“What’s up, John?” she asked, suddenly realizing it was the first time she had ever called him anything other than his last name or “sergeant.”
“Sorry, kid,” he said. “Got a lot on my mind . . . with the bikers.”
“What?” she asked, confused. “Bouchard’s in jail. The bikers are over.”
He sighed audibly. “It’s the fact that he’s in jail that makes me think there’s gonna be a rain of shit over there in Martinsville and that Springfield is gonna get caught up in the storm.”
Chapter 11
Bouchard was in a common room watching Cops on TV with some guys he knew. Those seated closest to him were members and prospects of the Sons of Satan and neighboring puppet gangs. The others in the room were hoping they soon would be.
Five heavily armed guards walked in. The oldest one—huge, bristly-haired, with a prominent moustache—barked out, “Bouchard, boss wants to see you.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” snapped Bouchard to general laughter in the room. “I’ll get to him when I can.”
“Uh uh, you have to go now,” insisted the top guard. “In fact, you’ll want to go.”
After being released from jail, the first place Ned went was Steve’s. When he got there, he found that Steve was delighted. But he wasn’t excited about Ned’s liberation—he’d predicted that would happen sooner or later; he really wanted to tell someone about his new house.
Steve lived in a pretty nice place in a quiet residential neighborhood, but he was very excited about moving up and out of it. One of his dealers—a former federal agent who’d changed allegiances to become a big-time importer and distributor—had gone down for twenty years, and his wife was desperate to sell their huge mansion. It was just out of town and it stood on its own grounds surrounded by a stone fence. The original part of the house was over one-hundred-and-fifty years old and made of fieldstone, but it had been added onto so many times that the new, shiny, aluminum-clad part of the house increased the total floor area fourfold. It had six bedrooms, four fireplaces, a horizon pool, and two hot tubs (one indoor and one out). It was, for Steve, a dream come true.
It would be owned not by Steve himself, but by an escort company officially owned by his great-great aunt, who was ninety-four and lived in a nursing home back in New York. She had Alzheimer’s and didn’t speak much English, but Steve had managed to get her to sign a will that left all her possessions to him.
Steve explained all of this to Ned as they sat on the couch in his living room, then checked himself, remembering Ned’s situation.
“Oh hey, man, you just got out, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” he apologized with what Ned took to be sincerity. “Deerhunter, go get Ned a beer—a real beer, none of that cheap shit I let you shitheads drink.”
Ned noticed that Martin “Deerhunter” Krentz hadn’t said a word since he arrived. Ned knew Krentz well because they were both Death Dealers prospects and they had run a few errands together. Nobody ever told him so, but Ned surmised that Krentz earned his nickname because of his slight resemblance to a young Christopher Walken. Ned was surprised that, when Krentz came back, he offered the Stella Artois to him wordlessly, like a prospect must to a full member, and went back to his seat by the window. Ned had always considered Krentz slightly ahead of him in the pecking order, but now, he assumed, things had changed.
After opening his beer and taking a long draw, Steve started enthusing even more about the house. He seemed most excited by one particular plan he had for it.
“I’m gonna make pornos!” he shouted.
Steve sent Krentz out to buy more beer so he could explain his plan to Ned. He told him about Joel Greene, a young man from Martinsville who wanted to be a filmmaker. Joel’s dad paid for him to go to the best film school in the Midwest and bought him a lot of equipment, but refused to pay for his big project. He had planned on financing his son’s film, until he found out what it was. Joel wanted to make a documentary about how big corporations and brand names were responsible for all of society’s ills. Of course, since the old man made his money distributing top-dollar sneakers and sportswear—for a big corporation that depends on the sanctity of brand names—he cut the boy off.
