Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  He felt his face twist as he asked, “You tryin’ to die, boy? Because I have much more reliable ways to handle that wish if it’s where you’re going. There’s no reason, no logical reason, shrimp.” Slate ran both his hands through his hair. “I swear to fucking God, I’ll take you out myself, rather than watch you go the road Mom walked,” Slate growled out, leaning over Ben’s face. “I’m not fucking kidding. I won’t sit around and watch that again. You have no idea what she was like.”

  Ben looked up at him, his face slowly turning gray. “Andy, I’m not her. Don’t say shit like that, man. I know she put you through the wringer, but she’s sober now, attends meetings and everything, but I’m not her. I’d never do that to you.”

  Slate turned away, and then looked back at Ben over his shoulder as he walked to the door. “I won’t let you, shrimp. Not happening.”

  ***

  “Benita, tell me what the problem is, hun. Let me help fix Benny’s fuckups.” Slate was getting tired of this bitch talking around the issues, never giving him a direct answer. If she didn’t tell him what he needed to know soon, he just might turn Ruby loose on her, she could turn her attitude towards the prospects in the club onto Benita.

  Benita twisted on the stool across the bar from Slate, not looking at his face. “Ben owes some people money, Andy. They’ve started calling me now, and I’m getting scared. They sound pretty bad, and I don’t know how much he owes.” She cut her eyes up to him. “They caught up with him in Denver a couple months ago, and they beat him up pretty badly.”

  “You got a name, Benita? Do you know who it is?” Without a name, there wasn’t a lot Slate could do. Benny was in the hospital still; he was past the detox stage, but they were trying some bullshit kind of therapy on him, trying to find out ‘why he drank enough to kill himself’. Slate snorted quietly, grimly amused. Benny drank, because that’s what he knew from a young age. He drank, because it numbed the pain of being left behind. He drank, because it made him forget for a while. Didn’t take a degree to recognize that shit.

  Like he’d called it to life, her phone started ringing where it sat on the bar between them. She looked down at the display, and her face paled. “It’s them, Andy.”

  He grunted, sweeping the phone off the bar and to his ear, connecting the call as he did so. He held the phone without speaking, waiting for the caller to start. “Beeneeta, baby, have you thought about our offer? We would surely looove to come to an arrangement with you.” The voice sounded vaguely Hispanic, something about the accents on the words. “Heeeeyyy baaabe, Beenneeta. Come on, baby, talk to me.”

  Slate pulled the phone away from his ear, looking at the display. It was a New Mexico area code. Listening to the phone again, he heard the change in tone as the caller began to get angry. “Beneeeta, you got an answer for me, bitch? That was a one-time offer—your slut-puppy boyfriend’s life for your pussy. You don’t want to go there, then we can hit up the hospital right now. But you know, if you don’t go there with us, then you’ve killed him. He doesn’t get to fuck with the Machos and live a long life, not without something in trade,” the voice said confidently. “So what will it be, baby? Me fucking you, or your boyfriend dead?” Slate curled his lip, snarling silently at the phone. He cleared his throat, catching the caller off-guard, and an angry, “Who the fuck is this?” came across the call.

  “You tell Estavez that Andrew Jones is calling in the Carmela marker. Have him call me back at this number in fifteen minutes, or the Rebels will be going to war with the Machos.” Slate waited a second, hearing the fumbling of the phone as it was transferred from one person to another.

  “Repeat that, motherfucker,” a different voice came across the phone, sounding American, and pissed.

  “I said,” Slate spoke deliberately, “tell Estavez that Andrew Jones is calling in the Carmela marker. I want a call in fifteen at this number. If I don’t get a call, then his word is worth shit, and Rebels go to war. You feel me?”

  “Fifteen, got it,” the man answered, and the call disconnected.

  Benita was looking at Slate with fear on her face, and he shook his head in disgust at her, and at the thought of Benny owing the kind of money the Machos would not forgive. “What now?” she asked.

  Slate shrugged, saying simply, “We wait.”

  A few minutes later, the phone rang again. Slate answered it on the second ring, putting the phone to his ear and waiting. “Andrew Jones,” came a heavily accented voice, one he recognized, “I was told you wanted to speak to me.”

