by Lydia Pax
There were a lot of men inside—at least twenty—and there seemed to be more down below the bar. They could hear voices rising up from somewhere underground, the deep bass of cheers and the heavy vibrations of clapping and stomping.
A lot of eyes drew onto Helen in her tight top and shorts. Beretta, possessive, drew her closer to him. He regretted for a moment not making her work that day—but then dismissed the notion. If he couldn't take care of his old lady in a biker bar, he didn't deserve to have her.
“Gentlemen!”
Ivan walked toward them from the crowd, holding a cigar in one hand and a beer in the other. “Good to see you. I hear you have business with me. You want a drink? It’s on me. Beretta, you want a drink?”
Without a doubt, Ivan knew Beretta didn’t drink. It had been a topic of discussion for them in the past. Beretta just smiled coldly and shook his head.
“Ah, I’ll get you eventually. You boys get in okay? Jimmy outside didn't trouble you much?”
Ace shook his head. “Not much.”
“That goddamn Rattler is out of his mind,” said Ivan. “He's been chopping up every bike that ain't Copperheads all over the city ever since you boys tried to hit him. Oughta make you put an insurance policy together.”
It was hard to tell how serious Ivan was. Ace just frowned at him, waiting for the punchline.
“Maybe not,” said Ivan, smiling. “Anyway, come on, follow me.”
He led them through to the back of the bar and opened a heavy wooden door, weighed down with steel plates around its edges. Above the door was a sign, hand-painted in big blocky letters that dripped down like blood:
The Pit
Tank hesitated as Ivan led them through the door.
Beretta put a hand on his shoulder. “Any time you want to step out, step out. I'll deal with it if Ace doesn't like it.”
Tank nodded appreciatively. They kept moving in, walking down a thick series of steps. The staircase spiraled down slow. As they walked down, the noise grew louder and louder.
“You boys been in Stockland a little while now, but you ain’t seen our Pit Fights yet,” said Ivan. “I’m a bit insulted. I’ve been told Tank there is something of a virtuoso in the Pit.”
Beretta looked at Tank, who was growing madder by the second. He had cottoned on to what was happening. Ivan wanted Tank to fight.
Everybody involved in the Pit Fights wanted Tank to fight. He had a reputation that stretched all over the Southwest. There was a Pit in every biker town—something they did for fun, to gamble money and watch a little bloodshed. Once upon a time, he’d been a champion, if you wanted to call it that. Tank never saw himself as one, he had told Beretta, because how could you be a champion when you weren't free?
Other men who fought in the Pit Fights usually did it of their own free will. Tank had been a special case—owing so much to the Furnace in Marlowe. But he'd repaid that debt as far as Beretta was concerned, and if the Furnace tried to recollect on it, then they'd have to answer to Tank and Beretta and the rest of the Wrecking Crew.
Beretta, who had only seen a couple of Pit Fights, knew why Tank didn't want to go back. You didn’t have to see a lot of those fights to know what they took from a man. They were dark, brutal, and dehumanizing.
At the bottom of the stairs, they entered through a stone archway. Through there was a large crowd of men circling a steel cage with a dirt floor—The Pit. It was located at the bottom of a steep depression in the ground, so that the crowd watched above it from an angle. There was a chalkboard in the corner with two men writing on it and putting down odds. Men held cash high in the air, placing their bets.
The two men in the Pit clashed with each other, trading heavy, hard blows to the body and face. The crowd was like a living being, cheering and gasping as one. There were other women down there, but not many. Beretta drew Helen closer, his hand on her ass. She gasped slightly but pushed into him, and he could tell he was exciting her. Owning her in public. He owned that ass and he didn't give a fuck who knew.
Ivan watched the fight, cheering and slapping Ace on the back.
“This is nice and all,” Ace said when there was a lull in the fighting, speaking loudly so he could be heard. “But, we have something we want to talk to you about.”
“I know,” said Ivan. “I know. But we have to settle business of our own, first.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” said Ivan, “that Tank fights in the Pit, and then I hear out your proposal.”
