Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  Ned separated El Guason from the crowd. “What's going on?” he asked.

  “Nothing, guero,” he answered grinning. “It's a great day for the organization today, really good.” He grabbed one of the younger men and held him firmly in a half-hug. “We have such good men, the best!” he boasted. “You know what? Guero, today is such a good day that you can do the route by yourself.”

  Ned wasn't sure why that announcement constituted a reward. But he knew it would be prudent to let El Guason stay and drink himself silly with the boys, so he agreed with what he hoped looked like enthusiasm. “I'll need a car,” he said.

  “Yeah, we got you one,” El Guason said, and reached in his pocket for some keys, and handed them to Ned.

  They were attached to a keychain with a figurine of a popular Mexican children's TV clown, Poco Loco. “I won't need this,” he said, starting to remove the keychain. All the men within hearing distance laughed.

  “Yes you will,” El Guason told him sharply. “You get stopped by the cops or the army, just show them Poco Loco and tell them that's who you work for.”

  “Seriously?” Ned asked. “Poco Loco? The kiddies' clown?”

  “Yeah, didn't you see mine?” El Guason held up his keys with a similar, but more battered keychain.

  Ned told him that he hadn't, and the others laughed again.

  “Just take the damn thing, and if you get into any trouble, the clown will get you out,” his boss ordered. “The car's outside. It's a Mazda or some other thing I wouldn't be seen in. You can take the bags out of the back of the Mustang. It's unlocked.”

  * * *

  Although she didn't like the Midwest as a rule, Agent O'Malley liked the time away from the office and its boys' club atmosphere. And it was also a chance to advance the case, which had shown little forward movement thus far. A suspicious fire at a warehouse in Hillsboro, Illinois, had attracted the agency's attention. Not only was the formerly sleepy town said to be a major distribution center for drugs, generally handled by bikers, but also the fire had all the hallmarks of an attempt to hide evidence. The crime scene investigators found a number of indications of fire accelerant (probably gasoline) and many items that one would rarely find in an abandoned warehouse. Among the suspicious items was the frame of an American-made motorcycle that was at least fifty years old. Meloni thought it could be the Indian that the FBI could link back to Ned Aiken. Bikes like that are rare. Aiken was originally from the Midwest and the fact that organized crime was probably involved also pointed to him.

  She had privately hoped that all the local cops wouldn't be shaven-headed muscle boys or beer-bellied goofballs, but she was disappointed. The evidence had long been removed from the scene, and she was taken to the Montgomery County sheriff's department to see the frame. She'd been e-mailed some details, but they weren't very specific. The locals had determined it was American made, somewhere between 1946 and 1953. It was probably an Indian, but could have been any of a number of different makes.

  It didn't look like much to O'Malley, just a piece of twisted metal with burn marks and ash stuck to it. The Montgomery cops had brought in a local expert. He was a short man, but not small. Maybe five-foot-three, he must have carried over 300 pounds on him. Despite it being indoors, he wore a broad-brimmed straw hat. Long strands of white hair stuck out from underneath it, in contrast to his much darker beard. He took off his hat to shake the agent's hand, revealing a bald head and a wide, red face with thick-lensed, wire-framed glasses.

  “Ma'am, am I to understand that the motorcycle frame you are seeking is that from a 1948 Indian?” he asked in a condescending tone.

  “Yes,” O'Malley said, looking at her notes. “It's a 1948 . . .”

  “I don't need to know the model, ma'am,” he interrupted her, holding up his hands to shush her. “This is a 1951 or later . . . I can tell because of the welding style. It's not your frame.”

  O'Malley smiled. She was used to such treatment. “Your opinion will be noted in the record,” she said as officiously as she could. “But it is now the property of the FBI. I'll have my people ship it to FBI headquarters Quantico; if it's not the one we want, we will send it back for your local investigation.” She did not wait for any arguments. Instead, she beckoned to the team of agents she'd brought to remove the frame, then turned on her heel and walked out to her rental car.

