They arrived at an old whitewashed and windblown building that had a sign outside that said “Mickey’s.” There were a couple of customized Harleys out front, a pickup with a Harley-Davidson bumper sticker and a couple of old and beat-up cars. As soon as they got out of Semyon’s car, Ned could hear some activity in the area. When he entered the bar, he was surprised at how dim it was inside and was overwhelmed by the odors of stale beer and old fryer grease. There was a bartender doing a crossword puzzle behind the bar. Unbidden, he told Ned and Semyon, “They’re out back,” and pointed to a door through which Ned could see sunlight pouring in and could hear muffled talking and laughing.
As unwelcoming as the bar itself was, Mickey’s wooden beachside patio was quite nice, and it was being enjoyed by about a half-dozen rough-looking men of various ages and a couple of women, who appeared to be in their forties. Ned recognized them as Lawbreakers right away from their clothes, jewelry and tattoos. One even had a picture of “Oscar,” the gang’s cartoon convict mascot, tattooed on his neck.
The patio fell silent. Ned could hear the wind and waves and the shouts of some far-away children, and began to sweat. After a few agonizing seconds, a big man who was seated in the center of the patio stared at Ned in the eyes. Without averting his glance, he asked, “So, is this him?”
At that, a woman who was sitting on the patio’s handrail put her brightly colored and fruit-festooned drink down and boozily approached Ned. She stopped about six inches away from him and focused on his eyes. Ned could smell her breath. She was in her mid forties, and her eyes came up to his lips despite her high heels. She had a big pile of harshly dyed hair on top of her head and wore a black leather jacket over a pink tank top and jeans. She grinned.
“So, is it him?” the beery fat man barked again.
She grinned again. “I think so,” she answered without taking her eyes off Ned, but not registering much focus.
“Waddaya mean you think so?” shouted the man angrily. “Didn’t you say you fucked the guy?”
She shrugged and let out a bit of a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, but there were lots of guys that night and I was—well—I was really drunk.”
“You’re drunk now, you stupid whore,” said the big man with an exasperated smile. “How can you tell for sure? You want me to take his pants off?”
“No, but if you take his shirt off, I could look at his tats.”
Another man, thin and sinister-looking with a shaved head, got up and approached Ned, who had done nothing but stand and breathe since his arrival. “That’s a pretty fuckin’ good idea,” he said. “That way we can see if he’s traveling light or not.” Ned didn’t know if that meant whether they wanted to know if he was armed or wearing a wire. But he stopped thinking about it when he saw that the thin man had a sawed-off shotgun under his jacket, and it was pointed at Ned’s head.
It was at that point he realized he had not brought a gun with him. He looked around for Semyon, who was sitting in a chair just off from the main group. He was staring at Ned expectantly, and not quite smiling. He was not, as Ned had hoped, coming to his rescue.
“You heard the man,” barked the leader. “Take off your shirt, slim.”
Ned did as he was told. The woman in front of him nodded. “Yep, it’s him,” she said. “He’s got the JHAP tat there on his arm, only one of the Sons in Arizona to get it—punishment for crapping his pants at a warehouse robbery.” She laughed and said to Ned, “How ya been, Tiger?”
Ned couldn’t help sighing with relief, but he still didn’t answer the woman who was now openly flirting with him. The fat man got up and approached him, inspecting his torso. Eventually he smiled. “Nice Sons tat,” he said. “I see your entry date, but no exit date.”
“I’m not officially out yet,” Ned croaked.
The fat man laughed. “From what I heard, I’d say you were,” he said. “You better get something done about that—the Sons find you with a tat like this and they’ll fuck you up pretty bad.”
“I don’t think the tattoo is why they want to fuck me up,” Ned said with the best smile he could muster.
The fat man laughed and offered him a seat. He also told the other man to put the shotgun away. He did, but he appeared reluctant to do so and fixed a hateful glare at Ned. Ned put his shirt back on and sat. The fat man told the drunk woman to get Ned a beer. She went into the bar without a word.