Ace frowned. “You want him to fight before you even hear what we want?”
“Yes.”
“I mean...shit, man.” Ace shook his head. “That's not real friendly, is it?”
“Look.” Ivan put an arm around Ace's shoulder, guiding him close. Ace hated this. “The French used to have dignitaries wait around weeks and fund parts of their government before they would hear their proposals. So you’re going to have your man fight for me. I’m a connoisseur of the fights. I want to see him in action. You see my man down there?”
They looked down into the Pit. One of the fighters was a tall Hispanic man with a heavy beard. He was built for battle—and had just won his fight with a series of swift, ferocious upper cuts to his opponent. Scars criss-crossed his shoulders and torso, but his face remained clear. His knuckles were wrapped, but bloody; he’d been fighting for a while already that night.
His latest victim was getting dragged out of the Pit, the people carrying him slapping his face to try and wake him up. It wasn't working.
“That’s Prowler,” said Ivan. “My man. Made me a lot of money over the years. I want to see how he does in one-on-one with one of the best, you dig? So either Tank fights him, or you guys take a hike. No harm done, but no deals heard.”
Prowler, in the cage, saw Tank above him in the crowd. He thumped his chest at the man, smiling for the crowd. The crowd caught on, heads-turned and all looking at Tank. Bets started to get placed at the bookie on whether Tank would fight or not, money changing hands quickly.
Ace looked over at Tank. “It’s up to you, man.”
Tank frowned deeply. “We need them, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“All he has to do is fight,” Ivan interrupted. “He doesn’t even have to win.”
“I’ll fight,” said Tank, his voice tired. “And I’ll win. Just hold on.”
The crowd parted before him and he stepped down into the Pit. He looked ready to get it over with; no hesitation, but not an ounce of desire either. No sooner had the door closed behind him in the cage did Prowler jam his fists together and charge.
The rule of the Pit was that once a man was in it, the fight was on. There was no bell ringing. No waiting. No announcing. Just one fight after another. So, the advantage was always to whoever was in the Pit first.
Prowler approached Tank head-on, landing several hard jabs to his skull and then to his midsection. He clapped him with one kick and then another, thick legs powering into Tank’s midsection.
He tried to kick again. Tank slapped the leg aside and walloped Prowler with a heavy right.
Prowler dropped like a loose stack of bricks. The air flushed out the area, all men quiet. Men with cash in their hands, mid-process in making bets, stared with their mouths open.
Then a great stomping clap went up from the crowd, cheering Tank for the monumental knock out. No one had seen it coming—not one that quick—and they loved it. Beretta thought that was a lucky break. It could have just as easily been the kind of thing that turned a crowd ugly.
Through the roar and clamor of the crowd, Beretta could see Tank leaning over Prowler and handing out some advice. He couldn't hear him, of course, but it was clear it was meant in a friendly way. He patted Prowler on the shoulder and mimed his punch again.
Prowler scowled at him, taking another clumsy swing at Tank from the ground. Tank dodged easy, of course, and grabbed Prowler's hand, pulling him up off the ground. He clapped him on the back, p
resenting him to the crowd, and then left the cage. The men surrounding the cage gave Tank twice as much room as they had offered before when he was coming down, a berth of about five feet.
Prowler again tried to go after Tank, but tripped on his own feet, having to use the cage to hold himself up.
Ivan was crestfallen, but laughing. Ace turned to him with a wide grin.
“How about that deal?”
Chapter 22
Helen had never been to this side of Stockland save for the short flirtations with alcoholism she’d had shortly after moving to the city, still broken up about leaving Beretta like she had. During that time, she’d hit up the liquor stores frequently. Texas’s liquor laws were arcane and absolute, and varied from county to county.
In one city, you could buy wine and beer every day, but no liquor. In another, you could buy anything you liked, but liquor stopped selling at 9 pm. In another, you could buy wine and beer on Sundays only after noon and before six.