Joel had a dream, training, equipment, and a ton of friends who would work for nothing, or next to it. All he needed was money. The banks wouldn’t talk to him. In fact, nobody with any real money wanted to talk to him. He was about to give up on his plan when he found himself discussing the plan with Rico, the guy who sold him and his friends weed. Rico laughed at him, and told him that only stupid and lazy people couldn’t find money. Joel took that as a job offer and refused, telling him he didn’t want to do anything illegal. Rico laughed again and promised to introduce him to a good friend of his.
Eventually he did. This friend, another drug dealer, passed Joel onto the guy he got his drugs from. This happened a few times, until Joel found explaining his idea to Steve across a table at a medium-priced steak house. Joel, a vegetarian, had a salad, which Steve found hilarious. Steve told him he liked the idea and offered to front him the entire production costs up to $250,000, but would not pay a penny for distribution and marketing. That, he said, was Joel’s job. And, in the unlikely event that the production didn’t make Steve his money back (along with a reasonable-sounding ten percent after one year), they would work something out later. “Nothing illegal, of course,” Steve told him. Joel readily agreed, and left the meeting thinking of clever “guerilla marketing” ideas.
Steve was as good as his word. He paid for every part of production quickly and politely. He never complained and even insisted the crew be paid union rates, despite the fact that none of them belonged to any union. He’d sometimes drop by the sets to solve a problem with police or other regulators or to calm down one of Joel’s creditors. And best of all, according to Joel, was the fact that neither Steve nor any of the men he sent down to help out ever gave an opinion as to what should be in the movie. They just let Joel and his friends make whatever they wanted.
After the film—Branded for Life—was done, Joel entered it into a few festivals, but drew few viewers. He rapidly lost money traveling to attend the premieres. After a long and exhausting search, he couldn’t find a single theater within two hour’s drive from Springfield to show his film. He eventually rented an old porn theater in Chinatown with the last of Steve’s money and started showing Branded for Life four times a day until two bikers came to the theater and told him he had to see Steve.
They escorted him into Steve’s office. After a personable exchange, Steve got to the point. “I need you to pay me my $275,000.”
Joel shook his head as though he did not understand. “I don’t have it,” he stuttered. “The movie only grossed about seven thousand.”
“Well, I guess you owe me a lot of money then . . .”
“Are you going to kill me?”
Steve laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous; look, I just want my money back. I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he said.
Joel looked like he was going to drop.
“I know you don’t have it,” Steve eased up. “And we both know there’s no way you can get it.”
Joel didn’t know what to say.
“Maybe we can work something out—something that helps both of us,” Steve said.
Joel managed a weak smile.
“You know why you failed, Joel?” Steve said. “It was your movie. and you were wrong. You think the big corporations are to blame for everything in the world, when it’s actually puffed-up little shits like you who run their mouths off without knowing shit.”
For perhaps the first time in his life, Joel kept his opinion to himself.
“You blame your father for everything wrong in your life when all he did was pay for the right to have his son tell him he’s an asshole,” Steve said. “Just doesn’t seem right to me.”
The other bikers (two more had come into the room since Steve had started) laughed. One playfully punched Joel on the l
eft bicep. Joel put his head in his hands.
“But you’re pretty handy with the camera, you know your way around an editing machine, and you have lots of talented friends,” Steve continued. “I’ll tell you what—you can pay me back by working for me.”
“Working for you?” he said. “What would I do?”
“You’ll be doing what you love,” Steve told him. “You’ll be making movies.”
Steve laughed again as he recounted the story to Ned.
“So now I’ve got the kid living in the guest house,” Steve said, pointing out the window to what looked like a refurbished stable or garage. “We haven’t made any movies yet, but I have a distribution deal in place with this guy in the San Fernando Valley.”
“Wow,” was all Ned could say.
“Yeah, it’s a sweet business, you pay the girls about two thousand a scene—although I have lots of local girls who’ll work for way less than that—and you can sell it for $85,000,” he said enthusiastically. “Plus you can recut for compilations and Internet video and end up making a quick and easy six digits on a ten-thousand-dollar investment—and the best part is that it’s all totally legal and legit.”