  * * *

  Ned left the celebration behind and walked out to the barren area where the men parked their cars. Immediately and without question, he could tell which car was his. Nestled in among the brightly colored and gaudily customized pickups and SUVs was one small, plain-looking sedan. It wasn't a Mazda as El Guason had guessed, but rather an ancient and battered Subaru Impreza. The reliability and sensibility of small, Japanese cars had yet to win over any of the Mexican men he knew, most of whom considered a truck of some sort to be absolutely vital to one's masculinity.

  The Subaru was a sand color on the outside, and inside it was decorated with religious symbols and a few photos and stickers of kittens. It smelled vaguely of what Ned guessed was lavender. As he packed the back-seat full of the now familiar paper bags full of weed, Ned sighed behind the wheel and thought about the car's former owner. The way the interior had been treated indicated that it was a young woman. The make, model, and age indicated she was not wealthy, but at least had a steady income. He hoped that the loss of her car hadn't endangered that.

  Ned realized it was pointless to worry about someone else when he considered the position he himself was in and gave a little chuckle as he turned the key. As soon as he passed the two guys at the gate, who waved at him, he realized he could be free. He had a little car, a tank full of gas, about three dozen bags of weed, and a gun (which, he made sure, was full of ammo). He could collect the cash for the weed and make a dash for it. “But where would you go, idiot?” he said to himself. Escaping these guys was still his eventual plan, but it was ridiculous to do anything about it now. These dudes would kill you for a dollar, let alone thousands. Sure he was armed, but what was a mere popgun when they had dozens of AK-47s? Besides, even though he had once accidentally killed a guy, he wasn't exactly the kind of person who'd be able to shoot his way to freedom. He'd need more money, he'd need contacts and, most of all, he'd need a place to go.

  Ned was driving the familiar route into town when he slowed down for the roadblock. He had never seen any of the Federales there before, and noticed that one was pointing an assault rifle at him as he stopped and rolled down the little car's window. Experience had taught him to look at the type of gun any cop in Mexico was carrying as a first step in determining whether he was legitimate or not. This guy had an AR-15, which could go either way. Although the Federales did issue them, they were also very popular with the cartels. At least these guys were clean shaven, although some had conspicuous gold on their persons.

  Another cop came up to the window and asked for Ned's driver's license. He produced the one his old boss, El Orangután, had made for him. When they asked for registration, he made a move for the glove box (even though he had no idea what was inside) when the guy with the assault rifle nervously shouted: “Keep your hands where I can see them! Keep your hands where I can see them!”

  Ned complied and the other cop asked him to step out of the car. “I don't like the look of this at all,” said the cop. He was a very short man, who seemed not to be a very quick thinker as he meticulously pored over the driver's license and into the car. “Mr. Duncan, this picture on your license, it does not look like you.”

  In fact, the picture was of him. It was the only honest part of the whole situation. This was one of those moments that happen frequently in Mexico and other parts of the world, but are still hard for most North Americans to judge. Ned was not sure if the cops were seriously going to investigate him or just wanted a bribe. The little cop with his license refused to look him in the eye, which made Ned think it would be just a matter of a few hundred pesos, but the guy with the AR-15 was defini
tely serious. His nervousness and his finger on the trigger unsettled Ned a great deal. Finally, the little man handed Ned his license back. “We could take care of this downtown, or . . .” He left the sentence hanging.

  Relieved that these guys just wanted a few bucks, Ned nodded, and said, “If I could just pay the fine here . . .” He started to reach into his pocket when he realized he didn't have any money. “Oh, it seems that I have forgotten my money at home,” he said. “Would you mind if I just . . .” Before he could finish, a third cop knocked him to the ground. The barrel of the assault rifle was now pressed against the back of his head.

  “Arrest him,” ordered the little cop angrily. The third cop stood Ned up, frisked him, and put him in cuffs. A fourth went into the car, shouting back that the back seat was full of weed. Then he shut off the idling Subaru and handed his boss the keys.

