by Lynda Bailey
Wyatt’s voice skipped her heart, but she managed not to yelp. “Yes?”
“Can I stay up a little later tonight—please?”
Her planned veto dashed from her brain. If the boys were occupied, she could discover why Hez lurked about. “All right. But just thirty minutes. Deal?”
Wyatt hopped off of Graham’s lap. “Deal! Thanks Mom.”
As Graham paid the driver, Shasta headed for the kitchen door. After making quick work of unpacking Graham’s suitcase, then making certain he and Wyatt were entrenched in model-train-land, she hurried outside. She rounded the garage to find Hez, his back to her and his shoulder shoved against the weathered siding.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed. “Are you crazy?”
Hez unbent his posture and turned. A small gasp escaped her mouth. The diminishing daylight couldn’t hide his bruised, battered face. One eye was almost swollen shut with nasty contusions coloring both cheeks. And his lips looked three times their normal side. “What happened?”
He opened his mouth then grimaced when his lip started to bleed. He gingerly swiped it with his finger. “Ran into a couple of fists.”
She stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “Do these fists have an owner?”
He dodged her touch. “Yeah…Lynch.”
Her insides went cold and her world tilted. She pulled in a lungful of lilac-scented air and held it, feeling her heart pound against her ribcage. “Lynch?”
Hez nodded, staring at the ground. “He showed up at the trailer before I could get your stuff.” Slowly he met her gaze. “Sorry, beautiful.”
“You said he’s staying with Edie.”
“He is.” Hez rolled his shoulder. “But he wanted to check out his place. Didn’t take him long to figure out you’d been spending time there. ‘Specially once he found this.” He held up her silver necklace then dropped it into her palm.
The treasured piece of jewelry felt cool against her skin. “And Lynch did…” She gestured to Hez’s face. “…that?”
“Yeah.” Hez fingered his black eye. “He was pretty pissed.”
“Didn’t you explain things?”
“He wasn’t all that interested in listening. Just punching.”
Tears filled her eyes. It was her fault Lynch beat the daylights out of his best friend. Just like so much else was her fault. “God…I’m so sorry, Hez.”
He shrugged again. “You’re not to blame, beautiful.”
“Yes I am.”
He shook his head, caressing his thumb down her cheek. “Nah…you’re not.” He dropped his hand, picked up a small box at his feet and handed it to her. “Here’s your stuff.”
“Thanks.” She shifted, not sure what to say. “Where’s your bike?”
“I parked a couple of streets over and cut through the yards.”
“Smart.”
“Yeah. I gotta go.”
He turned and made his way through the trees. She watched him until the twilight closed in around him then trudged back to the house, her heart heavy in her chest.
*
Just before eleven Wednesday morning, Lynch rolled his bike into the weathered and cracked asphalt parking lot of the Stardust Bowling Alley—the front for the 5th Streeters clubhouse.
With all the crap of the past few days—first getting hauled into jail and then the shit with Hez—he hadn’t had the chance to stop by until now. Since Rolo should’ve returned yesterday, Lynch figured he needed to find out just what the fuck his crew had been up to.
He climbed off his ride, pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head then strode to the double glass doors. Inside, he blinked against the sudden dimness. The steady sound of bowling balls crashing onto synthetic resin lanes, followed by the rumble as they traveled toward their ten-pin targets, transported Lynch back to the time when his only concern had been trying for the perfect three hundred score.
To his right, the same half dozen slot machines occupied the same shallow, grungy alcove. Several geriatric ladies played video poker while being watched over by a circling, hazy cloud of cigarette smoke and a bored change person. Lynch walked past the restrooms until the narrow corridor widened into the concourse and the eighteen lanes, all of which were in use. A bowling league, obviously.
The equipment counter and snack bar were to the left with people milling about. On the far side sat the lounge bar. Lynch spied a Streeter cut sitting on a stool, engaged in a conversation with the cute blonde bartender and smiled.
Grunge, the middle-aged, pot-bellied club treasurer, hit on anyone with tits, despite the fact his old lady would snatch any other female bald. Lynch edged up behind the older member, his finger to his lips when the girl saw him approach. Without warning, he clapped the treasurer on the shoulder.