“What about all the other costs?”
“There really aren’t any—Joel and his friends will work for free, I already own all the equipment left over from his stupid-ass movie, and we can use this place for the sets,” Steve was beaming. “As for dudes, anyone who can keep it up will want to work for free—I know I’m going to be in as many as I can.”
“Really? Steve Schultz the porn star?”
“Don’t you laugh my friend. I can even pay myself a salary for fuckin’ and there’s nothing the cops or even the taxman can do about it because there is a very well-defined line between paying for sex and paying for sex in front of a camera—it ’s sweet,” He grinned. “But seriously, man, I can always use talent—what say you and I do a spit-roast on Melody? You always liked her.”
Ned coughed, stumbling on his words. “Well, yeah, Melody is kind of good looking, but I don’t think that kind of work is for me.”
“Sometimes I just don’t understand you, Ned,” Steve said, smiling. “But you bring in a lot of money.”
The normally unflappable Bouchard was in a state of shock. He was standing just outside the front door of the jail he’d been in with nothing but a paper bag full of the possessions he had on him when he was arrested. He would have called someone for a ride, but his cellphone was out of juice and he didn’t have any quarters for the payphones.
Just a half-hour earlier, he was in an office with a low-level jail administrator who told him that the district attorney had decided to drop all charges against him due to a lack of evidence. He was free to go. Bouchard asked if he could use his telephone. The administrator told him that he was under strict orders not to allow that.
So Bouchard went through the discharge routine without anyone outside knowing. He correctly assumed that the assistant district attorney had handled it this way to avoid letting the media know he was getting out.
He thought about hailing a cab for home, but instead walked to the clubhouse. He needed a beer.
About halfway there, he was stopped by a woman with two children. “Are you ‘Big Mother’ Bouchard?” she asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“Can I get a picture of you with my kids?”
“Sure,” he said, and knelt down to put his arms around the two kids. He smiled broadly.
Ned arrived home. Kelli was fixing herself a sandwich. She ran out, hugged and kissed him, and told him, how happy she was that he was home. Since it was about 7:30 in the evening, he was surprised to find that she was nude under her robe.
They had just begun to talk about what jail had been like when Mallory came out of the bedroom. Ned was shocked. Kelli laughed. “Don’t think I’ve gone all lesbonic on you, Ned; we were just getting dressed to go out,” she said, then paused. “I just get lonely when you’re not here and having Mal over just calms me down a little.”
Ned said he understood. After Kelli got dressed, the three of them talked about jail and how rough it was. Ned told them about Feeney and how he’d made things easier for him in there. And he told them about Andreas/Vanessa, which made them laugh. They had a few drinks and talked for about forty-five minutes when the conversation dragged to a complete stop. Ned looked at Mallory, then at Kelli. Kelli looked at Ned, then at Mallory. Kelli cleared her throat.
“Oh, look at the time,” Mallory said. “It’s definitely time to go.”
“Yeah,” agreed Ned.
“Yeah, okay then; so Kelli, are you gonna come with me or will I see you later?”
“Uh . . . I think we’re staying at home tonight.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Ned’s back. You two want to be alone.”
Although Rose’s speech had given the Sons of Satan a boost, they were still losing the war. In the two weeks that had passed since he had given the speech, three Sons of Satan-associated dealers had been killed in various nearby towns, a bar belonging to a retired member of the Sons of Satan was razed in a fire, and a bomb exploded on the patio of a Springfield bar known to be a Death Dealer’s hangout. There were no fatalities, but an accountant who worked closely with the gang lost an arm.
In retaliation, two Death Dealers prospects built a bomb they intended to use to destroy a suburban Springfield bar at which the owner was no longer buying from them. As one of the would-be bombers was preparing to connect the blasting cap to the C4, the other knocked over a beer bottle. As they raced to pick up the blasting cap before it got wet, one of them knocked over the table with the C4. Richie “the Little Prince” Trelawney was blown to bits while “Deerhunter” Krentz lost both arms and the use of his right leg.
