The violence of his retching drew him out of his stupor. He stood up and ran down the stairs. He grabbed Jackson, who was in a chair, by the shoulders and stood him up. “We gotta get outta here, right now,” he told him. “Dré’s been shot.”
“Then call a fuckin’ ambulance.”
“It’s too late for that.”
After Jackson figured out what that meant, he looked at Ned—wild-eyed, sweating, covered in vomit—and ran.
Ned went after him, locked the door as nonchalantly as possible and hopped into the SSR. He started it normally and drove away observing all speed limits and road signs. He wondered if the police could identify people from the DNA in their puke.
Vince Tate, the editor in chief of the Springfield Silhouette, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. John Delvecchio, his veteran crime reporter, wanted to be reassigned.
The two men had never gotten along. Tate was just thirty-eight and still full of ambition when he came to Springfield. As a deputy editor at the Martinsville Daily News, he had brought sweeping changes into the paper that had garnered it acclaim in the industry and praise from readers and advertisers. His reward was the editor-in-chief job at the Silhouette. The challenge, as he saw it, was to drag the rapidly declining paper into the twenty-first century—kicking and screaming, if necessary.
Delvecchio quickly became one of his primary obstacles. The thin, nervous crime reporter had never been promoted despite having spent more than thirty years in the position. They had never even bothered to create a senior reporter position for him. So, by the time Tate took over, reporters’ meetings at the Silhouette would always feature about a dozen ambitious twenty-somethings and one cynical bald man approaching sixty.
Although they were all officially equals, Delvecchio was paid a lot more than the other reporters. The union saw to that. And it was the Silhouette’s strong union that kept him employed.
A few weeks after he started at the Silhouette, Tate wanted to get rid of Delvecchio. It wasn’t his writing, which seemed acceptable, but his attitude. More than anyone else in what seemed to Tate to be a building full of unimaginative, change-resistant drones, Delvecchio fought Tate’s initiatives. If there was a new technology, Delvecchio refused to learn it. If there was a new protocol, Delvecchio refused to follow it. He continued doing things the way he had for the past sixteen or so years, making life hell for the copy editors and page designers who had to work with him. He openly criticized Tate’s ideas and changes, often calling him a “politically correct fascist.” He frequently told co-workers that “once management woke up and fired Tate, everything would go back to normal.”
As annoying as it all was, Delvecchio’s little protests were too petty for Tate to build an insubordination case against him. In fact, Delvecchio had been there so long and had built up so much union protection, Tate couldn’t even take him off the crime beat. So when Delvecchio volunteered, Tate had to hide his delight. He knew that Delvecchio’s second wife had just left him, but avoided the subject. “Why the sudden change of heart, John?”
Delvecchio fixed Tate with a strange look. “No reason,” he said. “Just looking for a change.”
“That’s cool, John,” Tate said. “But where would I put you; where would you want to go?”
Delvecchio didn’t hesitate for a second. “I understand the religion spot is still open.”
Tate didn’t know the Silhouette even had a religion reporter. In fact, it didn’t. About ten years before Tate was hired, Hugh McAllister, the Silhouette’s religion reporter, retired. He’d never been replaced, so the job was technically open.
Tate thought about it. It seemed like a good deal. Not only did it allow him to sideline Delvecchio, but the whole thing made it look like Tate had done him a favor. He had no idea what had scared Delvecchio off the crime beat, but he didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, either.
Johansson was in the hour of perfect anger, between drunk and hung over, when the phone rang. He was furious, but cautious. “Yeah,” he said.
“Boss wants you at the Springfield airport for six a.m.,” a voice he didn’t recognize said. “Be at the gate for Pearson Air, looking for the flight to New Hamburg—bring a bag of clothes and picture ID.”
“This mandatory?”
“Everything the boss says is mandatory—you need the instructions again?”
“Let me get a pen.”
Johansson was some pissed off. Not only wouldn’t he get any sleep that night, but he would have to pack his shit in record time.
And when he thought about it, he was not impressed by the destination. New Hamburg was about six hundred miles away from Springfield and no bigger or more important than Stormy Bay.
Ned was sitting on the steps of a stranger’s house when his cell phone rang. He answered without looking at the caller ID. “Yeah?” he said.
“You work for me now.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“What the fuck? Do you really think that . . . “
“Meet me at the food court in Westend Mall.”
“Fuck you!”
“I really think that’s the wrong attitude to take.”
Ned was silent.
“Okay, meet me at the food court at Westend Mall—you’ll know who I am.”
Ned said nothing.
“It really is in your best interest.”
Ned still didn’t speak.
“I’ll be here for a half hour. After that, things kinda have to change, and neither of us wants that to happen.”
“I’ll be there.”
When he arrived at the airport, Johansson was delighted to see Mehelnechuk. The boss was sitting there, waiting for the flight to board and reading a book called The Art of War.
“You’re reading?” he asked, chuckling.
“Yeah,” Mehelnechuk replied without looking up. “You should try it some time.” He went back to reading.
“What is it?”