“I’m Pervert, that’s Bear, this is Donnie, that’s Ian the Turtle, that’s Greasy Dan and you’ve already met Otto.” Ned shook hands with Pervert and Bear, who was sitting next to him, and nodded at the others as they were introduced. Otto, the thin man who had the idea to take Ned’s shirt off was the only one who did not nod back or at least smile. “Sorry ’bout the unpleasant greeting, but you can’t be too careful,” he said. “When Simon here asked me if I knew you,” he indicated he was talking about Semyon. “I could only tell him that I knew of you, but when your name came up Proud Mary told me about the party in Flagstaff, so I told him we could find out if you really were who you said you were.”
Ned smiled. “Who else would I be?”
“Well, if you were a cop, you’d be a dead cop by now,” Pervert said with a laugh.
Otto, who wasn’t laughing, added, “Or a dead rat.”
“Aw, shuddup Otto,” Pervert snapped, then turned back to Ned. “He’s our resident conspiracy theorist. He says that the fact you’re still alive shows that you must have been working with the cops.”
“Really?” Ned said and stared at Otto, mustering the toughest look he could. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, but my sister’s ex-husband is with the feds and I checked with him,” Pervert said. “You don’t have any pig friends, the Sons just haven’t caught up to you yet.” He laughed. “Which confirms my own personal theory that the Sons are pretty damn stupid.”
As they were laughing, Proud Mary returned with a Coors Light for Ned and something bright blue and frozen for herself. She put them down on the table in front of Ned and sat in his lap, placed her arms around him and absent-mindedly began nuzzling his neck, cheek and ear.
“Get the fuck outta here, Mary!” shouted Pervert as he cuffed her in the head. “Men are talking.”
With that, Mary slunk away and sat, dejected-looking, in a chair next to Semyon.
“Anyways, now that you’re cool with Simon and his buddies, you’re cool with us . . . and anyone who pisses on the Sons and gets away with it is okay by me,” Pervert smiled. “You can stay the night if you want, we have some cabins on the other side of the road we use sometimes.”
Ned realized he was safe for now, but didn’t want to push it. He looked over at Semyon for support, but he was busy making out with Mary. Ned paused and told Pervert that he normally would, but he wanted to get the package back to Grigori as soon as possible.
“We’ll worry about that later.”
After a few beers, Ned began to feel comfortable and had a good time talking with the guys. They spoke about bikes and the differences between the laws in Arizona and the laws in Maryland. Ned didn’t know much about Arizona, but he didn’t think any of these guys did either, so he was able to bullshit his way through without any opposition.
When Semyon, who had left with Mary, returned, he asked Ned if he was ready to go. “Yeah, I guess, but you gotta drive, I’m getting pretty drunk,” Ned lied.
“Of course I drive, it’s my car,” Semyon snapped back uncharacteristically. “C’mon, let’s go, don’t forget the package.”
Ned looked at Pervert and said; “Oh, yeah, the package. Where is it?”
“It’s in my truck. Let’s go.” Pervert got up and led them all to the parking lot. Ned noticed that all the other guys came with them. Mary was in the dark bar chatting with the bartender. Pervert led them to the pickup in the parking lot and opened the passenger door. He dug around under the seat and pulled out two manila envelopes, one thick and one thin. As he was bent over, Ned could see he had a handgun in his jacket. Pervert ha
nded Ned the two envelopes and said, “The big one’s for Greg and his buddies in Detroit and the little one’s for you and your little friend there.”
Ned thanked him and told him it was a pleasure to do business with him. Pervert smiled and told him that if he was ever in the area, he was always welcome at Mickey’s. Ned shook his hand.
Back in the car, Semyon asked Ned if he was really drunk. “No,” he answered. “I just wanted them to think I’d had a good time.”
Semyon rolled his eyes.
“Looked like you had a good time back there.”
