No, what?”
“André’s money,” Ned said, hoping that the mention of who was actually getting paid would help make Wells comply.
“André’s money? I don’t know any André. You know any Andrés, Pete?”
Mulligan shook his head.
“C’mon, Pat, why do you have to put me through this song and dance every week?” Ned whined. “You get your product on time, don’t ya?”
“Listen to this little fuck coming into my place and telling me what I can and can not do,” Wells was yelling so loud and so fast that gob-bets of saliva orbited his head. “That’s not a very wise move on your part, you little shit.”
“No it ain’t,” piped in Mulligan.
“All I know is that André expects his cash.”
“All you know? You don’t know shit.”
They stood there, all four of them, staring at each other. Ned was at a loss. There was no logic to what Wells was saying, nothing Ned could work on. It was pure macho bullshit. Worse than that—it was psychopathic. The man wanted product and didn’t see any reason why he had to pay for it. That made negotiations difficult.
Wells broke the silence. “Listen, you little bag of shit, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said while piling up a stack of bills which, to Ned’s eye, appeared short of what he owed. “I’ll stand beside you over there, and if you can grab the money before I do, it’s yours.”
Mulligan laughed stupidly.
“What are you talking about? The money is André’s.”
“André ain’t here—but you and I are.”
“This is bullshit.”
“Do you want your money or not?”
“I want André’s money.”
“Then come and get it, you little shit.”
Out of options, Ned lunged at the stack. As he leapt, Wells thrust both fists into his ribs. Ned toppled over a barstool and fell to the ground. Wells then ran over and kicked him in the gut. Then he grabbed the collar of Ned’s shirt and his belt, dragged him over to the door, and threw him into the parking lot.
He came back and stood in Leo’s face. “What do you have to say, faggot?” Leo said nothing, just ran out the door. Wells and Mulligan laughed.
Once outside, Leo helped his friend to the Hor-ni’s passenger seat and got into the driver’s seat. He asked Ned for the keys.
“You gonna be okay?” Leo asked his friend as he started the car. “Do you need to go to a hospital or something?”
“No, no, no, I’ll be okay,” he said.
They both laughed. Ned instructed Leo to drive him to André’s. Leo, still pining for a little free weed, grinned.
André sighed after they told him the story. “I know I told you not to come to me with this type of problem, but I’m actually glad you did,” he said. “If this sort of thing gets out, nobody will ever feel like th
ey have to pay you and that would reflect very badly on me.”
He lit a joint and Leo sighed contentedly. “I just can’t allow this to happen,” he continued. “And, luckily, I have a solution.”
He led them down into the basement, passing Leo the joint. André instructed the boys to move the couch about a foot back. Then he lifted up the rug. Underneath it was a trapdoor that opened to reveal a small, deep storage space. In it, Ned could see some little glass vials with maroon rubber tops and red buckets full of yellow and white tablets. Ned hadn’t passed either chemistry or biology, but he knew what they were when he saw the prefix “testo-” on some of the vials.
“Now, the liquid works faster, but I don’t want you two idiots playing around with needles.” André said as he groped around the storage space for two white plastic bottles. He counted sixty pills into each and handed them to the boys.
“Okay, Dr. Dré says to take one of these beauties every morning with breakfast—and you will start eating breakfast or they won’t work as well; I suggest eggs, they’re full of protein and collagen,” André instructed them. “And y’know Kennedy’s Gym downtown?”
They both nodded.
“You both have lifetime unlimited memberships,” André said. “Just show up and tell the manager—make sure it’s Dave you talk to—that André says you have the run of the place.”
Although neither boy had ever been committed to anything before (unless you count Leo’s pot smoking), they enjoyed their weightlifting. They spent about two hours a day at the gym working upper bodies and lower bodies on alternate days. And they saw almost immediate results. Within six weeks, they were already bigger, hairier, and more aggressive. They even saw their tastes in music and movies change.
Ned had returned to work the day after his meeting with André. There were a couple of changes, though.
He no longer went on trips without Leo. It cost him a little—he generally paid Leo in weed and handed him a twenty every once in a while—but it helped ensure that debtors paid in full and on time. The same people who had scoffed at the skinny lad with the shitty car were now ready to work with the two suddenly bold and well-muscled young men who made it clear they meant business.
And he cut Torchy’s out of his rotation. It cost him a lot—in fact, almost two-thirds of his own net from collections. Torchy’s was still receiving deliveries from André’s other guys but not paying for them.
Ned made up for that deficit and more by finding customers of his own. Leo had a wide circle of weed-hungry pals. It wasn’t really worthwhile for Ned to visit them all, getting ten bucks here and twenty there, so he set up an André-style distribution center at an independent record store where one of them worked. That, in turn, led to another distribution center at a mens’ residence at the Springfield campus of the state university. André got his ten percent plus costs, and also supplied them with steroids to supply their weightlifting buddies at the gym under the usual terms.
Ned was on his way to the gym when he received a call from André. He told Ned to grab Leo and come over to his house. As he was just about to pull into the gym’s parking lot, he saw Leo and called him over. “Hop in,” he said. “Big meeting up at André’s.” Leo jumped into the passenger seat and held his door closed for the whole trip.
André met them out front and told them to get in the pickup. “And park that piece of shit around the corner,” he said. “Don’t want my neighbors to think I hang around with riff-raff.”
They didn’t talk much as they got on the Interstate in André’s pickup, instead preferring to listen to music. When they did talk, it was mostly about how much weight they were lifting or sharing anecdotes about the stupid or crazy stoners and dealers they had to deal with.