  “Holy shit!” the little man said with a mixture of surprise and terror. “How did you get this?” He ran up to Ned with the keychain. “Tell me why you have this?”

  Ned remembered that El Guason had told him to show the little clown to anyone who bothered or threatened him. “My boss gave that to me, told me to carry it wherever I go.”

  “Who's your boss?” asked the third cop.

  “Shut up!” shouted the little cop. “Don't ask him any more questions! Pablo, apologize for hitting Mr. Duncan! Take the cuffs off!”

  Pablo did as he was told. The little cop returned Ned's belongings to him and said, “I'm very sorry for this little inconvenience. Please don't think it will ever happen again.” He sounded absolutely frantic. The guy with the assault rifle started yelling something. “Put the gun down, you idiot!” shouted his boss. “Can't you see our new friend here is a very important man?”

  Ned, suddenly aware that these men were very afraid of him and pissed off that they had treated him so very roughly, decided to press his luck. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “As you recall, I mentioned that I left my cash at home. Could I trouble you to loan me a few pesos until Friday?”

  A look of shock and terror came over the three men. After a quick whip-round, they produced just over 300 pesos and the little one, the one in charge, handed it over to Ned.

  He climbed back into the Subaru and waved good-bye.

  * * *

  There was a knock on Agent Meloni's door. It was Dudley Weise, the intern. Weise was a big man, who had tried out for a couple of NFL teams before accepting an internship from the agency. He'd graduated magna cum laude in criminology from a small school in Mississippi, and he was constantly correcting people's pronunciation of his last name, which was “Wise,” not “Weeze.” Tovar liked him, Meloni knew. Unlike the more jaded agents he worked with, Weise often provided a different perspective, a fresh way of looking at things. He had a knack for finding details other officers would not see because they were looking for more specific clues.

  “I have something here,” he said. “Something on this Ned Aiken guy.”

  “Really?” Meloni was intrigued. So little of consequence had happened on that front, he was grateful for any news.

  “Yeah, remember the girl said they stopped to buy some helmets?” he said. “I think I found out where.”

  “I thought we checked all the biker places.”

  “We did, but from the girl's description of the dealership and of the helmets, it made me think it wasn't a Harley shop.” Weise said. “Then I remembered this guy is a former biker on the run. The last people he wants to see—besides us, that is—would be more bikers. So I looked at all the places where you can buy helmets and that are not associated with bikers on what I have figured to be their route.”

  “Interesting theory.”

  “It gets better,” Weise paused for effect. “I've found a Suzuki dealer in Edgemoor, who said he sold two helmets to a man off the street who just happened to have a young girl with him, a young girl who seemed not to speak any English—and the date, time, and descriptions all match.” Weise was grinning perhaps too proudly for Meloni's liking, but he was impressed at the kid's ability to see beyond the obvious line of inquiry.

  “Good work,” he told him. “I'm sending Tovar. I don't often send interns with them, but this was your thing, so why don't you tag along?”

  * * *

  Nobody talked. When Ned made his rounds that day, he was surprised by the fact that the people who were his contacts, the people he dropped the bags to and who paid him, wanted nothing to do with him. They wouldn't say “hello” or “good-bye” and really tried not to look at him. In the factory, he found Mexicans—the men at least—to be friendly and outgoing, though perhaps a little bit cagey. But these people treated him like he was a ghost. They were polite, even respectful, to be sure, but offered as little of themselves—even eye contact—as was possible.

  That changed about two-thirds of the way through his route. At another Pemex station, the connection was a fat man with an elaborate cowboy hat. Although he didn't look directly at Ned, he did tell him to meet him back at the station after he was finished his run. Figuring it was another test, Ned agreed.