Mehelnechuk sighed and put down his book with an exaggerated motion. “It’d take a long time to explain it to you . . . hmmm . . . let’s call it a how-to guide,” he said. “It’s something I read every once in a while, something that calms me down, makes me happy.”
Johansson was dumbfounded. The very idea of a biker reading books—hard books!—was very foreign to him. A big part of why he’d chosen the life he had was a hatred of things like books. He had a strong desire to make fun of Mehelnechuk, but his instinct for self-preservation quelled it. Instead, he grunted.
Mehelnechuk sighed again and told Johansson that Martin would take care of him and went back to reading.
Martin was a small and eager fellow Johansson hadn’t noticed until Mehelnechuk pointed him out. He had a clipboard in his hands and glasses he kept pushing up his nose. “Mr. . . . Mr. . . . Mr. Johansson,” he stuttered. “You’re, you’re, you’re in the wrong, wrong place.”
“What?”
“Mr. . . . uh, uh, uh . . . Mehelnechuk, he, he, he, always travels business class and . . . uh, uh, uh . . . your tick . . . tick . . . ticket is in . . . uh . . . economy.”
“So we’re not sitting together?”
“No, no, no, that never happens,” Martin said, not looking up from his clipboard. “Mr. Meh . . . Meh . . . Meh . . .”
“Mehelnechuk!”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Mehelnechuk always travels alone. In fact, he often books the seat beside his so he can read on the plane.” Martin paused. “He finds it very relaxing.”
Johansson privately seethed. He had been six-foot-five for many years; he knew what an economy seat would do to his legs.
Against his will, Ned showed up at the Westend food court. It was Springfield’s oldest and smallest shopping mall, and there was rarely anybody there on weekdays aside from the elderly who walked zombie-like around the mall whenever it wasn’t full of teenagers.
It didn’t take long for him to spot his contact. Steve Schultz was a big guy with long hair and a leather ja
cket. He was sitting, talking, and laughing with three other men who were wearing similar clothes. There was another man with them. He was somewhat older—bald with glasses—and he was wearing khakis and a pressed blue shirt. They were the only ones in the food court except for an older lady who kept muttering to herself.
“Ned!” Steve called out, grinning broadly. He stood up and motioned for Ned to come to the table.
Ned was confused. He considered running out of the mall, but realized it wouldn’t do him any good. Instead, he walked over to the table wordlessly trying not to betray any fear on his face.
“Well, sit down, big fella,” Steve said. “We don’t bite.”
Ned hoped they couldn’t see him shaking. Steve introduced Little John, Pete, Dario and the older guy, Bradley, giving no more information than first names. They all greeted Ned like he was a friend.
“Terrible tragedy,” Steve said.
“André?”
“Yeah, awful what happened to him.”
“You didn’t do it?”
“Me? Why would I do something like that to my top earner?”
“Your . . .”
“Yeah, you didn’t know your boss worked for me?”
“Uh . . .”
“Where do you think he got his product from? The tooth fairy?”
The bikers laughed. Bradley looked nervous.
“I never asked him about it,” Ned said. “I figured his business is his business and the less I knew the better.”
“See?” Steve said to Pete, Little John and Dario. “This is why I love this kid—you don’t have to teach him the basics.”
The bikers laughed. Ned grinned.
“Look, I brought you here to make you an offer.”
“Okay.”
“In light of André’s disappearance, it has become necessary for me to find someone to fill his role,” Steve said. “And I think you’re the perfect candidate.” Then he turned to the older guy, and asked: “What do you think, Bradley?”
“I can offer no opinion on your business dealings at this time,” he answered. “I am not even aware of what you do for a living.”
Steve laughed, and faced Ned. “Basically, you’ll take over for André,” he said. “You’ll do everything for me that he did, and you’ll get what he got.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, Little John will take you back to the house—once it’s all cleaned up—to show you how to take over.”
“André’s house?”
“André’s house, he says!” Steve laughed. “Get a load of this kid; that’s not André’s house, it’s my house . . . and my pickup truck, my motorcycles, my TV, my everything.”
“What?”
“André worked for me, so I took care of him,” Steve said. “And I’ll take care of you. You already have keys to the house, the rest of the stuff is there—I’ll get Bradley to take care of insurance, utility bills, and stuff like that.”
“You mean, I’m going to live in André’s house?”
“There he goes again,” Steve laughed. “You can call it your house if you want, but it’s my house.”
“And the truck?”
“Yes, the truck,” Steve said. “One other thing—you know the Harley André used to ride?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re going to ride it now; not all the time, just sometimes, when it’s appropriate . . . it’s kind of a thing we have.”
“Sure, I’ll have to learn how first.”
“Make sure you do. And we have a jacket for you; you don’t have to wear it all the time, just when we need you to.”
The length of the subsequent pause and the look on Steve’s face indicated to Ned that he’d better do what he said.
“So, I think this was a successful little meeting,” Steve said. “Don’t you, Bradley?”
“I really can’t comment on that,” he said.