They were twelve miles from the Canadian border when Ned told André he didn’t have a passport. André said he wouldn’t need one where they were going. Then he drove down an offramp that indicated it led to the road to Millersville and Ondasheeken.
“Where we going?” Ned asked.
“Ondasheeken,” André answered.
“What’s there?”
“I’m taking you there to meet the FBI.”
“FBI?”
“Yeah—Fuckin’ Big Indian.”
Other than what he saw in a few hokey cowboy movies and a hazy memory of something he heard in history class about maize and long-houses, Ned didn’t know much about Native Americans. So, when they drove onto the Indian reservation, he intently studied everything. Ondasheeken looked like all the other little towns he had seen in the county. There were the usual clapboard houses and trailers made into permanent residences. There were clotheslines, above-ground gas tanks, muscle cars, and big angry dogs tied to stakes. But the kids playing by the side of the road were often bronze colored, and many of them had very long, always black hair. The businesses had long, Japanese-y names with lots of consonants. And every sign had an eagle or a turtle or some other dumb animal on it.
André turned onto a dirt road with a few mailboxes on it. He reached one shaped like a largemouth bass with the name “Wilson” on it and turned.
As they approached a fairly large low-slung ranch style, Ned could see that there was a small group of men out front. Most had long black hair (some in ponytails) and all wore some combination of jeans, wife-beaters, and/or plaid shirts. Their skin tones ranged from copper to milky. They were clearly having a good time smoking and drinking. There was a fire with meat cooking over it. And every single one of them (including a boy who appeared to be about ten) was carrying a gun.
One of them—a big guy, maybe six-foot-four, and all muscle—saw André’s pickup and let out a piercing shriek. When he was done, he grinned broadly.
André lowered his window, and grabbed the man’s left hand in a grip that looked like they were arm wrestling. The big man walked alongside the truck as André slowly guided it into what he determined was an appropriate parking spot on the grass.
“How you doin’, man?” the big guy said, obviously happy to see André.
“I am screwed, blued, and tattooed, chief,” André answered.
“I told you not to call me that,” the big guy answered. “That word means something to these guys.” He motioned at the men behind him, many of whom also seemed very happy to see André.
“Fine, fine, fine,” said André. Then he paused. “Chief.”
The big guy laughed. The rest of his crew gathered around. Ned found them menacing despite their smiles, but André clearly had their respect.
“Yes, yes, yes, gentlemen, Santa Claus has arrived,” André said as he came out of his pickup. He dug out and threw clear plastic bags full of weed to the big guy. Then he threw one full of white pills. And then two full of small translucent shards, which Ned (correctly) assumed were methamphetamine.
The big guy looked into the cab of the pickup—where Ned and Leo were still buckled into their seats—and said, “Boo!” He laughed when they both flinched. He turned to André and asked, “Who’s the ballast?”
“Oh, these are friends of mine; good friends of mine in great need,” he said. “They need some . . . uh . . . cantaloupes.”
The big guy smiled broadly. “That’s good,” he said. “I just got a load of fresh ‘cantaloupes.’ Come inside.”
André followed the big guy inside, and Ned and Leo came after. Ned overheard him ask André why he never wore his colors anymore but couldn’t make out André’s response.
Inside, the house looked very much like any of their own, but with more animal body parts used as decoration. There was a tiny old lady on the couch who stared off into space and tore cardboard into increasingly smaller pieces. An ancient and obviously arthritic dog of undetectable lineage cuddled up against her.
The big guy, whose name was Willie Wilson, sat with his three guests at a Formica and stainless steel dining room table. A heavy-set young woman—possibly stoned—walked out of one of the bedrooms to see what was going on.
Willie shouted to her
. “Debbie, get these guys something to drink—and get Mom outta here.” She walked over to the fridge and bent down to see what was inside. Ned instinctively looked to check out her ass, but instead found himself focusing on the tattoo on the small of her back. It said “Roberto” in Gothic letters.
She straightened up, turned, and threw Ned and Leo each a Budweiser. She handed a Miller to André. He kissed her on the cheek.
“That ’ll be enough of that,” Willie chuckled. “I don’t want her getting the jungle fever.”
“Keep yer feathers on, Pocahontas,” André shot back.
“You are so lucky you have drugs,” Willie said. His jocularity hadn’t waned a bit. He seemed to enjoy being insulted by André. “What can I do for you, my French fried friend?”
“It’s not me, I’m fine, I’m totally self-sufficient, all I need is cash—oh, and you, Debs,” André said as he turned to acknowledge the stout girl who was now fighting the old dog for room on the couch. “It’s the boys. I don’t know what to do with them.”
It was at that point that Ned realized he hadn’t spoken since he had arrived at Wilson’s compound. He didn’t want to appear afraid, so he spoke without really thinking. “ We just came along for the ride.”
After a beat, both of the older men laughed. Willie smacked André on the back. “They’re not with me,” André deadpanned as he shot a disappointed look at Ned.
Willie stiffened up. “Look guys, I know why you’re here,” he said. “I can take care of you.”
The problem was that they didn’t know why they were there.
Willie then asked André: “What are you looking for?”
“Something small and clean,” he replied.
There was a knock on the door. Willie snickered at the sight of Ned and Leo stiffening, then yelled, “Come in!”
It was one of the guys from outside. He was tall and thin with black hair down to his waist. He was carrying a rifle with a scope. “Fuckin’ Winston just called,” the young man told Willie. “He wants to know if you can get him something this weekend.”
Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle Page 6