  “Estavez, what can you tell me about Ben Jones’ debt to the Machos?” Slate asked evenly.

  He heard a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone. “Is this family to you, this estúpido pendejo?”

  “Yeah, Ben Jones is my blood brother,” Slate informed him. “Now that we have that out of the way, what can you tell me about his debt?”

  “Andrew Jones, I do not know if I can forgive your brother his indiscretions. He has stolen nearly two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—a quarter-million of your US dollars. This is his debt to the Machos.” There was an apologetic tone to Estavez’s voice.

  “Fuck me,” Slate whispered. He paused, and then raised his voice. “No way does he have that money. Do you have any idea what he could have done with it after he took it?” He thought to himself that it was a little odd he never questioned that Benny could, or would steal from the Mexican motorcycle club. He was sure Estavez was correct, and Benny had been stupid enough to steal from them.

  “He met with a group of men in Denver, and we believe he passed them the money. If you can find out who they were, I can try and take it from there, and your brother might yet live.” The man sighed. “It grieves me that I cannot simply wipe the debt clean.”

  “Let me see what I can do. Is this a good number to call you at?” Slate’s mind was racing; he needed to get Benny to talk to him, or the Machos would make good on their threat to end him in the hospital. Hearing an affirmation, he hung up without parting words. He carefully put the phone in his pocket, and then picked up a chair and threw it across the room with a yell.

  Tequila stalked into the room. “All okay, Prez?” he asked, quickly. Slate silently looked at him, willing him to go away. “Um, Prez, I got a wanderer in the box.”

  Slate tipped his head back, speaking to the ceiling, “What the fuck will be next? Any ideas?”

  “Prez, it’s Tony Manzino. He wants a sit-down,” Tequila rubbed the back of his neck, “so I put him in the box and set Diablo outside the door. Thought you’d want to have a convo with him, given the ongoing situation. Am I wrong?”

  “Not wrong, brother, just a lot going on right now. Gimme five and I’ll be in there.” Slated nodded dismissively. He turned to Benita again and demanded, “Tell me about Denver.”

  She drew in a quick breath, and then tried to dissemble by asking, “What do you mean?”

  Slate snarled at her, “You know what I mean, goddammit. Tell me what the fuck went down in Denver with Benny.”

  Swallowing hard, her eyes cut first one way, then the other. “Ben said he had a business opportunity. He was going to invest in a record company, one out on the west coast. He met some men at the airport, came back, and then we all got in the van to come here. That’s it; I don’t know anything else. I swear.”

  “You’ll fucking swear to anything, won’t you? Now, why don’t you start over, telling me the truth, Benita. Tell me about fucking Denver.” Slate stared hard into her face, waiting for her to look away again, but she kept her eyes on him steadily for nearly a minute, not speaking. He saw her face begin to glisten with sweat before she cut her eyes away and down, submitting finally.

  “In the van. It’s in the van…a shit ton of heroin. Ben bought it in Denver. He heard about you becoming president of a bike club, and said you’d help him sell it. That was his golden plan. Then he got here, and found out from some of the men that you don’t touch drugs.” She took a breath. “So, he made a local con
tact who can take some of the drugs off his hands, but it won’t be anywhere near all of it.”

  He was pretty sure he knew why Tony was in his clubhouse now; this cluster got bigger and sloppier with every passing minute. “You know he’s in a deep fucking hole of trouble, right?” he asked Benita. She nodded. He pulled his phone out of his front pocket, hitting a speed dial number. “Deke, need you at Marie’s, brother.” He listened for a minute, and then disconnected.

  Yelling up the hallway for Tequila, he waited until the big man stood beside him. “Need you to put Benita and the band members in the other box, man. We’ve got some housekeeping to take care of, and I don’t want them to wander into places they don’t need to be.” He inclined his head to Benita. “It’s not the most comfortable accommodations, sorry.”

  Tequila put his hands out, herding her backwards into the hallway. “Second door on the left,” his voice rumbled in his chest. Slate heard the muted thunder of a bike’s pipes and waited for Deke to walk in.