Stockland’s own county had its peculiarities. The strip was set up the way that it was because it was within the only municipality around Stockland lawfully allowed to sell liquor. It used to not be included within the city at all until a few years back when a re-zoning had pulled it within the city limits proper. The residents there only allowed the re-zoning on the condition that the businesses there were still allowed to operate as they had before.
Now, this area was the one place in Stockland where everyone went to if they wanted to indulge in sin. The Copperheads had a damn near stranglehold on every part of Stockland, but around the strip, the Furnace was in firm control.
Ivan sat them down upstairs in the back of the Hell's Belle, away from any noise. Helen did not get a seat at the table—she was “just property,” after all—but she was close enough to it to hear everything that was discussed. Her thoughts drifted from time to time—Beretta's hand on her ass, gripping her there like a handle, holding her tight against his body and driving her wild—but mostly, she listened.
“So what’s this deal, then?” Ivan asked.
“We’ve got a lot of money available for you,” said Ace. “A hell of a payday. Fifty thousand dollars.”
Ivan whistled. “You got it with you? You boys been bankrolled that much?”
Ace shook his head. “No.”
“You got any upfront? Half is the norm.”
“We ain’t got that either. We’re asking you to trust us.”
Ivan rolled his eyes a little at that. “All right,” he said. “What’s the rest? What do you need from us?”
“Explosives.” Beretta leaned forward. “A lot of them. C4 if you got it. Maybe some heavy weapons if you have your hands on any.”
Ivan looked at Beretta, mouth cocked open as if he was joking. Then Ivan noticed that he wasn’t.
“Christ, are you serious?” Ivan laughed. “That’s a whole lot of trust. What do you want all that for?”
“We can’t really tell you,” said Ace. “It’s sensitive. We don’t want anyone knowing what we’re doing. Hell, we barely want to know what we’re doing. It’s one of those.”
“One of those,” echoed Ivan, tonguing at his lip. “I see. Well. You boys are in quite a spot, huh?”
Ivan sat back in his chair, thinking for a moment. He took a long drink from his beer and snapped his fingers at the scantily-clad waitress, pulling over another bottle. He waved it in front of Beretta’s face for a moment, mock-offering him another drink.
Helen watched this exchange with some growing anger. It was one thing to drink in front of someone who was trying to be sober. It was another to mock them for hoping to improve their lives. As a nurse, she dealt with people every day who needed recovery.
Often the people who fell the hardest were the ones who had built up some sobriety time under their belts. When they slipped after six months or a year or five years, they were filled with hopelessness, that they had taken their best shot and failed permanently. It wasn't true, of course, but the addict's mind had a hell of a way of working on the addict.
She watched Beretta stiffen as Ivan laughed at him. After a long swig of the bottle, Ivan leaned back into the table and shook his head.
“Can’t really do it, can I boys? Not without some payment. We just don’t trust you enough. You could be using that explosive shit for anything. Maybe you'll blow up city hall. You goddamn Wrecking Crew got a reputation.”
“You don’t trust us?” asked Ace. “What the hell was that fight downstairs all about, then?”
“Come on, Ace. You think I can take a deal like this just because your man beat mine? That was about respect. Okay? You ain’t run your own MC before. I’ll tell you how it works.”
Ivan took another long drink and then a puff from his cigar before speaking.
“Some guy walks in and wants to run a deal with you—a rival, even if he’s an ally? You can’t just speak with him off the bat. It’s a bad precedent. You ain’t shown this club nothing. No money. No gifts. No respect. And—and—you ain’t had much opportunity, I know that. So I gave you one.” Ivan held out his hands. “And lo and behold, you blew it out of the fucking water. Well done. But look at what you’re asking us.” He started making shapes on the table with his hands. “You want me to give you incredibly dangerous materials for reasons unknown, in return for a payment that I don’t know that I’ll see and which I have to assume you’re robbing from somebody...well.” He chuckled and took another long swig from his bottle. “Fellas, I was born on a day but it wasn’t yesterday, you know what I mean?”