  The rest of his route went easily, as he was now familiar with all the stops and somewhat less unnerved by the cold shoulder the connections were giving him. His run-in with the cops made him understand that the Jalisco Cartel was a group much respected, or at least feared, and as their representative, he too was to be feared. That also led him to understand that all he had to do was walk into a bar with a bag of weed and get paid in full without any argument. It was never that way north of the border where retailers were always crying poor, shorting their stacks, or trying one way or another to get out of paying. He actually kind of liked the idea of this job. In about ninety minutes, he pulled in enough so that his cut was a couple hundred dollars' worth of cash every day he worked. By Mexican standards, that was pretty good money. He could put away some and . . . and that's where the thought ended. He didn't know where to go in the long term. But right now, he knew, he had to go back to the Pemex station.

  The fat man in the cowboy hat shook his hand and told him his name was Rodrigo. “Your boss, he called me,” he told Ned without looking at him. “I have something for you, to give to you.”

  Ned was surprised. Rodrigo had already paid for his shipment. Perhaps he was behind and had to make up for an old debt, but why couldn't he have taken care of that on Ned's first visit? He certainly looked depressed about this whole business. “What is it?” Ned asked.

  Rodrigo sighed and still refused to look up. “He says I have to show you,” he said. “If you drive me, I will give you directions.”

  A cold shot ran through Ned. He'd seen something similar to this before. The bikers he knew would offer to drive someone somewhere for a surprise—maybe a party, maybe even a patch—and the guy would never get there. Although the men he was working for had no reason to kill him, Rodrigo could be working for anyone. He could be from a rival gang, could just be pissed off, or this could even be a robbery attempt—everyone knew the Subaru was full of cash after a run. And Ned did not think it paranoid that he let his mind wander enough to think this guy could be hired by bikers or even the FBI. The fact that he would not look at him made him a lot less trustworthy. “No thanks,” Ned told him, and began to back out of the store.

  Rodrigo looked stunned. “But you have to . . .” he pleaded, “or my son . . .”

  “What? What about your son?”

  “Nothing, nothing, it's just I have orders I have to follow, just like you,” Rodrigo said beseechingly. “And your boss was very, very clear that you must receive this . . . gift.”

  Ned thought for a moment. He knew El Guason was not his boss, and that he was being tested. This could be a trap, he thought, but he was in danger no matter what he did, so he opted to believe the obviously desperate man. “Do you have a gun?” he asked.

  “Yes, under the counter.”

  “Step away from the counter,” Ned said, and moved behind the counter once Rodrigo
was clear of it. Although the chance of an ambush still existed, at least he wanted Rodrigo unarmed. He saw an old cigar box, opened it, and took out a cheap-looking handgun. He took out the magazine and emptied the chamber. “Got any more weapons?”

  Rodrigo sighed. “A knife in my boot.”

  “What side?”

  “Right.”

  “Your right or my right?”

  “Mine.”

  “Take it out.”

  Even though Ned had not drawn his gun, Rodrigo complied nervously, pulling the knife out of his boot and sliding it across the floor to Ned. A customer walked into the store, sensed the tension, turned around and walked back out.

  “Okay,” Ned said. “You drive. I'll be in the back seat.”

  Rodrigo closed the store and took the keys from Ned. “Poco Loco,” he said as he noticed Ned's key ring. “I used to watch him when I was a kid. Sad what happened though.”

  “What happened?”

  “His daughter, you know?”

  “No I don't know,” Ned said. When Rodrigo opened the front door, Ned remembered the bags of cash in the back seat. “Can you move that stuff to the trunk?”

  Rodrigo agreed and started to collect the money, inserting loose cash into various bags while taking them to the trunk. “I guess you weren't in Mexico then. It was huge news,” he said. “His daughter, Kelli, a really beautiful young girl, became a pop singer.”

  “That sounds like a good thing.”

  “It was, until she sang the wrong song,” he said. “At a concert in Juarez, she sang To All My Enemies, which is the theme song of the Sinaloa Cartel. That really pissed off the Gulf Cartel.”