Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  But in recent years, starting at about the time Mehelnechuk had taken over and instituted his new rules, DeVolo had been growing increasingly prone to complaints. He didn’t like the stranglehold the Sons had on what appeared to be every market. He didn’t like how much they charged when he compared it to what they paid. And he definitely didn’t like their willingness to go elsewhere for drugs if the price was right.

  Bouchard agreed with Mehelnechuk’s suspicion that DeVolo was at the head of—or at least involved with—these High Rollers, and that they were made up of Lawbreakers, non-affiliated bikers, and rejects like Spangler—basically every criminal in Martinsville who wasn’t wearing Sons of Satan colors.

  “Where did they go?”

  “I lost them, they were on Harleys and I was in my pickup. They went through an alley. I couldn’t keep up.”

  “Too bad, you could have made another $500,” Bouchard laughed. “But good job anyway. Why don’t you go out front and tell the ladies to show you a good time. Toots, take him outside.”

  Parisi grinned as Vandersloot escorted him out. Bouchard called Mehelnechuk on a cellphone he’d bought that day (he’d discard it in a couple of weeks to avoid having his calls intercepted by the cops—a trick the bikers had learned from Al-Qaeda).

  “Well, I know who the problem is,” he reported. “It’s DeVolo and all the girls in town, probably some from out of town as well.”

  “Makes sense,” Mehelnechuk concurred. “Our garlic-eating friend probably wants to have an alternative market for his products so that he can play us off one another, allowing him to dictate the rules—I’m surprised it took him this long to put a team together.”

  “We can’t take him out at the Wentworth or at home, but he’s pretty vulnerable when he goes to his horse farm.”

  “We’re not taking him out at all; we’re not fighting the Italians.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’d lose.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, you want some crazy-ass godfathers and Guidos coming from New York and New Jersey? I’ve seen what they’re capable of—and they are everywhere—they would all kill a hundred of ours to avenge the death of just one of their own. Besides, he’s our top supplier. Where do you think we’d get product?”

  “Scott Kreig?”

  Mehelnechuk laughed. “Scott’s a good guy and everything, but he can’t get us a tenth of what the Italians can.”

  “So what do we do, just let him get away with killing our guys?”

  “No, we kill his guys,” Mehelnechuk said. “We make it so difficult, so costly for him to do business with anyone other than us, that he’ll give up—but you leave him, his family, and his own men alone. Spread the word: anyone so much as looks like a High Roller or whatever they call themselves is a dead man. Any dealer who refuses to do business with us is dead.”

  “You’re not against me bringing in some reinforcements, are you?”

  “Not as such, what did you have in mind?”

  “Just gonna grab some of the more psychotic elements from some chapters and puppets.”

  “Fine, just leave Carter in Springfield; he’s got a job to do there.”

  Chapter 13

  Ned really wanted Carter out of his house. Not only was he filthy, but he stayed up all night trying to talk. And when Ned didn’t want to talk, Carter would wander around and talk with himself. It disturbed Ned to have a self-proclaimed serial killer walking around his house at night, even if they were officially on the same side. So he was relieved to hear that Steve had called both of them in for a meeting at the Strip.

  Ned was surprised to see two other guys in Steve’s office. One was Sean Feeney, who had helped Ned out in jail. The other was Mike “Bandit” Sharpe, who Ned knew from around the clubhouse. He was a big guy, not as stupid as most, but with something of a mean streak. He was prospecting for Steve, and Ned knew he’d been in a few scrapes and come out on the better side.

  After some hellos and introductions, Ned and Carter sat down. Steve spoke to Carter first. “You’re all set up, man,” he said, and handed him a knapsack. “Take this, it has some clothes, some cash, and some tools; go see Daria—the one with glasses—outside. She’ll take you to your new apartment.”

  “Thanks, Steve.”

  “Good luck.”

  “I don’t need luck,” Carter said, and left.

  Steve then turned his attention to Ned. “I know I said I’d set you up on that website, but so much has come up, I’ve had to delay,” he said. “But I have another job for you.

