Pat had made it up to his hands and knees when he started vomiting violently. Ned laughed, then kicked him in the face.
When Pat stopped moaning, Ned said: “Hey, Pat, I think you owe me a few bucks—not André, but me.”
“What?”
“Yep, I been calculating every cent you owe,” Ned told him calmly. “You actually owe me a little more than $17,000—before interest—and . . .”
He was going to continue, but Leo interrupted. Ned hadn’t noticed, but Leo had been beating Pete violently with his fists and his gun since they had parted. Consequently, Pete’s face was purple, swollen, and bleeding. Leo, child-like, was trying to get Ned’s attention.
“Lookit, lookit, lookit, Ned!” he shouted, as he plunged the barrel of his pistol into Pete’s mouth, breaking one of his front incisors. “It’s just like that show!” Then he turned to Pete and mock-angrily scolded him: “Tell me where the drugs are, Ramirez, or you’ll be snorting in hell!”
“Okay, okay, that ’s great, Leo,” Ned told him. “But I’m doing business here.” Leo left dejectedly, dragging a now unconscious Pete behind him.
“So, Pat, you wanna talk business?”
“I don’t have no $17,000.”
“$17,162 and change.”
Pat started weeping.
“Aw, come on, don’t cry, big fella,” Ned mocked him. “You owe me a lot—I mean a lot—of money, so what are you gonna do about it?”
“I don’t know.”
Ned hit him in the knuckles with his gun. Pat screamed. “I think you better figure something out,” Ned said. “Right now.”
Pat moaned and whined.
“Now!”
“Okay, okay, okay, okay, I can give you the ten thousand now,” he managed. “Then a hundred a week after that.”
Ned grinned. “A hundred a week?” He asked. “That’s less than minimum wage. Gimme three-hundred a week on top of what you’ll be buying—and if you want drugs, remember, they come from me; you go to the cops, you’re dead; you go to another dealer, you’re dead; you give up selling altogether and you’re dead. You got it?”
“Okay, okay, okay,” Pat said. “It’s a deal . . . so will you call me an ambulance?”
Ned laughed. “Fuck that,” he said. “We had a deal before and you fucked me over repeatedly. . . you reap what you sow, Pat.” Then he kicked him in the face. “Now, where’s my ten thousand?”
Pat sputtered and said something nonsensical. Ned shook him. “It’s in, it’s in, the bar fridge,” he finally admitted, pointing to the correct door.
Ned dropped Pat and went to the fridge. It was full of beer bottles. He threw them to the ground, smashing most of them. Nothing.
Then he looked in the ice tray. There was a manila envelope inside. He opened it; it was full of cash.
Satisfied, Ned looked up at Leo, who was still beating an unconscious Pete. “Yo, Leo, we really gotta get outta here,” he said.
Leo looked at him like he was asking him to leave an amusement park. After a few seconds, Ned nodded toward the door and Leo complied. He didn’t stop laughing until they were past the Bay Bridge.
Johansson didn’t know what to expect as he followed the bikers’ directions to the office. When he finally arrived at 317 Barridge Street, he was surprised that the only Harley he could see was the one he had ridden in on.
What he did find was a medium-size rectangular building packed among the factories and auto wreckers that dominated the area. The building was painted black and red (the Sons of Satan colors) and had a sign above the door that read: “SOSMC Martinsville.”
Johansson could not recall ever seeing a building that large entirely without windows. He did notice that there were video cameras on each corner and a number of satellite dishes and other antennas on the roof.
As he passed by the stumpy concrete barriers that surrounded the building, he approached a thick, red metal door. He heard it buzz open before he rang the bell. He was surprised at how heavy the door was.
Inside, he saw what looked like the reception area of an office designed by teenage boys. The old furniture was in rough shape, there were posters of nude women on every bit of wall not covered in graffiti, and the detritus of a party—beer cans, cigaret butts, pizza boxes,and snack food wrappers—littered the floor.
