***
“I think it is a good solution,” Gasman responded to Slate’s offer of creating a neutral zone in Fort Wayne. Bingo and Hoss flanked Slate at the table, and Gasman had brought his VP, so the table was fairly well balanced.
“Yeah, it’s worked well in Chicago. It lets members mix without worrying who needs to keep the upper hand, most of the time anyway. Bars work better than other businesses, and we can get some neutral bouncers. That’s how I got started with the Rebels, you know, working without colors at Jackson’s to keep shit settled.” Slate grinned. “First fight I broke up was between high ranking officers in the Dominos and Disciples. I thought I was a dead man for sure.”
Gasman laughed. “I’ve heard the story a couple of times. Mason’s always been right proud of you, man.” There was a short pause, and the waitress came back to see if they wanted another round. Gasman looked shrewdly across the table. “He head back to Chicago already?”
Nodding, Slate returned, “Yeah, we finalized club business last night, and he headed back this morning. I figured with Bingo and Hoss, I could handle pretty much anything needed. If I can’t, then I don’t deserve this patch.” He thumped the President patch sewn to his cut right over his name.
Looking around the bar, Gasman clearly noted the number of Rebel club patches sitting at tables. “I don’t see Rabid or Ramone, brother. You take care of that shit?”
Slate went still on his chair, his green eyes flashing bright. “Club business, man, not something for casual fucking conversation.”
Gasman nodded soberly, holding his hands out with palms down. “Sorry to overstep, but I want to offer any help needed with current situations. The Highwaymen have long held the Rebels as Brothers, and I want to see that continue.”
“I hear ya, man,” Slate said, deliberately not using the more formal title, “and I will reach out if there is need. Thank you.”
Dropping into his bed at the clubhouse that night, Slate was fucking exhausted again. He’d done a balancing act today with Gasman, and gotten everything he wanted. Other than Manzino, all the problems were starting to get sorted. Myron said finances weren’t bad at all; they’d evidently snuffed the skim early in the process.
There were a thousand and one details that needed attention, and another thousand Slate knew he should look at, but since Bingo never got overly involved in the details, he risked stepping on toes if he insisted right now. He’d talked to every member today, and spent twice as much time with the many prospect sponsors.
There were so many fucking prospects, and he needed to get a read on them fast. Right now, nobody seemed to have any ideas about strengths or skillsets. They hadn’t even done basic background checks on everybody. Deke was handling that now, and he’d take over running the prospects for a while. They’d discussed some standard assignments for prospects, and at one point in the conversation Deke had gotten up to speak to a redheaded girl who scurried out of the main room as fast as she could. Slate didn’t ask who it was, but she didn’t seem to be Deke’s property.
Pinto and Pops were two members he’d also spent a long time talking to today. They’d been members of a club in SoCal, but had relocated to Fort Wayne a few years ago, going gypsy with their club’s blessing. When the Rebels decided to lay claim to the town with a chapter and clubhouse, they approached Bingo early on, wanting to know how that would change their position, and opted to patch into the Rebels.
Slate found out they’d had a lot of experience with gangs and the drug cartels out west, and were flush with ideas and information. He needed to talk to Mason, but he wanted to create a new position in the club, one that would focus on the problems that came from the fucking gangs.
He woke up in the dark room, realizing he’d been dozing. Struggling to focus, he heard his phone ringing in his pocket. Digging it out, he glanced at the display and answered in a sleep-laced voice, “Yeah, Prez?”
“Sending Chase to you for a couple weeks,” Mason growled and hung up.
Rubbing a hand across his face, Slate muttered to himself, “The fuck was that?” as he fell back onto the bed. He lay there for a minute, then picked up the phone and called Mason back. “Prez...what the fuck is going on?”
“He’s needing a change in scenery for a while, maybe more than a couple weeks. Found him drunk, sleeping between two club whores a little bit ago. He’ll be riding down with Tug, so you should expect them both for breakfast.” Mason was pissed off, that much was clear.
“All right, Mason,” Slate said patiently, “I’ll take him on and see what’s up. How long do I get Tug?”