  “Band’s van needs to go into the garage. Gotta clean it of some H. There’s probably more than a little, so you might want to go ahead and see about storage. I don’t know; I’ll leave that to you. When you’re done, let me know how much we’re sitting on. Keep this need-to-know among the brothers; I don’t want unneeded shit started.” He cut a glance over at Deke.

  “I got you, Prez,” was all Deke said before turning to walk back outside. One of the prospects came through the room, headed back to where Tequila was standing in the hallway. Another prospect followed, bringing two of the band members with him.

  20 -

  Benny

  Walking into the secure room they called ‘the box’, he took a good look at Fort Wayne’s biggest drug dealer, Tony Manzino. He remembered the fear the transport guys had for this man, and the bloody evidence left for blocks around the clubhouse before the Rebels started keeping a perimeter. He wasn’t a big man, and he looked soft, like it had been a long time since he’d had to do his own tidying up.

  Standing in front of the door, Slate folded his arms across his chest, waiting on the other man to become tired of the silence. Slate stood unmoving for several minutes, knowing it would eventually wear on the patience of Manzino.

  “Your brother is a problem for me,” the smaller man finally said in a level tone of voice. Slate lifted one eyebrow, looking at him. “He’s managed to piss off a lot of people in a short period of time,” Manzino continued, “Mexican drug cartel, Mexican motor club, and me.”

  Slate snorted. “Drug cartel is a new one. What did he do there?”

  “You think this is fucking funny, man? You are warped,” Manzino murmured. “He ruined some product in a warehouse. If it was only a few stacks, I think they’d be okay, but it wasn’t. It was a lot of product, and they want to recoup their losses.” Shaking his head, Manzino looked up at Slate.

  This day just kept getting better and better. Slate ran his hand through his hair, looking down at Manzino. “Why is he a problem for you?” he asked.

  The drug dealer barked a harsh laugh. “I think he’s one of those men who draw attention and danger, and eventually anger from those around them. Having him here, in Fort Wayne, brings unwanted attention and visitors. People I’d rather not see here in my town.”

  “So why are you here, in my house? Why would you deliver yourself into my hands like this, knowing we’ve been looking to put you to ground if needed?” Slate didn’t pull any punches, letting this ass-wipe have a minute to think.

  “Because I can help keep your brother alive, and we can do some business at the same time,” Manzino said. “I can move the product he has on hand, which buys you some time. I make a profit, and your brother pays his debt to the bikers. That only leaves the cartel, but we can work together to keep his head off their fence. I see this as a win-nearly-win, which is a fuck-of-a-lot better than what you walked in here with.” He shrugged.

  “We,” Slate wagged his finger back and forth between them, “don’t do business. You kill families, neighborhoods, businesses, and people with your ‘product’, and we,” he wagged his finger again, “aren’t the same. We,” the finger wagged one last time, “don’t do business.”

  “If I distribute away from Fort Wayne, does that make this a more palatable decision?” Manzino asked. “Is it only the hometown aspect that bugs you, or is it the drugs themselves?”

  “Distributing away from Fort Wayne? How far can you go, motherfucker? Columbia? Brazil? That might be far enough,” Slate sneered.

  “God, you are a hard-ass son of a bitch. I’m handing you a win here, man.” Manzino shook his head, slowly unfolding from the chair.

  “What did he do to get on your bad side?” Slate asked, reaching out a hand and shoving Manzino back down into the chair hard.

  “Bah, he’s not really. I was just yankin’ your chain.” Manzino’s lips curved into a humorless smile.

  Looking down at Manzino, Slate’s mind was searching for a better solution than the one being offered, but he couldn’t seem to find another way for Benny to maybe come out of this alive. He reached out for a chair, turning it to face Manzino and sat down, folding his arms across the back of it. “What’s the value on the product?” Slate asked.

  “Easy quarter-mill, probably more, unless your brother did something stupid,” came the response.

  Slate sat there for a minute, running scenarios through his head. He stood, shoving the chair back against the wall. Turning to the door, he pulled the phone from his front pocket and dialed. “Estavez,” he said as he walked away, hearing Manzino’s shout of disbelief behind him. Kicking the door closed on the box, he continued speaking, “I have answers, but we have to come to an understanding before we can move forward.”

