Wallet acted like he had just turned and noticed them. He was holding his beer bottle.
I saw their patches: they were three-piecers. Sons of Aggression. A revolver crossed over a knife and a bottom rocker that said Keystone.
I stared. What the fuck? Keystone only has one motorcycle club. What's this? I stayed sitting as the five approached a shifty-eyed looking Wallet. I felt sorry for him.
Wallet growled, "You here for a meet?"
One man, a young one with his hair oiled back and his beard short and black, said, "We're here to move in."
The Iron Crow said, "You won't be moving into nothing. We're sanctioned here by the Outlaws."
"We don't give a fuck."
"What are you, AMA? Some riding club?"
The leader spread out his arms and turned slowly.
When Wallet saw the three piece patch, his face drew down into fire and fury. "You think you can slap a patch on and claim—"
"That's right, we are."
A distant rumble grew louder. I swallowed, hoping our guy could hold out.
Wallet wasn't backing down. He advanced on the leader. "Listen here." His eyes glanced down to the man's vest. "Ace." He said it with derision dripping from his tongue. "You don't fly colors without sanction—"
"Fuck you."
Bikers moved instantly. Fists flew from Wallet, but they grabbed him by both arms and held him up.
Ace said lazily, "Show him our respect, boys."
The other two bikers began heaving fists into Wallet's gut. Pain screwed over his face and his eyes caught mine for the briefest of seconds. The head-shake was plain to me, if not to them.
The rumble grew so loud that the two men punching him stopped. They and Ace turned to the door as the rumble died down. Engines revved high outside from probably fifteen bikes, then died. I swear, the whole bar rattled and glasses clinked on the shelves.
The five began looking around as if not so sure of themselves.
More rumbles sounded in the distance.
I tensed, knowing that the call went out probably for the entire club.
Iron Crows rushed in, lead pipes, crowbars, and even a chain in evidence. Dragon held the chain, moving in to surround the now stunned five bikers. Coming in close after was Dealer.
The two Sons of Aggression members dropped Wallet. He crumpled to his knees, but other than wheezing, made no noise of pain.
Dealer shook his head. "You just caused yourselves a whole world of untold pain."
Wallet gasped out, "They're claiming Keystone. Patches."
Dealer's eyes went glossy and his face stony. He slowly circled the leader and scowled at his vest. "The Outlaws have said nothing of this—"
Ace spat, "We didn't ask."
"Then you're doubly fuck-stupid and on the wrong side of the tracks."
There was silence in the bar. No one looked at me. Gunner was there and I knew he was packing. But he held a crowbar. I guessed Dealer didn't want a gunfight in Keystone.
The five pop-ups said nothing.
Dealer flicked his head. "Twenty, go outside and have those still coming show these dumb assholes how broken lights can get them in trouble in Keystone."
The five tensed, but Ace put out his hand, finger pointing. "This is just beginning, old-timer. We're going to sweep you out."
"You pop-ups think you can do whatever you please." He stepped very close to Ace and his voice went deadly. "Until brutal fucking reality messes up your pretty face." Sounds of breaking glass and plastic sounded outside. Dealer said, "This is indeed just beginning. You fly your colors, expect bloodshed. Now get out."
The five knew they were very outnumbered and outclassed. With fire in their eyes and shame in their stance, they filed out.
Dragon and Gunner were down helping Wallet up.
Dealer saw me and gave a simple nod, nothing else. He walked out.
CHAPTER 3
I was telling Kristy about it at three in the morning. "They busted up the lights on their bikes pretty bad."
Her eyes were big. "Why didn't Wallet want you to help?"
"I'm not a member; it's member business. I think if I had helped they all would've been mad."
"But he was outnumbered."
"I guess if I had jumped in, things would have gotten uglier than they were."
"Smoke was saying Dealer couldn't have any physical violence – that his hands are tied to keep things low-key and peaceful in Keystone."
I grunted. "I guess that sort of makes sense, but how are they going to deal with this pop-up? Chase them out with grins and giggles?"