“He’s Chase’s ride, so you get Tug until my son comes home,” Mason responded. “Let me know if you run into issues, or if he gives you any fucking shit. Boy’s sixteen going on dead if he can’t monitor his mouth.”
“Yeah, boss.” Slate yawned, hanging up the phone after Mason abruptly disconnected. He rolled over, toeing off his boots and curling up on his side.
***
Up the next morning, he stood in the clubhouse kitchen, looking at the women who were either working or standing idle. No old ladies in here right now, these workers looked to be club pussy, and the idle-standers were acquaintances, not even hang-arounds. He cleared his throat, and every eye in the room swung to him. “How we doing keeping up with food for the members and families during the lockdown?” he asked the room in general, taking a sip from his coffee cup.
No response came, and the girls who were doing nothing to make themselves useful resumed their conversation. He laughed to himself, Oh yeah, this was not going to be pretty. He dragged his gaze across the room, settling on one petite redhead, who had walked over in front of the refrigerator. He’d been seeing her around the clubhouse a lot over the past few days, and was intrigued by her. He’d seen her talking to Deke and PBJ more often than not; she seemed to have a mix of confidence and insecurity, and she was always hanging close to the Fort Wayne brothers or DeeDee.
She started pulling out food and sorting it on top of the cabinet, her head firmly ducked to avoid looking at him except for quick glances. When he had first walked in, she’d been loading the dishwasher, and it was now happily swishing and glugging along. Looked to him like she was determined to singlehandedly keep the clubhouse going. Pointing at her when she peeked up at him again, he crooked a finger, calling her wordlessly to his side.
She looked left and right, and he thought that was hilarious, so he crooked the finger again, and then pointed it at her and nodded with a grin. She walked towards him, her downcast eyes cutting left and right still, noting the responses of the other women in the room. He reached out and put a hand gently on her elbow, steering her out of the room and down the hallway to his office. Speaking to her for the first time, he said, “Ruby, sit down,” thinking it was the perfect nickname for the beautiful redhead.
She sat on the edge of the chair closest to the door, seemingly poised for a quick getaway. He frowned; she was clearly nervous, and hadn’t yet looked up at him. He asked, “Ruby, how many of the women in that kitchen have done any cooking or cleanup at the clubhouse?”
Eyes downcast, she paused for a long minute, and then slowly spoke in a quiet voice, “I don’t know, some of them.”
“Would you fucking look at me, Ruby?” Rolling his shoulders, he asked again, struggling to keep his tone patient. Fuck, he was tired. “Answer the question; it’s not hard. Simply tell me, in your opinion, how many of the whores and hang-arounds have done a fucking thing for the club, other than fuck a member.” She stayed silent, and he began to lose his temper, snapping at her, “Think you could be bothered to answer me, Ruby?” What the hell was her deal? She talked to other members, he’d seen her approach more than one; was she fucking afraid of him?
She swallowed distinctly, raising her panic-filled, green eyes to his for the first time, her voice nearly inaudible. “About half of them help out, the other half wait for old ladies to go home so they can be with established members. That’s the
hang-arounds. There’s a group of party dolls who show up for events like hog roasts. They don’t do anything but drink and sleep with members.”
Speaking in a softer tone, he said, “Thank you. Now, was that so fucking hard?” Slate slumped back into his chair, watching her face slowly relax a little as he sat and finished drinking his coffee. Thinking hard, he stood, motioning her to walk with him, telling her, “You’re in charge of housekeeping, kitchen, and provisions. Who do you want to help you with the housekeeping?”
“What?” she yelped, startled.
“Did I pick wrong? Did you not hear me, or are you fucking blonde under all that red hair? Can you, or can you not run housekeeping, kitchen, and provisions?” he asked, striding quickly back towards the kitchen.
“I can, uh...but I’m not an old lady. I can’t be in charge of anything,” she said frantically, trying to keep up with his long legs.
“What the fuck? Goddammit, if I say you are, then you are. So suck it up, buttercup. Help me out, baby,” he told her as they turned into the kitchen. “Pour me some coffee, Ruby?” He handed her his cup.