Steve chuckled. “Fair enough. Little John, you ready to take him over there?”
“What about the bod . . .” Ned stopped mid-word when he saw Steve’s reaction. “I mean, what about André?”
“André has disappeared; I have no idea where he has gone,” Steve said. “I have some friends over at the house cleaning up and collecting his personal effects for safe-keeping—he can get them back when and if he returns.” He paused. “You’ll make sure of that, won’t you, Bradley?”
“I will arrange for Mr. Lachapelle’s personal belongings to be stored securely,” he said. “When he returns to either Mr. Schultz or myself, they will be returned to him. Any cash or negotiables will be held and any interest accrued on them will be awarded to Mr. Lachapelle at that time . . . minus a small handling fee, of course.”
When Johansson arrived from the luggage checkout at the New Hamburg airport, Mehelnechuk was already surrounded by a group of local Sons of Satan. Out of respect for the national president, the local bikers had arranged to bring him a Harley to ride into the clubhouse. Johansson rode in the pickup truck that had brought it.
After a few pleasantries at the clubhouse, Mehelnechuk had a closed-door meeting with the local club’s president and two confidantes. Johansson waited at the clubhouse bar and tossed back a couple of beers with some local prospects. One of them asked him why he and Mehelnechuk were in town.
Johansson told him that he wasn’t exactly clear why they were there.
The New Hamburg prospect was surprised and told him that their small chapter was having a war with a local independent gang—the Devil’s Own—and they had called Mehelnechuk to put a stop to it. So they were surprised he didn’t show up with a little more muscle and firepower.
Johansson was taken aback. He knew that his size and aggressiveness were what Mehelnechuk wanted him for, but he wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. Was he expected to fight an entire gang?
He was pondering that question when Mehelnechuk emerged from his meeting. “We’ve got a few hours before we have to go,” he told Johansson. “So you can amuse yourself with these guys—but don’t be drunk; I’m gonna need you tonight. Can you be back here by nine?”
“Sure,” he said. “What’s going down tonight?”
“A party.”
Little John drove Ned back to the house. It looked pretty much exactly as he remembered it, although a few things were missing. He toured around, eventually stopping at the master bedroom. There was more missing from it than any other room.
“Looks like you’re gonna need a mattress,” said Little John.
“Yeah.”
“Makes you wonder; what kind of guy . . . when he skips town . . . takes his mattress with him.”
Ned looked at Little John’s face to see if he was joking. He saw no sign of it.
“Some people are strange,” Little John finally said. “Anyway, there’s a 1-800 place that’ll deliver today—you need cash?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” he said. “I think we’ve got some work to do.”
Vince Tate had to hire a new crime reporter right away. Silhouette readers liked their crime stories and he didn’t want them on his case.
He called in Frankie Kerr, his managing editor. “I saw John come out of your office looking more relieved than I’ve seen him in years,” he said. “Did you promote him to super reporter or something?”
Tate chuckled. “No, no, no, he kinda demoted himself,” he said. “He volunteered to give up the crime beat.”
“Really? I wonder who got to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“John loved the crime beat, thought it made him something of a celebrity,” Frankie told him. “And in my experience, crime reporters cling to their beats like barnacles, unless there’s pressure from outside.”
“You think John’s being threatened?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me—he’s not the most likeable guy out there, nor is he the most imposing.”
“Nah, you’re just being dramatic. I read John’s stuff; it’s basically pumped-up police reports with some bystander re
action. I don’t think he’s in any danger.”
“So, who’s taking over?”
“I was thinking about Lara Quinn.”
“Miss Thing? You realize she’s about fifteen years old?”
“Look, she’s aggressive. She’s the type.”
“Yes, and she’s also really, really pretty.”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“No, no, I’m not accusing you of anything . . . but she is plenty good looking. Don’t you think that’s inappropriate for the crime beat. Don’t you think she’ll kind of stand out amongst Springfield’s undesirables?”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“She looks like she just fell off a fuckin’ wedding cake; you don’t think she might be a bit obvious in . . . oh, let’s say a strip joint or a leather bar?”
“Like John didn’t? He looks like a frickin’ zombie.”
“Nobody notices a zombie; everyone will notice Lara.”
“Yes, yes, yes, I know what you’re talking about . . . but I really think her looks will be more disarming than they are a problem.”
Frankie gave Tate his most concerned look. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess you’re right.”
But he didn’t believe it.
It didn’t take long for Ned to get comfortable in what he had known as André’s house. He sat in the big leather couch in front of the big TV and flicked through the channels. Bored, he decided to call Leo.
“How’s it goin’?”
“Where you been, man?”
“I got a new place.”
“Wait, you got a new place? But I live with you, man; I’m in our place.”
“That’s not our place anymore; why don’t you get over here?”
“Where’s here?”
Ned sighed. “André’s.”
“What?”
“I’m the new André.”
“Really, what’s André think about that?”
“Look, you asshole, I got the house, the truck, the Harley, the TV . . . everything.”
“You got the drugs?”
Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle Page 9