Mehelnechuk didn’t like this war. He didn’t want to bomb bars at all. Not only was there the chance of innocent people getting hurt, but killing dealers he could potentially lure back into the fold was bad for business.
So he called Bouchard—who had reassumed the role of general once he returned from jail—into his office. “Marv, we gotta do something about these girls,” he said, using the Sons of Satan slang term for enemy or non-associated bikers.
I know, the men are ready, but we can’t tell who they are. Should we shoot every man with a ring? Every bar owner who won’t buy our product?”
“I’ll bet you’d like that, you sick fuck.” Mehelnechuk laughed. “But I have a better plan.”
“I’m ready.”
“Well, a cop friend of mine in Springfield tells me that the Lawbreakers over there aren’t just wearing their colors; they’re wearing High Rollers rings,” he said. “So it’s apparent that the Lawbreakers are either working for the so-called High Rollers or they are part of a larger group along with, I assume, the Italians, some bar owners, some rejects, and some wannabes.”
“The Italians? They sell to us!”
“And they like to keep their options open.”
“So why don’t you get Steve to take care of it over there?” Bouchard asked.
“That bag of shit? All he’s done since I sent him there is get richer and make a spectacle of himself—besides, he’s way outnumbered.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“I want you to assign a few of your men—prospects, friends, cops, anyone—to keep an eye on the few remaining Martinsville Lawbreakers and find out where they are coming from and going to and who they are seeing.”
“And what about Springfield?”
“I’ll send Carter over there; that’ll throw the fear of God into ’em.”
After getting out of bed at one in the afternoon, Ned did nothing for the rest of the day. He knew he had a lot to take care of—Kelli, his business, his obligations to the club—but he didn’t care. It was his first full day out of jail and he was gonna spend it his way.
And he did. Ned watched TV and drank beer until the phone rang at 5:30. It was Steve. He told him it was essential that they meet with the
boys that night. Ned said that was cool.
He shouted out to Kelli. “Hey, babe, I gotta meet Steve tonight.”
“Where you meeting him?”
“His house.”
“Not the Strip?”
“Nope, his place.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, he wants to talk about some calling-card scam.”
After Ned left, Kelli put together her dancing costume, called Mallory for a ride, and did a couple of hits of meth.
Chapter 12
The pain was unbearable. Ever since he killed Tyler, Ned simply couldn’t relax. What sleep he had was fleeting and fear-filled. He couldn’t sit and he couldn’t stop. And his bones ached from all the physical work he had done with Dario. It was like the worst hangover he could imagine. All he wanted to do was lie down.
But Ned had a lot to think about. Kelli appeared to be gone for good this time, but—in retrospect—he realized he should have seen it coming.
Ned also realized that he was a criminal. He was a real, full-time drug dealer. He’d been to jail and now, at least technically, he was a murderer. Ned was surprised how little guilt he felt about the death of that loudmouth at the Strip. He hadn’t intended to kill the guy, just beat him up. It was a freak accident.
On the plus side, he’d gotten away with it. After seeing how easily, confidently, almost professionally Steve and his boys handled the body, the witnesses, and the scene, his fear of getting caught dissipated very quickly. He was more embarrassed than afraid. And he had earned his patch. Ned hadn’t gone into business with André intending to be a biker, but he had to admit that the Death Dealers had treated him right. He even liked riding the Harley.
Steve had assigned two other prospects to take over his business while he was in jail. They had done so quietly and without incident. Better yet, Steve had forced them to put thirty percent of their gross aside for Ned. So after his release, he found a nice payday waiting for him and two employees who did his job and paid him. It was less money than he was used to—but not by much. His replacements had expanded his distribution territories by a large margin with their home neighborhoods—and he hadn’t done anything to earn it.
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