He raised his voice and said to the room, “I asked a question in here a few minutes ago, and nobody fucking answered me. That’s fucking disrespectful.” He pointed at the two groups of women who had no stake in the game where the club was concerned. The hang-arounds were there for the party, booze, drugs, and sex, nothing more. “You bitches are gonna get off the pot, because your opportunity to shit has been fucking revoked,” he said. He turned, calling out to the main clubhouse room, “Worm, Tank, Hurley—get your asses into the kitchen.”
Taking the filled cup from Ruby, he stood there, his posture relaxed, sipping at his coffee. The prospects came into the kitchen, looking between Slate and the redhead standing just behind him. He pointed to the two groups of women, and told the prospects, “Get this shit out of here. Make sure they get a ride off the property, but in a cage, not on the back of a member’s scoot.”
He swung his gaze around the room again. “Anyone else want to cut out now? If you are staying, you are working. Ruby here will be assigning jobs, and if you give her shit, she will fucking tell me. Don’t fuck with her. This is the only warning anyone gets.” He looked at the prospects. “That goes for prospects and members, too. Do not fuck with Ruby. Make it known.”
He turned to leave, pausing to smooth a hand down her hair. “Don’t go anywhere, Ruby. Get this shit straightened out for me, baby. I’ll see you in a bit.” He was amused to see a flash of rebellion in her eyes, and then disconcerted when she quickly lowered her eyes again, staring at the floor between her feet. He knew there was a story here, he just needed to find the people who knew what it was.
***
Myron was sitting in a quiet room they’d set up for him and his babies, where his electronic toys were given pride of place. “Hey, need you to set up access to one of the accounts for Ruby, the little redhead. She’s going to be in charge of provisions, and she’ll need a card or cash.” Slate paused in the doorway, leaning against the opening.
“’K, I’ll take care of it,” the man said without looking up. “Hey, I should have totals for you on the skim by tonight, Prez, but it’s not bad.” He spun around, grabbing a folder off the table behind him. “Got a lead on a bar today for you to look at—Marie’s on Main. It’s been in the family for generations, but they’re struggling. It’s pretty perfect, and I think we can get it for half-market, if we promise to keep existing staff. The family is loyal, and that’s something we can all get behind.”
Slate took the folder thrust at him, thumbing through the paperwork. “This looks good, man. Nice job,” he said. “Should we approach personally, or go through legal? What do you think?”
“I think they’d take a direct approach best; you should take Tug. I hear he’s coming in and should be here in an hour or so.” Myron laughed. “Oh, before I forget, I dropped another five thousand into your grandmother’s account last night. Your brother called and explained the situation, so I didn’t want to wait and hold her up.”
Slate froze, keeping his voice even and calm as his hands clenched into fists. “Ben called about a situation? What situation?”
Myron turned to look at him, whispering quietly, “Oh, fuck.” He waited a beat, and then continued, “Prez, man...he said she needed meds, and to pay for a hospital stay.”
Slate fumbled his phone out of his front pocket, hitting a speed dial number. Holding it to the side of his head, he waited for the ringing to be answered. “GeeMa, everything okay there? Are you okay?” He paused to listen to her reply. “Okay, so no hospital?” His eyes narrowed and he sighed. “Did he take it all?” Another pause, then, “I know, GeeMa. I love you too. I’m gonna see if I can get someone to find him. Let’s close that account and get a brand new one set up.”
He raised an eyebrow at Myron. “I have someone who can get everything done fast.” Myron nodded at him. “We’ll have you sorted out by…” Tonight, Myron mouthed, “…tonight, GeeMa. Myron will give you a call later, and he’ll have all the details.”
He listened for a moment, then told her, “Yes, he is a nice young man. I don’t think he’s got a girlfriend, but if you know of anyone…” He waited, listening and laughing. “Talk to you soon, okay? Bye.” He disconnected the call, pushing the phone back into the front pocket of his jeans.