  “Andrew, is there honor for us both in your answers and understanding?” Estavez questioned. “Because if there is, then we will grasp it like drowning men.”

  “Yeah, I think there is. My brother bought high-dollar drugs with the money from the people in Denver. Those people are remnants of your brother’s business, the cartel. I have the product, and someone who can sell it, but using this asshole gives me a bad taste in my mouth. If we could move the distribution away from where I live, I’d be better with it.” Slate paused to take in a silent, deep breath.

  He continued speaking into the phone, “So here’s what I think; you can finish up the clean-up you evidently missed out west by luring them with the product. You get personal satisfaction in knowing you’ve terminated another fragment of the business that took your daughter. I can either give you the product, and you accept the risk versus reward of converting it to cash, or we can have my guy handle distribution, and pass you back the payoff for the borrow. One way, you keep all the money; the other, you get back exactly what you are owed. Either way, the cartel is short a few heads by tomorrow morning.”

  “And the understanding, Andrew? Where does that come in?” His voice was low.

  “You never fucking do business with my family again, Estavez. No matter the ask from my baby brother. He would become invisible to you, and his debt would be repaid, not forgiven, so you lose no honor.”

  Slate held his breath for a second, waiting, then gasped it out shakily when he heard, “This is a good answer, Andrew. I accept the risk, and can take possession within the hour,” from Estavez.

  “I’ll call you back within thirty minutes; set up the meet,” Slate told him. “I’ll be in touch.” Disconnecting the call, he walked into the area where the van had been pulled, and saw the stacks of wrapped packages covering the floor near one wall. “Deke,” he called, looking around.

  “Yo,” came the response from within the van’s cargo space, “I’m getting the last bits and pieces. There was a fuck-ton of shit, Prez. Doesn’t look like it’s been tampered with; the lab seals are all still on the wrapping. What the hell are we doing with all this in the building?”

  “I have Machos gonna pick it up in a bit, but I wanted to make sure how much the
re was before I gave them the final call.” Slate rolled his shoulders as Deke’s face appeared around the back of the van.

  “Machos?” he questioned with a puzzled look on his face.

  “Yeah, that’s who my brother ‘borrowed’ the money from to buy the drugs. They want the drugs and will take responsibility for turning it back into cash, and they won’t do it in Fort Wayne. It also gives their president the opportunity to manage a business problem out west, which is…satisfying to him.” Slate shook his head. “I lost a valuable fucking marker on the Machos, but get to keep my brother on the sunny side of the divide.” He ran his hand through his hair.

  Working together, they counted and stacked the packages into empty beer boxes, creating a tidy stack of nondescript, brown rectangles along the wall. Deke went back into the van with his tools, and verified they’d removed everything.

  Slate pulled out the phone, redialing the last number. “Anytime, Estavez, I’m ready. Marie’s on Main,” he told him, and he hung up the phone. “Hang a minute, Deke; let’s get this transfer and meet done with. Then, we can decide what to do with Manzino.” He ran his hand back through his hair.

  Deke looked at him out of the corner of one eye, repeating in a questioning tone, “What to do with Manzino?”

  “Yeah, motherfucker showed up, just walked in, so Tequila put him in the box. We’ve had a chat, but he’s still breathing. I want to know what you think we should do with him. Then we’ll talk to Hoss, lay it out, and get everyone on the same fucking page.”

  About twenty minutes later, Slate heard a noise from outside. “They’re here,” he said flatly, and then three sharp knocks came from the cargo door, rattling it in the frame. Deke strode over and swung the regular door outward, stepping back and away from the opening. Estavez was the first man through the door, and he walked confidently towards Slate, holding out a hand in greeting. Slate allowed a hard smile to bend the corners of his lips upward, taking the hand and pulling him into a one-armed embrace. Thumping each other on the back, the men moved apart, sizing up the changes in appearance since they’d seen the other last. “Estavez, it’s good to see you looking well,” Slate spoke first.