Two men greeted Johansson. They looked pretty much like how he pictured bikers—long hair, beards, and leather jackets—but they were both very young (perhaps in their early twenties) and very slim. The bigger of the pair told him it was an extremely bad idea to keep the boss waiting, and he took Johansson through another metal door that buzzed when it opened. It led to a meeting hall with a full bar.
He was led through another door and up a staircase. At the start of the corridor, he saw a door with a sign that read, “Keep Out.” The biker who came up with him knocked on the door.
“Send him in,” said a voice from inside.
The biker opened the door and Johansson walked in. He was surprised at what he saw. Mehelnechuk was sitting behind an expensive wooden desk in a tidy, professional-looking office. It was the only place he had seen inside the building where the walls were not covered in pornography or graffiti. Instead there was just one framed photograph of a group of men in leather jackets holding up the Sons of Satan logo. Mehelnechuk and Marvin Bouchard (whom Johansson recognized from a couple of stories he’d seen on TV ) were in the center.
“Thanks for coming,” Mehelnechuk said without raising from his seat or offering his hand. “Can I get you something?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
“Good. How are things in Stormy Bay?”
“Awesome, I’m selling everything you can supply . . .”
“Except for personal use, of course.”
Johansson chuckled. “Yeah.”
“Just weed, though, no coke or meth, right?”
Johansson recalled that Mehelnechuk took a dim view of coke and meth. Of course, he dealt both, but he would not allow his men to use either. He said he had seen them fuck up too many people. The penalty for coke or meth use on Mehelnechuk’s watch was severe and, Johansson had heard, potentially fatal. So he lied: “No way, profit margin’s too rich.” Then he continued. “The bar is packed pretty well every night, I’ve got some big plans for . . .”
Mehelnechuk interrupted again. “That’s chump change; if you want real money, you’ll make it here in a bigger city.”
“What do I have to do?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Uh . . . okay.”
“Don’t worry so much,” Mehelnechuk smiled for the first time in Johansson’s presence. “You’re going to Springfield to join a club called the Death Dealers—it’s all set up—but you have to come back to Martinsville whenever I need you.”
“Here.” Mehelnechuk handed Johansson a leather briefcase, its elegant design ill-suited to the scruffy young man who received it. There was an awkward silence that only broke when a frustrated Mehelnechuk ordered Johansson to open it.
Inside, he found a sawed-off handgun, a cellphone, and five thousand in cash. He grinned.
“Use the money to get yourself a place to stay and some decent clothes—the guys out front can help you with that,” Mehelnechuk said. “Keep the other two things with you at all times—and keep the phone charged up. Don’t worry about the bill; I have a connection in the business.”
“What will I be doing?”
“Making money.”
Months later, in Mehelnechuk’s hot tub, Johansson realized that he was making a lot of money. Although he was making it by performing for his master, he was okay with that. He’d have liked to be his own boss again some day, but for the time being, he was content to follow orders and rake in the bucks.
Jamie Roblin knew on an intellectual level he had to eat, but he just didn’t feel like it. He paced around his apartment, just as he had a million times before, trying to think of something he could eat that would have a tiny bit of appeal for
him. He’d been pacing for about two-and-a-half hours when he finally decided upon a box of Froot Loops and a two-quart bottle of orange soda.
He was just digging into his meal when he heard a knock at the door. It was the secret, coded knock he instructed all of his business associates to use, but it still made him nervous. He grabbed a handgun and approached the door slowly. He heard the knock again. He looked through the peephole and grinned.
It was none other than Marvin “Big Mamma” Bouchard. The big man himself had come to pay Jamie a visit. He’d been dealing with the Sons of Satan for a couple of years now, but had never met any of the important ones. And everyone who was anyone knew who Bouchard was. He was in the paper and on TV all the time. For a small-time meth cook like Jamie, a visit from Bouchard was something of an honor. It must, he thought, be something big. So he put away his gun and opened the door.
“Mr. Bouchard . . . uh . . . nice of you to come.”