“Myron, don’t sweat it. I appreciate you taking an interest and making sure my family is taken care of. She’s wanting to set you up with a girl; she said you’re too nice a young man to be alone.” He thumped the man on the back with a grin. “You need anything else from me? We’ll want to seed that new account, so transfer another five thousand. He cleaned out the entire fucking thing, not just the money transferred yesterday, so she’s got nothing right now.”
Myron’s forehead was wrinkled as he shook his head. “I should have known better, Prez. I’m sorry. What did he want the money for, really?”
“Recording time for his band,” Slate laughed, “what a joke.” He turned to walk out of the room, then looked over his shoulder. “Don’t forget the card or cash for Ruby. She’ll need to go shopping soon; we’ve got a lot of families here to feed.”
Myron nodded, fingers flying over his keyboard. “Gotcha, Prez. I’m on it.”
Walking back to his office, he saw Deke and called him over. “Tell me about the little redhead. She a house mamma, or family? She got a name?”
Deke looked at him oddly, asking, “Cute, short, red curls, green eyes?” Slate nodded. “She’s...unique, man. Not pussy, not a house mamma, and she’s not fucking tradable. Melanie is...fuck, let me get us a beer.” Deke turned, walking out.
Slate sat down, surprised at the response; he hadn’t expected anything other than a name, really. Melanie, he mouthed to himself, then shook his head, smiling and saying softly, “Ruby.”
Deke came back with two bottles, setting a beer in front of Slate and closing the door. He took a drink of his, looking at Slate over the bottle. “You know how that chick in Chicago has special status, first because of her shit, and then because of her relationships with members and Mason?” he asked.
“Mica, yeah, we branded her Princess; it was a first for the Rebels. It gave her untouchable status both within, and outside of the club. Put her off limits for any blowback shit from other clubs, too.” He said evenly, “Most of us watched her grow up, and she is special to all of us.” He thumped his chest with a closed fist, saying, “A fucking treasure.”
Deke nodded. “Melanie was best friends with Lockee, Winger’s daughter. Her home life was shit, and she practically lived with Winger and DeeDee from the time she was ten years old. When Winger came to be a brother, his family came with. So, she grew up around the club, like Lockee did. She was wild and fun, always in our shit and pushing to be part of things. She and Lockee were like crazy twins, sneaking out to party, using fake IDs to get into clubs, going to college parties...shit like that. When Winger and Lockee were killed in th
at wreck, DeeDee held onto that relationship with Melanie. She became a...what do you call it...a substitute?”
“A surrogate,” Slate clarified.
“Yeah, she became a surrogate daughter for DeeDee. She moved into the clubhouse suite we let DeeDee keep, and she’s been here nearly the whole time since, even when DeeDee was up visiting Chicago. Her status is...complicated. It’s more like a little sister than anything, and she’s never hooked up with a brother that I know of. To us, here in the Fort Wayne chapter, she’s as much our princess as Mica is yours, but without the official approval.” He drained his beer.
“A couple years ago, not long after the accident, she made herself scarce, and fuck we missed her. I think she’d found a boyfriend, but shit must have turned out hard, because Bingo had to go snag her, but we were simply glad she came back. But, Slate, she came back different, like she’d been beat down—not physically, or I think we’d have found and killed the fucker—but she’s quiet now, never causing trouble, and she’s fucking cautious with her words, as I bet you’ve noticed.” Deke looked over at Slate.
Slate tapped the tip of the beer bottle against his bottom lip. “Is she in the clubhouse because she wants to be, or because she doesn’t have anywhere else to go? What will happen to her when DeeDee moves out?” He took a long drink. “Do ya know how old she is?”
Deke pursed his lips. “I’d like to think she’s here because she wants to stay close to DeeDee, but who the fuck knows what goes through a woman’s mind. Now DeeDee, she knows her time here is limited, but managing Slinky’s is giving her a way to make good money, so she’s sticking for now. Melanie would no longer be as off-limits if she weren’t staying with DeeDee, but I don’t know if she realizes that. She’s twenty-eight or so, I think. Lockee was only twenty-five when the accident happened, and they were the same age.”
“All right, man, thanks for the background,” Slate said casually, dismissing Deke.
Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Page 29