“What do you want, then?”
“I gotta have something from you. Goods or currency, I don’t care. That’ll be the down payment. You can subtract it from your...fifty thousand there.”
Helen’s stomach sank, because she knew exactly what they could use to pay this man.
She leaned in to Beretta. “Ask him what he would want from a hospital pharmacy.”
Beretta turned to look at her straight on.
You serious? his look said.
She nodded, already scoffing to herself at what she was setting up.
When she'd come back to work, Georgetta had taken her into her trust. And already she was going to abuse it worse than anyone else could.
Chapter 23
“You think we'll get away with this?” said Locke.
Tank looked at his close friend, surprised at his hesitation. They were in a used car lot and it was the middle of the day. The plan was to go in, steal a couple of vehicles, and get out. It was all part of Beretta's plan.
The man knew how to organize. It was just too bad nobody ever told him that you couldn't plan for every contingency. Tank, who had lived a thousand lives in the Pits and been close to death for every one, knew that life had no plan. Life was chaos, and you did your best just riding on the wave as it let you move.
“We've stolen cars a hundred times,” said Tank. “What's the difference here?”
“Not that,” said Locke. “I mean this plan. All of this. This heist. You think it'll work?”
Tank shrugged. “I don't think I've done much to earn the luxury of making predictions. I think we'll do what we do and it'll fall out however it falls out.”
“You,” said Locke, “are fucking creepy sometimes, you know that? You can't just be a zen master ass kicker.”
“Why not?”
“It's unfair to the rest of us who need to get drunk and laid all the time.”
Tank chuckled at that. They circled through the lot, looking for the vehicles they needed. Both needed to be heavy and capable of carrying a lot. It was a lot of cash they were hoping to transport. A lot of cash, a lot of people, a lot of explosives.
Locke found a van suitable for their needs and got inside the front seat, taking out a screwdriver and starting to jimmy with the panel underneath the steering wheel. Tank kept a lookout, scanning the lot, wondering where the salesmen were.
Then one appeared right behind him.
“You kno
w,” said the man, his voice small and tinny. “There are thieves in here every day. It's just that most of them work here.”
Locke adroitly buried his screwdriver in his jeans, moving to cover up what he had been doing. “Uh,” he said, “this paneling is loose. I'm wondering if you can knock off a few hundred to—”
The salesman held up a hand. “Spare me, please.”
He was not an easy man to look at. His hair was thick and dark, and his frame short with a pronounced gut. But that was not the hard part of him.
He had a scar that traveled from his upper cheek down across his mouth. The tissue was thick and puffy, cracked in places, and looked as though it needed constant attention and treatment to be kept in line. It made his face look like a motocross arena.
Locke and Tank gave each other a long look—how to handle this? It would be nothing to knock the man out and take what they wanted, but that would leave a trail. Ace had been very specific about not leaving witnesses.
“You're the new bikers in town,” said the salesman, looking at their vests.
“That's right.”
“Bikers stealing cars? That's how it is now? Strange world.”
“We haven't stolen a thing,” said Tank.
“Not yet,” said the man. He rubbed his face. The scar tissue was thick and ugly. “You got a problem with the Copperheads, right? Rattler?” He must have noticed the surprise on Tank's face. “Word gets around. Everybody hears things in Stockland.”
“That's right,” said Locke. “We've got a problem with Rattler.”
“I know him,” said the salesman. “Known him a good long time. He takes his protection money from me every month. One month I couldn't pay. He left me with this,” he drew a hand across his face, tracing the scar. It looked as though he had practiced the motion many times before. “Hard to get a date, now.”
“I see.”
“I'm not the only one. You go to enough businesses in this town, you'll see more of the same. A scar here, a cripple there, a burn somewhere else. A town like this, everybody knows somebody's got to pay a little to stick around. It's a community. We don't mind much when we got the cash. But if we don't, if times are tough, then he takes his payment in flesh. See?”