She shrugged against me. "I don't know. Do you think we'll be safe?"
I was at a loss. "I don't know. This is going to suck if we lose our jobs because the stupid Sons of Anarchy imitators muscle our bosses out."
"Well, you can bounce anywhere and I can bartend anywhere."
I blew out a long, tired breath. But the sense of her words didn't thrill me in the least. While realistic, I was comfortable where I was. I felt as if things were going right for the second time in my life and now things were thrown into question.
~ ~ ~
I witnessed something startling a couple of days later. A new hang-around, Rusty, made a scene that caused me to wonder about violence in the club. It was morning, after breakfast and before our shifts, when Rusty was approached by Angela. She was all friendly and smiles and dropped down onto Rusty's lap.
She didn't mean much by it – it was her friendly way of saying hello, not demanding money for sex. But Rusty was pissed all up the ass and backhanded her, knocking her off his lap and calling her a filthy whore.
I have never seen such immediate movement from so many different people in all my life. I think people popped out of the pool table, up from the floor – suddenly, Rusty was hauled to his feet and endured an amazing flurry of punches and cusswords the likes of which I had yet to hear from the Iron Crows.
A bloodied and beaten Rusty was physically tossed out of the front door and told not to return.
I had been standing in the hall towards the kitchen and Angela ran at me, covering her face. I grabbed at her and held her as she sobbed. I don't even think she knew it was me. Gunner pried her gently away from me as Grannie looked on. I heard an anguish from her that stabbed so very deep into my soul. What did she have to look forward to? Friendship among bikers? Her husband dead and her future gone? Her life shattered and forced to exist as a cum-dump for cash? Tears formed in my eyes and I wanted so very much to run outside and kick that shit Rusty for his ass-move on someone so beaten down by life.
What right did he have to judge her? Was his life so perfect that money flew out of his ass whenever he needed it? Was he so respectful that he could walk into any job with no qualifications and land a position? I found my hands curled into fists and realized this is what everyone else was feeling, too.
Smiley, the secretary, shook his head. "That asshole won't be coming back."
I stammered, "Wh-why would we allow him in?"
Smiley, not smiling, said, "That's the point; we wouldn't. Fuck him and his kind. No one treats a woman like that."
Relief washed over me as it dawned on me that it was the exact same sentiment I was feeling. I nodded in affirmation and went down the hall to check on Angela. Apparently, most everyone else had, too. The kitchen was crowded with Iron Crows wearing somber looks of sympathy. Angela cried in Grannie's arms and the old woman had tears in her eyes, too.
Smiley was beside me. He muttered low for me, "We might sometimes call them bitches or broads, but they're just terms. They're as much of us even without patches."
I wanted so much to console Angela, but I knew everyone else did, too. We all hurt for her.
~ ~ ~
The Daily Dollar had one patron in it that I knew would cause no trouble. I stood outside with a patcher who came and went and wasn't around every day. His name was Flats. He was a fifty-year old gut with gray in his beard and long-ass hair tied back i
n a ponytail. He stood against the wall with his booted foot back against it. He indicated my Harley. "How you like your ride?"
"I love it. Makes me wonder why I didn't get one before."
He chuckled, low and slow. "I know the feeling."
"How long have you been a member?"
"Three years. Hopefully fifty more."
I laughed. "Ride at a hundred?"
He coughed. "Why the fuck not? Might be the only excitement at that age I'd get before I die."
Something in that sounded right, despite the improbability of it.
He added, "Burn bright, burn fast."
I was silent, considering.
He finished, "Before you end up in the grave."
We were both silent for a time, just watching the birds fly in the mostly sunny skies overhead. A car interrupted us.
Flats said, "Sheeit, this is no good."
"Hmm?"
He motioned to the car coming. Keystone streets weren't all too crowded. You could fire a cannon off at rush hour and maybe hit three cars. At this time of day, it was normal to see nothing.