Grunge swung around, his harsh expression dissolving when he saw Lynch. “Well, shut the front goddamn door. ’Bout goddamn time you showed up here.” He stood and lugged Lynch into a quick hug then put him at arm’s length. “Heard Albright hauled you in the other day.”
Lynch’s jaw fell. “Shit…news travels fast.”
“Indeed it does, brother, ‘specially in this town. So what the fuck did he want?”
“To rattle my cage I guess.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
Grunge play-slapped the side of Lynch’s head. “Then what the hell took you so long to get here, brother? Forget where this place was?”
Smiling and rubbing his cheek, Lynch slipped onto the neighboring stool. “Jesus, man. I’ve been out for less than a week. Give a guy the chance to get some sleep, will ya?”
Grunge gripped his shoulder with a laugh. “And some pussy, right? I saw those two with you on Friday night. Damn fine snatches. Am I right?”
“You are indeed.” Lynch arched an eyebrow at the bartender whose ample breasts threaten to spill out the top of her scoop-necked t-shirt. She didn’t look old enough to drink let alone tend bar. Probably an off-shift girl from the Comstock. “And what’s your name?”
She wiped the bar with a flirtatious wink. “Josie. What’s yours?”
He allowed a slow grin to spread across his face. “Lynch.”
“What can I get you…Lynch?”
“Coffee, please…Josie.”
Grunge snorted. “Coffee? Fuck no. This calls for tequila.” He slapped the bar. “Set us up with the good stuff, my darlin’ Josie. And don’t bother with the fucking limes or puny shot glasses.”
Josie nodded, placed two tumblers on the bar and grasped a bottle from underneath. Lynch couldn’t believe the label as she expertly poured the generous shots.
Holy mother… Patrón Añejo.
Since when could Rolo afford to serve anything but Jose Cuervo?
Grunge clinked glasses with him. “Welcome home, brother.”
While the treasurer downed a healthy gulp, Lynch took a moment to just breathe in the scent of the alcohol. A woody aroma mixed with vanilla and raisins teased his senses. He took a sip, allowing the smooth, sweet taste to roll around on his tongue before swallowing. The pleasant burn warmed his chest.
Grunge picked up the bottle and his glass then stood. “C’mon. Let’s take this to the back. Don’t need any of these loser bowlers thinking they can have the good stuff.”
Lynch grabbed his tumbler and rose while Grunge moved to the door marked “Private,” the official entrance to the Streeter inner sanctum.
Josie reached across the bar. “Promise you’ll come tell me good-bye when you leave, okay…Lynch.”
He flashed a grin. “It’s a promise…Josie.” Following the treasurer, he crossed the threshold, and his feet stumbled to a halt.
Everything looked so…opulent. Not a word to describe the hard-bitten members of the Streeter MC.
Another bar, this one oak, still dominated the right side of the room. But instead of the wood surface looking dull and lifeless, it gleamed brighter than the gaudy, gold-plated mirror behind the row of liquor bot
tles. The ratty couches and armchairs Lynch remembered had been swapped out for what looked like a floor exhibit from an upscale furniture store. And the numerous mismatched, threadbare rugs had been replaced with seamless, wall-to-wall carpet. Even in his heavy boots, he could feel the plushness beneath his feet.
Just where had the club gotten this kind of money? The answer soured the sweet taste of Patrón in his mouth.
But the far more disturbing thing Lynch noticed were the dozen “brothers” populating the expensive furniture and shooting pool at the two tables off to the left—he didn’t recognize a one of them. Yet they all wore Streeter cuts.
Some stared at him. A few others glared. Lynch ignored them all as he trailed Grunge to a couple of vacant easy chairs which flanked a small lacquer table.
Lynch sank—and sank and sank—into the over-stuffed cushions. Fuck. He’d never sat in anything so luxurious. He worried he’d rip the expensive upholstery.
Grunge splashed more tequila into his tumbler then set the bottle of the table. “Hang here a sec. I’ll be right back.” He headed for the meeting room door.