Semyon smiled. “I guess so,” he said, “but I know what’s better. Open our envelope.”
Ned did. Inside was a pile of cash. Ned counted it. “There’s $2,241,” he said. “You can keep the extra dollar.”
“How kind.”
“Anything else?”
“Yep, a dime bag,” Ned showed him.
“Weed?” Semyon sneered. “Fuckin’ cheapskates.” Then he said something angry in what Ned took to be Uzbek because it didn’t sound like any Russian he had heard.
“Oh, come on, it’s a nice gesture.”
“You can have it.”
“I will, thank you.”
“You can enjoy it on the way to Detroit.”
“Detroit? That’s more than a thousand miles from here and it’s already five in the afternoon.”
“So?”
“So I have to be at work Monday morning.”
“Call in sick.”
“I can’t.”
“Fuck your job, you work for Grigori now. He’ll pay you way more, three times as much for half the work.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that I need my job.”
Semyon stopped by the side of the road and looked at Ned angrily. “And exactly why do you need your phony-baloney job so bad?”
Ned thought as quickly as he could. “Health insurance.”
Semyon laughed. “Don’t worry, man, Grigori will take care of you.”
While that should have been reassuring, Ned could only think about how he was going to explain his unscheduled day off to Dave.
Chapter Five
Ned got comfortable in the passenger seat of Semyon’s Lexus because he knew he’d be sitting in it for quite a while. As they merged onto Interstate 50, he told Semyon that if they shared the driving, they could save a lot of time. Semyon was reluctant at first, but finally gave in, suggesting they change after a dinner break. Ned smiled and agreed, reclined in the passenger seat and closed his eyes. Although he expected Semyon to understand that he intended to get some sleep, he didn’t. Instead, he just kept talking.
“So the Lawbreakers really like you, eh?”
Ned tried at first to show a little aggravation in an attempt to convey a hint to Semyon, but gave up after realizing it would never work. “I guess so. They seem very open to the idea of doing business with me . . . I mean, with us.”
“Oh, they love to do business with us. We always deliver, have fair prices,” Semyon said, then paused. “And we are white, which seems to be very important to Lawbreakers—they really don’t like black people or Mexicans.”
“Yeah, that’s the way it is with lots of bikers,” Ned replied. The look on Semyon’s face indicated he wanted a little more explanation. “They’ll work with blacks and Mexicans when they absolutely have to, but they never trust them.”
“But white people all treated the same—Polish, Swedish, Italian?”
Ned had never thought about it before. “I guess so. I mean, it’s different if someone is an immigrant, like you guys—no offense—because he’s not an American, but generally, yeah, I mean, you might call an Italian guy a ‘wop’ or make a Polish joke, but that stuff’s kind of died out over the years.”
Semyon looked pensive.
“Is that not how it is with you guys?”
Semyon laughed. “No. Stupid Americans.”
Ned didn’t want to pursue it any further, but he knew Semyon would tell him anyway. “What do you mean ‘stupid’?”
“Well, I say stupid because you Americans think the rest of the world works the same way you do—the famous ‘American way’—or the rest of the world can just piss off.”
“Honestly, we generally don’t care how the rest of the world works.”
“That’s not just stupid, it’s criminal.”
Ned sighed, and said, “Okay, smart guy, name some of the important streets in New York City.”
“Broadway, 42nd Street, Fifth Avenue . . .”
“Okay, now name some of the important streets in Tulsa, Oklahoma.”
“How the hell would I know the streets in Tulsa? I don’t even know where Tulsa is.”
“Well, that’s how Americans see the world. If it’s important enough, we already know about it and if it isn’t, it isn’t.”
Semyon laughed despite himself. “Very good, we say the same thing of Russians,” he said. “They don’t care about other countries until they start shooting the Russians.”
“But you’re Russian,” Ned said. “You were born and raised in Russia, so was your dad. That makes you Russian.”
“Nope, I am Uzbek,” Semyon said solemnly. “Does a black man suddenly turn white if he lives in America for three generations?”