  You know Buster’s Tavern out in Hamner?”

  Ned said he’d heard of it. That he knew it was a strip joint that did pretty good business.

  “Glad to hear it,” Steve said. “It’s one of mine. But things have changed a little with the unpleasantness up in Martinsville. The head office needs some manpower from us, and I had to send some of our best men up there.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Carter?”

  Steve laughed. “Kind of . . . think of it as an exchange program.”

  “And how do I fit in?”

  “How would you like to make lots of money?”

  “What would I be doing?”

  “Taking care of my investment,” Steve said. “Buster’s is one of my favorite places. Not only do I have a great distribution center there, but it makes a shitload of money from the cover charge and beer sales.You would manage the place. Oversee the daily operations both of the bar and the distribution center, make sure nobody’s stealing from me, make sure the girls are fresh and giving plenty of mileage. Of course, you’ll still be earning from your existing businesses as well.”

  “Sounds easy, when would I start?”

  “Well, you’ll need an assistant, so he’s going with you,” Steve said, pointing to Sharpe. “Go to Buster’s tomorrow and talk to the head bartender—some Russian chick, I forget her name—and tell her who you are, and she’ll set everything up.”

  “Sounds pretty fuckin’ sweet,” said Sharpe.

  “Oh, and by the way, Ned, keep an eye on this motherfucker,” Steve gestured at Sharpe. “He’ll take everything he can get his fuckin’ hands on. Don’t look at me like that,” he said to Ned’s prospective assistant, “you know you do—and make sure you get the lakefront house on Water Street, and he gets the apartment above the laundromat on Main.”

  “Will do,” Ned replied. He looked over at Sharpe, who was hanging his head. At first he thought Sharpe was ashamed, but then he heard him laughing.

  “Seriously, keep an eye on him, or he’ll rob you blind.”

  After Ned left with Sharpe, Steve and Feeney started to talk about the dating website Joel’s friend had hooked up for him.

  What surprised Ned was all the women hanging out and the scores of children running around. Some of them belonged to the members and the prospects of the Death Dealers who were headed out to Burgessville, but most were just from the neighborhood. He had heard that some kids idolized bikers, but he didn’t believe it until he saw it. Parents were getting pictures of their sons on Harleys and with their daughters hugging bikers. Some were even getting the bikers to sign red and black bandannas and T-shirts that supported the Sons of Satan, but which did not actually reproduce their name or logo. The gang was careful with its corporate ID, and these weren’t family—they were fans.

  The Death Dealers looked pretty impressive. They all had black leather jackets with the top-hatted skull logo on them. The full members (like Ned himself) had two rockers—one on top that said “Death Dealers” and one on the bottom that said “Springfield.” The prospects looked pretty much the same, but didn’t have the bottom rocker. The other riders—the hangarounds, the friends, and some other business associates—tried to blend in as best as possible. They all wore patchless black leather jackets and tried to look tough. All of them had Harley-Davidsons with varying degrees of customization. Mixed among them were the women, friends, and associates who didn’t ri
de. They dressed as closely as they could to the biker style, and milled around in the parking lot, occasionally bringing food and drinks to the bikers.

  Steve—whose jacket was adorned not just with the patches on the back, but dozens more on the front and all down the sleeves like military decorations—was surrounded by a crowd, mostly women.

  They took off towards Burgessville with Steve in the front. Ned noticed that the prospects worked very hard not to pass him, no matter how fast or slow he went. Order, he thought to himself, meant everything to bikers. When they arrived in the great muddy field at Burgessville, many hundreds of bikers were already there. Ned saw dozens of different patches, but all of them were getting along like old friends. Here and there, he saw bikers drinking, smoking, eating, wrestling, and just having a good time. There were lots of locals mixed in among them.

  Ned saw Bouchard, who he knew from the news, talking to crowds, while serious-looking bikers waited in line to go into a tent behind him. Ned didn’t know it, but Mehelnechuk was inside, interviewing the presidents and important members of other clubs who were vying to become Sons of Satan chapters or puppets.