Scanning for a familiar face, Lynch sipped his drink. No Ennis, Tiny or Mick. No Hez either, a good thing. Angry resentment still scorched Lynch’s blood that his supposed best friend had been fucking Shasta. He stretched his neck. It popped loudly in his ear.
But he needed to forget Hez and concentrate on his mission…get the necessary information for Jarvis and find out who killed Flyer.
His gut quivered. Expensive stuff and men he didn’t know from Adam…something wasn’t right. And the sooner he found out what, the better. For him and his club.
Grunge plopped into the adjacent chair and handed him a wad of bills. “Here ya go. This should hold you for a while.”
Lynch took the bundle and did a quick count. Three grand. His gaze rocketed to Grunge’s. “What the hell…I’ve never seen such a payout.”
“That’s cuz we’ve never been involved in such a motherfucking sweet deal before.”
“What kind of deal? Robbing banks?”
“Nothing that complicated—or dangerous, brother.” Grunge poured himself more tequila with a chuckle and smug grin.
Lynch frowned at the man’s silence. “So spill. What the fuck’s been going on since I left? First the Patrón, then the fancy furniture shit. Now this…” He held up the money. “And who are all these guys?”
“Most of ‘em came down from Vancouver with Junkyard. But don’t worry, brother.” The treasurer settled into his chair. “They’re all good. Junkyard vouched for them.”
“And they got patched in? Just like that? On the word of one guy?”
Grunge scowled. “Yeah, just like that. Junkyard’s the one responsible for the cash in your hand. If he says these boys are good, they’re good.”
Lynch tempered his anger. He couldn’t get caught up in his suspicion of the VP. If he did, he’d never find out anything. “So what’s this motherfucking sweet deal?”
Grunge shifted in his chair. “Can’t tell you, bro.”
Lynch’s jaw dropped. “Why the hell not? Don’t you trust me? I thought we were brothers.”
“We are, man. We are. If it were up to me, you’d be read in on the whole operation, but it ain’t up to me. It’s Rolo’s call. Sorry.”
“So you’re saying Rolo has a problem with me?”
“No.” Grunge scrubbed a hand down his face. “Shit…it’s just that since Flyer split, everyone’s been on edge. You can understand that, right?”
“Except I’m not Flyer, am I?” Lynch countered. “I’d never do anything to hurt this club.” And he wouldn’t. His current actions were designed to help his crew…
“I know, brother.” Grunge blew out a sigh. “But if anyone found out I told you—”
“Nobody’s gonna find out shit.”
Grunge pinched his lips together, giving Lynch a gimlet stare. “If this blows back on me…”
“It won’t. You have my word.”
“Fine,” Grunge grunted. He took a swallow of Patrón, glanced around then sat forward. Lynch matched his posture.
“The deal is…pharmaceuticals.”
Lynch arched an eyebrow. “Pharmaceuticals?”
Grunge nodded.
“All this…” Lynch waved his hand. “…is because of some pills?”
“Not just pills. Grade-A pharms, man. Everything from antibiotics to morphine to beta blockers, whatever the hell those are.” Grunge’s eyes gleamed brightly in the muted light. “Junkyard’s got an inside guy at a drug manufacturing plant up in Canada who puts together little…care packages for us. Junkyard and a few of his guys ride up there and bring back a non-descript van. Then a different team of brothers accompany it to Vegas. From there, another crew takes the product south.”
“South? To where? Mexico?”
“Sometimes, but mostly the stuff goes to whoever will pay the most. The black market on this shit is huge, man. Fucking huge.”
“But don’t drug companies have super intense security?”
“Yeah, they do, which is the beauty of this scheme. Because Junkyard’s guy is on the in-inside, he can pull the shit before it gets on a truck. If nothing’s logged, then nothing can go missing.”
“And the Streeters are the distributors?”
Grunge shook his head. “We’re just an escort service. The distribution—and most of the risk—is on others. It’s the perfect system.” He knocked down his tequila then poured another. “Perfect, I tell ya. Just fucking perfect.”
Lynch fingered stack of money, his lips pursed. “So how’d I earn this cash? I’ve been gone for seven years. Won’t Junkyard get pissed I’m mooching off his score?”