“No, but he is still an American.”
“This is not what your friends in the Lawbreakers would say.”
Ned couldn’t help but laugh and admit that Semyon had a point.
When Semyon got tired of driving, they stopped for dinner at a roadside diner in Frederick, Maryland. They spoke over dinner. Ned found that he was beginning to like talking to Semyon, except for the giggle, which he still found annoying.
Over steaks, french fries and beer, the two talked about how they got to where they are now. Ned recounted the basics of his own story, but set it in Arizona instead of Springfield. He spoke about how he was doing poorly in school and how his aunt’s ex-boyfriend got him started selling drugs. Then he told him about how everything just kind of happened around him until he found himself a full-patch member of the Sons of Satan.
Semyon nodded and, between bites, said he understood. But Ned could tell he was just biding his time until he could tell his own story. When Ned was done, Semyon pushed his plate away and leaned both elbows onto the table. Then he took a deep breath and said, “I will tell you how entire region of Eastern Europe and Central Asia has become all organized crime.”
Ned settled in. He knew Semyon was going to tell him whether he liked it or not. But he was kind of interested in the subject, so he didn’t mind at all.
“You are too young to remember the Cold War, right?”
Ned said he was, but that he kind of understood the basic story.
Semyon shrugged and continued. “Okay, west of line is Capitalist, east of line is Communist, right?” He explained using the forks and knives on the table to make a line separating his plate and his beer glass. “Nothing passes over line, or at least very little.”
Ned agreed. “Because of this, we on east side have very little crime; without anything worth stealing, there is nothing to steal,” Semyon continued, trying to sound philosophical. “Besides, there is no way to get away with it. Party is people and people is Party—someone sees you have more than them, they tell on you. It’s like you stole from them, even if you didn’t.”
“But that all changed when we were kids, right?”
“Yes. In 1989, 1990, some republics in and around Soviet Union decided they no longer want to be dominated by Soviets, they open up their borders to the West and Western products.”
“But that’s good, right?” Ned asked. “I mean, you want to trade for Western products, don’t you?”
Semyon rolled his eyes. “This is why we think you are stupid. You see everything as simple, good or bad, but everything is good and bad,” he said with a snort. “Of course we want Western products, but we can’t pay for them.”
“Why not?” Ned asked. “I thought th
e whole point of Communism was that you all had jobs.”
“Look at it this way—when border is closed, Bulgarians buy Bulgarian shoes because that’s all they can get, then border opens, one man buys Nikes and suddenly every woman in town wants to sleep with him. You can’t fight that kind of thing. Then everyone in town sells everything they can to get a pair of Nikes.”
“So then you have an entire Bulgarian town of poor people with nice shoes?”
“Yes, and since nobody wants Bulgarian shoes anymore, factory closes, and everyone in town is out of work,” Semyon said. “Now they have nice shoes and nothing to eat.”
“Really? Nobody saw it coming?”
“Nope, the wanting of shoes is too great—and it’s not just Bulgaria, it is every country between Germany and China.”
“So then what happened?”
“Well, Westerners came in selling their shoes, and we sold what we had.”
“Which was?”
“Women.”
“What?”
“Women,” Semyon said, as though he was speaking of any other commodity. “At first, they would do it themselves, offer sex to Western businessmen by the side of the road for next to nothing—they had no idea of what it was worth—and many get beaten up or even killed.”
“Really?”
“Yes, so they seek the protection of strong men,” Semyon continued. “What you call a pimp. Some countries, the biggest part of their economy is based on women and girls selling sex to foreigners.”
“Like Moldova?”
“Yes,” Semyon looked surprised. “For years, nothing but women and pornos came out of Moldova. How do you know about a sleazy little hole like Moldova and not know about the glorious nation of Uzbekistan?”
“I used to run a strip bar,” Ned replied nonchalantly. “If the dancers weren’t from Quebec, they were from Moldova.”
Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle Page 28