Bouchard smiled warmly, shook Jamie’s hand, and walked in with three other big bikers. “Sit down, sit down, Jamie,” he said. “Relax.”
Jamie did as he was told. Two of the big bikers sat beside him on the couch. It was a small couch and they were big guys, so it was a tight fit.
“You do a pretty good business with us, don’t you Jamie?”
“Oh, yeah . . .”
“I mean, we pay you lots of money for lots of drugs and it works out pretty good, doesn’t it?”
“Yep.”
So why do you sell to the fucking Lawbreakers?”
“Oh, that . . . them . . . I always sold to them, I have been selling to them for years . . . I sold to them long before you guys . . . they’re small-time, not like you guys . . . it was the deal . . .”
Bouchard grinned and shrugged. “Well, my friend, it’s not the deal anymore.”
Jamie panicked. He tried to stand up, but the bikers held him down. Each grabbed one wrist and held his hands on the coffee table. The other biker, who had been behind the couch, emerged with a large claw hammer in his hands.
Jamie screamed.
“Stick something in his mouth, Lou,” said Bouchard. The biker with the hammer wadded up one of Lennie’s T-shirts from the floor and shoved it in his mouth. He knew better than to spit it out. “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, the reason you have that filthy old T-shirt in your mouth is because you have a nasty habit of interrupting, and I have something important to tell you.” He sat down. “I’m telling you because you are a popular, likeable guy,” he said. “You know everyone. You can get my message out to everybody in the business.”
Jamie nodded.
Bouchard smiled. “Here it is—if anyone deals with us, they can not deal with the Lawbreakers,” he paused to make sure Jamie understood. “And if you don’t deal with us, you will die.” Then he chuckled. “Pretty simple, eh?” he said. “You got it, eh? You’ ll tell everyone, eh?”
Jamie nodded and smiled the best he could with the T-shirt in his mouth.
“Good, that’ll save us so much unpleasantness,” Bouchard said. “Go ahead, Lou.”
Lou took a swing at Jamie’s left pinkie, shattering it. He swung again, missing his fingers and hitting the table. Jamie was screaming through the T-shirt. Lou swung again, hitting Jamie’s left thumb, but it was just a glancing blow.
Bouchard sighed. “I’ll be waiting in the car; come down when you’re done.”
According to her parents’ strict standards, Kelli had been acting irresponsibly lately. They attributed her unprecedented lack of discipline to the fact that it was her senior year and that some of her friends were encouraging her to cut loose a little.
But they were having none of it. Augie Johnson had seen a documentary on a TV newsmagazine about “tough love”—a concept in which parents use strict, zero-tolerance punishments to put their kids back on the right track. It hadn’t been getting the results he wanted, but he knew that if he stuck with it, it would.
Kelli wondered why her parents had totally turned on her just because she missed one school assignment and a couple of curfews. Augie had explained “tough love” to her, but it sounded more like tough luck. All she got out of her parents these days were orders, criticism, and recrimination. Home was like a boot camp. She found herself staying away from it more and more often.
She was reluctant to leave Lily’s, but knew she’d be in big trouble if she stayed any longer. Her parents had confiscated her bike because they had seen her riding it without a helmet, so she had to walk home. About halfway there, it started to rain—just enough to be annoying. When she finally made it to the front door, she found it locked. She rang and rang the doorbell, but there was no response. She could see the light on in her parents’ bedroom, so she knew they were home. She phoned them—no answer. She started pounding on the door and yelling.
Augie’s plan was to make her freak out for about fifteen minutes, then let her in and give her a good talking to. He decided to intensify the experience a little by having his friend Harvey Giamatti—a drama teacher at another high school who sported a long beard and wild hair—hide in the hedges and approach her.
Harvey emerged just as it was dawning on Kelli that she was in all likelihood, going to have to find someplace to sleep that night. Doing his best imitation of a deranged homeless man, Harvey stepped very close to Kelli and said: “I don’t think they’re home, lady.” He was about to follow up by asking her for some spare change, when she let out a horrified scream and ran. She ran down the block without any particular destination. About two hundred yards from her house, she saw a familiar face.