“If Junkyard don’t like it, he can take it up with Rolo. He said to cut you in. ’Sides, there’s more than plenty more where that came from.”
That piqued Lynch’s curiosity. “How much more?”
“Average of five grand.” Grunge’s face split into a grin. “Per brother.”
Lynch felt his eyes bulge. “Five Gs…each?”
Grunge settled into his chair. “Did I not say one sweet, motherfucking deal?”
Lifting his tumbler back to his lips, Lynch took a moment to collect his jumbled thoughts.
No way could the black market trade in pharmaceuticals pull in this kind of money. Not even if every country south of the Rio Grande bought the illicit drugs, which most couldn’t even afford. No. The true source of this newfound wealth was from the trafficking of young girls. Just like Jarvis and Newman claimed. Lynch needed no further proof of Streeter involvement. But just how many of his true brothers knew the facts about where all the money came from?
Lynch set his glass down and glanced at Grunge. “Where’s Rolo? I suddenly feel the urge to give him a big hug. Maybe even a kiss. On the lips.”
Grunge threw back his head with a hearty laugh. “I’d pay to see that. Too bad Rolo ain’t back yet.”
“But he said he’d be home on Monday.”
“Business in Henderson is taking longer.” Grunge shrugged. “No big thing.”
Lynch gently swirled his drink, mentally cataloging all this new information for the FBI. If he could find out the schedule for the next run, that’d be even better…
He again took in the surroundings. “All we do is play escort for these pharms? No more protection money or selling weed?”
“Some, but not much.” Grunge stretched in his chair. “Junkyard also has connections in the gun and smack trade, but the Vancouver boys handle most of that. Leaving the pharm angle, which is way safer, easier and cleaner, to us.” He nodded his head to the money on the table. “As you can see, this setup is very profitable.”
Lynch picked up the roll of bills and turned it over in his hand. “So why are Junkyard and his guys the only ones who go to Vancouver?”
“It’s Junkyard’s guy, and he only wants to deal with him.”
“How often do these runs happen?”
“
Depends. Couple times a month.”
“Rolo on a run this past weekend?”
“Nah. Other business.”
“What other business?”
“Dunno. I wasn’t on the need-to-know list.”
Lynch heard the suspicion in Grunge’s voice and sat back, his ankle perched on the opposite knee. “So when’s the next run?” Silence answered his question. He met the other man’s guarded gaze and hitched his shoulder with a self-deprecating grin. “If I make this…” He held up the wad. “…for just breathing, I gotta wonder how much I’ll get for being an active participant.”
Grunge relaxed. “We’re not read into the details until the night before. Rolo and Junkyard keep all that info tight to the vest. And they keep the route under wraps till the last minute, too. Don’t want anyone getting ideas about doin’ something stupid, like trying to rip off the club.”
Lynch nodded sagely. “Smart.” He downed the rest of his tequila. It burned his gullet.
So Rolo knew about the shipments in advance. Did that mean he also knew what the cargo actually contained? God…that thought made him sick. He stood. “Well, I gotta jam, brother. Gotta meet my fucking lawyer.”
Grunge grinned up at him. “That lady lawyer of yours definitely is fuckable, ain’t she?”
With a wink, Lynch offered a tight smile. Oh, brother…if only you knew the truth about my fuckable lady lawyer.
He turned, and came face-to-face with Junkyard and Bowyer.
Junkyard glowered, almost like he didn’t think Lynch had the right to be in the clubhouse. Lynch loosely hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and glared right back.
The VP looked down at Grunge. “What’s going on?”
The treasurer straightened his posture at the terse question. “Nothing. We’re just catchin’ up.”
Junkyard’s gaze slashed back to Lynch. “Catchin’ up with what?” He stepped forward.
Lynch held his ground. “Stuff. Something wrong with that?”
One corner of Junkyard’s eye twitched. “Maybe.”
“Which is…?”
The unfinished question hung in the air like a rattlesnake ready to strike. Everything seemed to stop…
Finally Grunge cleared his throat and clumsily got to his feet to stand between Lynch and Junkyard. “Hey now…let’s remember we’re all brothers.”