  Ned decided to take the weekend off. He decided not to worry. So he started drinking and smoking with the guys as soon as he got there. By the time Steve came to get him for that night’s show, Ned was too drunk to be much good to anyone. He attended the festivities, but didn’t really remember anything that happened.

  As Bouchard had ordered, the Martinsville Sons of Satan began to fire back at a largely unidentifiable enemy. One of the first targets was Moe Gannon. He was in prison for most of the Sons of Satan’s earlier war against the Lawbreakers, so he had remained unscathed. But when he came out, he was disheartened by what he came back to. The Martinsville Lawbreakers had been reduced to six full members afraid to wear their colors in public, three prospects of varying abilities, no associates of note, two semi-independent prostitutes, and a few dealers the Sons found too small-time or too crazy to do business with. He did his best to keep them together and encouraged them to get back in the game. And it was he who approached DeVolo with the idea that later became the High Rollers.

  Bouchard knew he was out and figured that he was probably involved with the Rollers, so he sent two guys, Harry “Hardcore” Rollins and Karl “Pop” Warner, to take care of him. When they got to the address they’d been given, they saw a black BMW 750iL in the driveway out front. Protected by a hedge on the driver’s side and concealed by almost total darkness, the two men planted an explosive device that would be triggered by the car’s ignition.

  It worked. The following morning, the car’s owner was obliterated in a storm of molten metal, plastic, and leather. But the problem was that Gannon had sold the house almost immediately after getting out of prison and had moved into a downtown condo. The Sons had instead killed real estate investor and financial advisor Khaled Raja. The newspapers speculated that elements back in Raja’s native country of Pakistan wanted him dead for reasons they did not disclose.

  The Sons of Satan’s aim was true on their next target. Warner, hoping to make amends for the botched assassination attempt on Gannon, tracked down Fred Longo—a failed Sons of Satan prospect whom he heard was fencing. Warner saw him walk into a bar they both used to frequent, and followed him in. There was nobody else in the bar but the bartender, who knew them both. Longo turned around to see his old friend, smiled, and started to say hello, but froze when he saw Warner’s gun. Warner stared at Longo’s High Rollers ring.

  “Jesus, Pop, not in here,” whined Al the bartender.

  Longo just stood there, trying to assess the situation when Warner shot him three times in the face. Al shouted his complaints about the mess as Warner dropped the gun and fled.

  While the first blows against the High Rollers in Martinsville were largely insignificant, the same was not true for Springfield. Carter, dressed in old jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, moved silently around the streets of Springfield. On his first day downtown, he spotted a Lawbreaker in full colors. He noticed that the rocker (bottom patch) that normally said “Springfield” had been replaced with one that read “High Rollers.” He was with two other tough-looking guys, and they were on foot.

  So Carter followed them discreetly. When they went into a run-down little diner called the Eggs O’Lent, he stayed outside. As they were being seated, he went into the tiny convenience store next door and bought a pack of cigarets. When he came back out, he went into the diner. He spotted the Lawbreaker, a big fellow, maybe three hundred pounds with a shaved head, red beard, and no mustache. Probably forty. His two younger friends were skinny and both had long hair. One had a scraggly mustache. A fourth man had joined them. Smaller, more nervous, he was dressed in a teal golf shirt and green cargo pants.

  Carter took a seat in the booth opposite them. He ordered a coffee and a ham-and-cheese sandwich. He rummaged around in his knapsack, finally pulling out a newspaper.

  The waitress delivered his coffee and sandwich. He called her back. “Hey, this coffee’s cold. Could you bring me a hot one?”

  She nodded and turned. Then Carter stood up with a .357 Magnum.

  His first shot went into the Lawbreaker’s face. The second missed. The third and fourth went into moustache-man’s chest. The fifth went into the other tough guy’s temple and the sixth into his neck. The nervous man slumped under the table. Carter pulled another, smaller handgun out of his knapsack and shot him four times.