It was Ned, getting into his car after stopping at the corner store to buy some snacks. Kelli rushed up to him, screaming: “I’m locked out of my house and there’s a crazy man after me!”
“Hop in.”
After she calmed down a little, Kelli sighed. “I can’t believe I’m asking you this,” she said. “But can I stay at your place tonight?”
Ned, trying to act nonchalant, said, “No problem.”
“Really? Your mom won’t mind?”
“Mom? I have my own place.”
“Ooooh . . . maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
Ned laughed. “Look, I have an extra room, there’s no bed in it, but I have a sleeping bag and lots of pillows—there’s no lock, but you can prop up a chair or something.”
“That’s okay, you won’t try any funny stuff—I have a black belt in karate.”
Ned looked at her and started laughing. A moment later, she joined him. “You—a black belt in karate?” he chuckled. “A black belt in ballet, maybe . . .”
She playfully punched him in the right bicep and said: “You just watch yourself, Mister. We ballerinas can get pretty nasty.”
Chapter 5
Ned’s hand was actually shaking as he slid the key into the lock. He knew André often slept late, was somewhat paranoid, a heavy sleeper who went to bed every night with a handgun. Although the likelihood of getting shot wasn’t great, Ned didn’t like the idea of waking up his boss.
But he had to. That’s why he had a key to his house. André’s habit of sleeping in had made Ned and other employees late for deliveries before. To prevent this from happening again, André gave Ned a key. He gave it to Ned, he said, because he was the only one he didn’t expect would rob him blind while his back was turned.
So when Jackson—one of the underage delivery boys—couldn’t get André to answer, he called Ned. Jackson told him that he had to hit the downtown bars before they opened. Ned knew that the key to Jackson’s continued success was stealth—he ran under the cops’ radar—so he quickly agreed to come and open the door and wake André up.
Getting in was easy; waking André up and staying unharmed was another. As a heavy drug user, he tended to go into very deep sleeps at any time of the night or day and could often be angry, paranoid, and even violent when he was awakened. And, as a successful drug dealer, he tended to be heavily armed and desperate to protect his stashes of both product a
nd cash.
When he got there, Jackson was sitting on the front step playing with a Nintendo DS. He complained about both André’s sleeping and how long it took Ned to get there. But Ned didn’t pay him any attention. Jackson was just a little punk kid, maybe even a fag. And he was much farther down the org chart, so Ned didn’t have to listen to him and they both knew it. Ned made fun of Jackson’s emo haircut—a long sweep of poorly-dyed black hair that covered his right eye, curving to a point near his jawline—and his “girl’s pants.” Then he pretended he had forgotten the key. When Jackson started freaking out and began throwing a tantrum, he quickly found it and slowly, methodically, unlocked the door. He pushed it in hard so it would bang against the wall. Then he stomped in the hall as hard as he could, shouting “Dré! Dré! It’s us—Ned and Jackson!”
There was no answer and the pair looked at each other. “No, no, no, I’m not going up,” protested Jackson. “I heard Dré once accidentally shot a guy right through his eyeball.”
“Okay, okay, ya little puss, I’ll do it.”
As Ned approached the closed bedroom door, he could see light coming out from underneath. Clearly, Dré had fallen asleep with the lights on again. And as he inched even closer, Ned could hear what he identified as classical music coming softly from inside the room.
“Dré! Dré! It’s Ned! I’m coming in!” He knocked loudly on the door.
Fed up with his own cowardice, Ned barged into André’s bedroom, prepared for the worst.
What he saw knocked him to the floor.
André was still in bed, but the once pristine white sheets were drenched in thick, already browning blood. The back of his head was mostly obliterated. What remained was a mass of matted hair, sticky blood, and what Ned correctly took to be brain tissue.
Stunned, Ned stepped backwards until his back hit a wall, and he sank until he was sitting. He brought his hands up to his face, then dropped them to the ground. He looked at André again and threw up.
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