by Naomi West
“If one of these things kills me, I’ll count myself lucky.” He strikes a match and starts puffing.
“Fair enough. Give me one, then.”
We smoke together for a while, waiting for Shotgun.
“What’s all this about, anyway?” Adams asks after a while. He bows sarcastically, wriggling his flaring white eyebrows. “You are our lord and savior, after all, the vice president of this crock of shit.”
“Seriously, if you talk to the boys like that—”
“You’ll break my fingers. I know. I don’t. Stop your damn worrying.”
“Shotgun’s got us a meeting,” I say. “Protection or somethin’ like that. Not sure yet.”
“You have faith in him,” Adams says.
“He hasn’t failed me, not once.”
“Yet.”
“Well, sure, yet. Everyone’s yet, ain’t they?”
“If I ever write a book of poetry, that’ll be the first line.”
“Hurry up and die, will you? We’re all waiting on it.”
Adams laughs from his throat, a sound more cough than laugh, and then smokes half his cigarette in one puff. “I remember when Shotgun brought you in here, lad. Sixteen years old, a wild animal more’n a child, fists covered in blood from where you tooled up two of our guys, men, full-grown men, just tooled them up like it was nothing.”
“I was there,” I say, remembering. “I don’t need the history lesson.”
“What’s an old man for, eh?” Adams aims a crooked finger at me. “If I can’t give you history lessons, what do you suggest I do?”
I click my neck from side to side. “Where the fuck has Shotgun got to?”
“Who knows these days? I’ve never seen a man go so mad over some pussy.”
“Careful. That’s his fiancée you’re talking about.”
Adams holds his hands up. “This Red Fist, Rocco, apparently he’s killed fifty men, maybe more. I heard that he served overseas and collected scalps. He’s Old Testament, if the stories are true.”
“What,” I say, leaning forward, “and I’m not?”
I hold Adams’ gaze for a moment, and then both of us laugh gruffly.
The door opens and Shotgun walks in. When I was sixteen and he was twenty-eight, he seemed like a giant to me. He seemed like an old man. He seemed like something out of a storybook (not that I’d read many of them). It was only as I got older that I realized he was young when he found me on the streets, and a head shorter than me to boot. It’s strange how I never noticed that, since I stopped growing at around eighteen and I must’ve always been his height, or taller. But that’s because he was the only dad I ever knew. He’s around five eleven, broad-shouldered, with shaggy ginger hair and squinty green eyes. He wears his Seven Sinners leather, always wears it. Maybe that’s why I always wear mine, too.
He nods to Jerry, and then Adams, and then gestures for me to join him in his office. I stand up and nod down at Adams. “Don’t smoke too much, old man,” I say.
“Too much be damned,” he croaks, dropping the butt into the ashtray and lighting another.
I laugh and then go into Shotgun’s office. There’s a picture of me and him above his desk, standing side by side on my eighteenth birthday, me wearing my new leather and standing next to my new Harley, the one Shotgun bought me when I became a bonafide member of the club.
“Sorry I’m late,” Shotgun says, which niggles me. Shotgun never used to apologize.
“Boss.” I nod shortly.
“Women troubles, you know how it can be. And financial troubles. All rolled into one. Too many troubles to count. But it’s all worth it, though. More than worth it.” His squinty eyes go wide and dreamy. “She really is something else, Rocco.”
I repress a sigh. I remind myself of who this man is, of all he’s done for me, of where I would be without him. “I’m sure she is, boss.” I’m not sure of that, in truth. I’ve only met Cecilia a handful of times and found her a normal-looking normal-seeming woman with her dyed hair and short skirts, not that much different from one of the club girls. Apparently she comes from some posh fancy-pants family, but she doesn’t seem like it. “What about this meeting?” I ask, when Shotgun just stares off into space.
“Oh, yeah.” He clicks his fingers. “The meeting. Fuck, it slipped my mind. Her dad isn’t paying for the wedding anymore. Doesn’t give a fuck about tradition.”
I wave a hand. “Pay for it yourself, then. That’s no big deal.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Shotgun says. “The man’s lucky he’s my future father-in-law.”
The talk of family annoys me, reminds me . . .
I say, “So who’re we meeting with?”
“Some small-time gang,” Shotgun says. “Small-time, but worth taking seriously. They’ve got some lethal motherfuckers working with them, if my source ain’t screwing me around. Let me call the guy and we’ll rearrange. We’ve stood them up.”
I bristle, but say nothing. “We’ve” stood them up, like I was the one putting a woman before business. Shotgun arranges for two of their men to come by the clubhouse.
“I need to make a call,” he says when he’s done. He nods at the door.
“Boss.”
I leave the office and return to the bar, sitting at Adams’ table. Roger Smith has joined him, a man a lot of the boys call Beast since he’s about seven feet tall and vicious in a fight. We drink in near-silence for a while and then two scrawny, meth-head-looking men walk into the bar. A few minutes later, me and Shotgun and the meth-heads are in Shotgun’s office, talking business.
“My name is Daniel One, and this is Daniel Two.”
“Don’t use any of that codeword bullshit with us,” I say. “What’re your names?”
The man calling himself Daniel One shifts from foot to foot, and then says, “I’m Philip and this is Liam.”