  He then dropped the guns and left. The waitress and the other customers had hit the floor.

  Carter walked about a block and caught a bus back to his apartment.

  Ned didn’t really like Sharpe all that much. On the drive to Hamner, he wouldn’t shut up. Mostly, he aired his opinions on whatever subject he liked, and Ned found it annoying that he’d talk at length about one tiny aspect of a subject without any context. He took about ten minutes to explain how he could never drive a hatchback or SUV for fear that if it was rear-ended, the stuff in his trunk would fly up and hit him in the back of the head. Ned tried to explain that things don’t really work that way, and that cargo covers and headrests wouldn’t really let it happen anyway, but Sharpe answered everything he said with a smug “You’ll see.”

  Once that subject was laid to rest, the twenty-seven-year-old Sharpe launched into a lengthy soliloquy about his fifty-one-year-old wife and their unlikely sex life. Ned couldn’t wait for the drive to end.

  When it did, the two men walked into Buster’s together—Ned annoyed and frustrated, Sharpe jubilant that he had made a new friend. It was an old building, much more tasteful than the slab-sided Strip. The windows of the nineteenth-century building had been blacked out and were covered over with posters of barely dressed women to give passersby an idea of what went on inside. Above the main entrance, there was a sign that read, “Liquor in the front, poker in the rear.” Ned smiled, realizing Steve had hung it there; it was typical of his sense of humor.

  The bar wasn’t open for business yet, so Sharpe banged on the door. A cleaning woman let them in. Inside were two women talking to each other in a foreign language. The older of them was dressed in jeans and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, while the younger one appeared to be wearing a rather stylized form of underwear. As the younger one was chattering away, the older one nodded from time to time, and gave occasional single-syllable responses. Ned could see that she was busy with some paperwork, but couldn’t tell exactly what it was.

  “Hi, I’m Ned Aiken,” Ned addressed the older one. “Steve sent me to run this place.”

  The older one sighed, stood up, and shook his hand. “I am Daniela Eminescu.”

  Ned liked Daniela’s face. He could see her native intelligence. She had high cheekbones, a big nose, and green eyes. Although the light in Buster’s was poor, he could tell she was almost beautiful. She looked kind of like the models in magazines that had pictures of women with their clothes on. “I guess you actually run this place,” he laughed.

  She sm
iled and nodded. “Last managers Steve sends know nothing about business, just want to drink and fight; so I learn how to run the bar,” she said. “And now we are making lots of money.”

  “Looks like the best thing I could do would be to stay out of your way,” he said.

  Sharpe cleared his throat.

  “Oh, yeah,” Ned said. “This is Mike Sharpe; he’s here to help me.”

  “Hello, Mike,” Daniela said as she went back to her work. She motioned at the younger girl. “This, boys, is Liliya.”

  Liliya rose from her chair and greeted Ned. She was strange looking. No more than five feet tall, she was very thin with enormous breasts. She wore a ton of makeup on her long, thin face and had dyed her hair a very pale pink. Ned was wondering if it was a wig when she asked him: “You vant ploe chob?”

  “What?”

  Daniela looked at Ned like he was an idiot, and told him with obvious frustration: “She wants to know if you want a blow job.”

  Ned was flustered. “Uh, uh, no—uh, thank you—not right now.”

  Liliya shrugged and turned to Sharpe, who was grinning. “Don’t mind my friend,” he told her. “He’s just feeling a little queer since he left jail.”

  “I know zis vun vants ploe chob,” Liliya said, as she grabbed Sharpe by the hand and led him into a back room.

  After they left, Ned felt very self-conscious. “Friendly little thing, isn’t she?” he said.

  “It ’s all she knows,” Daniela replied. “I hate to admit it, but I’m actually glad to get a few minutes peace from her constant talk-talk-talk.”

  “Yeah, I could tell. What was that you guys were speaking, anyway, Russian?”