The only car cruising towards us was a white Chevrolet Impala from like 1969. It was slung low, barely clearing the road. Four heads were visible, barely clearing the windows. We watched as the car slowly drove by, all four heads turned towards us. They all wore blue bandanas.
Flats was disgusted. "Fuck." He drew it out like one long belch.
I muttered, "What are they doing here?"
"Scouting, what else? They look for a peaceful community, or hear about it, and come seeing if they can gain a foothold. Push pot, pills, pussy. Anything."
The car slowed and then made a u-turn.
Flats straightened. "Heads up. We're on."
"Should I call for back-up?"
The biker belched. "I might need your help. Depends on what weapons they pull. Gangbangers are always the first to pull guns. We need to handle this without guns, if possible."
I watched the car pull in at an odd angle, like a realtor who parked like he didn't know how to park. The four that got out were all wearing Pendletons – striking me with the thought they were wearing colors. Indeed, all of the Pendletons were blue. Their blue bandanas topped it off; this was a gang, not some goofy Mexicans looking for the local taco joint.
Flats was advancing on them before they could complete their posing outside the car. Despite the driver trying to thrust out his chest and peek out from under his bandana with his head so far back it must have hurt, Flats was in his face before he could inhale. He said, "You best get your ass back into your piece of shit and haul back to where you came from."
Leader wasn't taking a hint. His buddies came around the car. Flats ignored them. Leader pointed at the biker and said, "Fuck you gringo whore."
I expected more wordplay. I really did. I thought leader would pose and mouth off. He did pose, but Flats punched him in the gut faster than I could register.
Suddenly, Mexicans were diving at him, launching fists.
I leapt forward and jumped. I landed on a Mexican's back and took him down. I made sure his face made close and intimate acquaintance with the pavement, three times. Aware I was vulnerable, I sprang up.
Flats was getting hit from two sides while leader was bent over trying to get wind. Leader yelled, "Fuck him up!" The biker had his arms up, moving, and trying to find an opening.
I grabbed one of the gang member's arms as he was cocked to punch. I twisted savagely, as hard as I could, bending his arm up back behind him. I heard an aggravated growl and satisfying pop as his shoulder dislocated. I launched a boot up into his butt and sent him spinning away, screaming.
Flats used the opportunity to go after leader. He ignored the other guy grabbing and punching him. Leader looked as if he was flabbergasted he couldn't get a break.
The guy on the ground got me. A click and a sharp pain seared into my calf as a blade sank deep. I cried out in shock and then turned, feeling the anger boil over. I used my boot to stomp his face into the pavement. His knife went clattering away from limp fingers. I continued to stomp as his body ceased to resist.
Flats finally grabbed a hold of me. "Enough, Jimmy. Let it go."
I realized sirens were approaching. All three on-duty police vehicles were racing in.
Slipping and falling, the bandanas were trying to get away – all except for knife-cunt I had stomped.
Two black officers and a white woman ran forward, hands on guns. "Cease! Down on the ground!"
However, they didn't seem to be talking to us. I was almost in the midst of dropping down when I noted Flats was standing straight up; they were yelling at the gangbangers.
The woman spoke into her mic, "Injuries at twenty-two North Street." She was eyeballing my leg. "Send an ambulance."
The two black officers were yanking the leader out of the driver's seat by his hair.
I remembered protocol when dealing with law enforcement. I pointed down at the guy I had stomped. "I want him arrested, he tried to kill me. That's his knife over there."
One of the black officers looked at me and gave an appraising look.
I was ambulanced to the hospital wondering who was going to care for my Harley.
CHAPTER 4
I was in the common room, trying not to stretch my stitched leg. Twelve stitches, not bad.
Gunner was at me, cigar unlit and stabbing. "You did good. Never back away from a gangbanger. No profit in it."
I shrugged. "I couldn't let Flats fight all by himself." I had ridden to the clubhouse that morning, gingerly using my left leg to shift gears. It felt like every press and pull tugged at the stitches.
Gunner wheezed. "You showed your strength; they won't be back for a while, likely."
"I was more worried about my bike."
The chaplain's head leaned back and he launched a wheezing laugh towards the ceiling.
Gripper joined us. "Sure wish I'd been there."
Sonar melted into the small gathering from the background. "The four of them are being charged with aggravated assault. All were carrying knives."
Gunner grunted. "Likely the only one that will stick is the stabber that got Jimmy, here."
Sonar nodded. "They might be trying for a plea bargain."
Dealer came out and headed to us. "Jimmy."
I felt honored to have the president address me. "Yeah?"
"Good work; the club will pay for your ambulance and hospital fees."
I felt a huge wave of relief roll through me. "Thanks, Dealer."
He was looking at me with a very critical look. "Keep up the good work." Then he was gone.
~ ~ ~
I settled back into my routine, even if my leg was stiff and hurting. Eventually, the damned thing just itched like a motherfucker and was distracting as all hell.
The Triple Shot had an altercation. I worried needlessly, but frantically, as word filtered through the club's members and workers about the attempt by two cars of gangbangers to make an impression. The response by the club had been overwhelming and swift. Kristy was safe.
The local paper, the Keystone Gazette, reported that the local outlaw bikers had repulsed two attacks on the town by gang members. The club was cheering the unusual positive press, even if the violence was abhorred in print. It was apparently very rare to get good press.
Dealer, however, passed through all our jubilation and celebratory drinks with admonitions: "Don't drop your guard. The Feds might be up to something. Keep an extra watchful eye out."
I asked Gunner later. "Why the animosity with the feds? Aren’t they against gangs?"
The chaplain wheezed and stabbed his cigar at my chest. "Jimmy, sometimes I think you are so naïvely innocent that Jesus could take lessons from you."
"Huh? Me?"
"The government has many agencies."
"Yeah?"
He squinted at me. "They each have their own agenda."
"What're you talking about?"
Smoke was list
ening, so was Wallet and the hang-around Chuck.
It was Smoke who intervened in the convo. "Some feds have an agenda. They'll identify a target and pursue beyond evidence just to justify their expenditure of resources."
I said, "Why would they do that?"
Smoke was a fairly attractive lady who over-used mascara. She said, "Imagine spending a million dollars of your budget and getting nothing, So you tell your bosses, 'Just a little more; we almost got them' and suddenly you have a crusade. A little more money, a little more time. A little more money..."
I sat back, gob-smacked that things could be so simply stupid. I almost said, "Are you serious?" But I bit my tongue; Smoke was Sonar's girlfriend and from what I had gathered, people here were always serious about serious subjects. Being questioned was an insult.
She continued. "When the expenditure of resources becomes so great, the momentum to produce results can consume all else. So more money is spent pursuing it. To find something, anything. No matter how small."
I chuckled, shaking my head. It sounded so perfectly true. Kristy was sitting on the left arm of my chair. Angela wandered in, looking warm in her clothing, and sat on the right arm of my chair. She didn't touch me otherwise and Kristy didn't seem bothered.
Smoke finished, "Get an idea in some director's head and the whole agency falls down the deep pit of desperation to make their idea happen."
I tossed up both hands, feeling happy that a few people were actually paying attention to me. Maybe it was my injury. "How do you fight this?"
Gunner said, "Stay true."
I know what he meant. But I blew out a breath in frustration.
Miguel, the prospect, said, "Maybe we should make an alliance with the Surenos."
Viking immediately shot out his finger, from ten paces away. "Fuck the Mexicans!" His scowl was fierce. "No alliance with gangs! They don't ride."
Gunner agreed. "Alliances with street gangs aren't unheard of, but usually only for the purposes of moving drugs. We don't deal drugs."
I had suspected the Iron Crows didn't, based on things I had gathered from Dealer and Gunner before. Hearing it reaffirmed made me feel good. I said, "It's no wonder you all don't like to be called a gang."
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