Philip is a bald man with a tattoo of a dragon on the crown of his head, the wings spreading down past his ears. He wears a grimy shirt that was once checkered and stinks of beer. Liam is a short, dirty-haired rat-looking man with whiskers like pubic hair and watery eyes. After about ten seconds I can tell these aren’t the lethal men Shotgun thinks they are, but he seems oblivious to it, waving at them to sit down, and even shaking their hands.
I swallow my feelings and sit down next to him. It ain’t my place to question Shotgun. That’s never been my place.
“What’s your proposal?” Shotgun says, but he doesn’t look at Philip or Liam. He doesn’t even look at me. He looks at the wall, and I can tell he’s not thinking about these guys or what they have to say. He’s thinking about his wedding. It’s been this way for weeks. I wish they’d hurry the damn thing up so that he’d focus on his work again.
“The Crooked Demons have a shipment of meth coming in the day after tomorrow,” Philip says, stroking his dragon’s wing. “We’re going to steal it. We’d like to hire somebody for protection. We don’t want anything going wrong, you know?”
“Nothing going wrong,” Liam agrees, twitching nervously.
“Something’s wrong with you already.” I nod at Liam. “Why do you want that meth, to use yourself?”
Philip ignores me, talking to Shotgun. “We can pay one and a half times the standard rate.”
“Twice the standard rate,” Shotgun mutters. “And maybe we can talk. The Crooked Demons aren’t anything to joke about.”
“Who’s joking?” Philip says. “Twice it is, then.”
“Okay, we have a deal.”
“Wait a sec,” I say. I try and keep my voice respectful. Shotgun is in charge. I can’t ever forget that. “We need more details before we shake on it.”
“Come on,” Philip says, appealing to Shotgun.
“The fuck you looking at me like that for?” Shotgun growls, some of his old bite coming back into him. “My VP says he needs some information.”
I get it all out of him. They’re going to hit the warehouse in the window between the initial del
ivery and the meth being moved, and they need protection because some of their guys aren’t very experienced. They’ll pay upfront, too, which makes Shotgun’s eyes go as wide as saucers. I guess a man who’s got a wedding to pay for likes hearing things like that. It’s even enough to make him ignore the short notice. They’re going to hit it in under two hours.
“I’ll pick one of the guys to lead the protection gang,” Shotgun says. “Maybe Beast.”
He really isn’t here at all, I reflect. Beast is a terrible choice to lead a job like this. “I’ll lead it,” I say. “Make sure it’s done right.”
Shotgun nods. “All right. Be careful, and if there are any Crooked Demons, don’t hesitate.”
I return to the bar once the details are sorted out, sitting in a corner alone and nursing a bottle of whisky. There was a time when Shotgun would’ve led it himself, and not that long ago. What—a year, less? Before he met his fiancée. A man can’t talk shit about another man’s woman. That’s just not how it works. But I also can’t close my eyes to reality.
As I get drunk, I get a feeling in my belly, a feeling that something terrible is going to happen.
Chapter Three
Simone
Cecilia’s fingers tap her phone keyboard at lightning speed. She’s always been able to text like that, ever since we got one of those big block phones for our tenth birthdays, the ones with Snake on them, and she mastered the chunky texting by the end of the day while I was still tinkering with the settings. Mom and Dad might think Cecilia is stupid, but they’re wrong. As long as it suits her wants, she’s an expert at anything.
I take us to a mall on the outskirts of the city, the flashing lights of Vegas nothing but a dream this early in the morning. It’s spring and the sun is unflinching, the sky clear and blue. I blast the AC during the whole trip.
“His name isn’t Shotgun,” she says. “Not his real name, anyway. Mom and Dad are so stupid sometimes. His name is Sam, Sam McGee, but of course you know that. It’s just—they’re so annoying about the whole thing. It’s like I’ve dragged a corpse into the living room or something. It’s like I’ve spit in their faces.”
“To them, you have.” She shoots me a look. I shrug. “It’s the truth. You know what they’re like.”
“Just because Grandad was some big important man, they think they’re big important people. It’s pathetic.”
“Dad runs a business, too,” I say, feeling defensive. I always get defensive when they argue. The worst part is I get defensive for everybody, so I end up intercepting more insults than any one person can handle.
Cecilia makes a snorting noise as we sit at a red light. “With money Grandad gave him.”
“You were going to pay for your wedding with money Dad gave you. I went to college with money Mom and Dad gave me. If you start keeping track of who gives who money in a family, you’ll never be done. Even poor families give each other money. It’s called being family.”
“So I should feel blessed because I was born into a family most people hate?”
“People only hate us if we flaunt it. The last time I checked, we’ve never done that.”
“But Mom and Dad do!” Cecilia snaps. “With Mom’s pearl necklaces and her earrings and her theater shows and all the rest of it! I mean . . . did you see them, earlier? Who goes to a theater show at eleven in the morning? It’s sad.”
“They’re watching a rehearsal. Dad knows the director’s father’s brother . . . or something.”
“See? Sad!”
I bite my lip, not knowing what to say. I just want to go back to my apartment and zone out, read a novel, watch a documentary, take a long bath. But I know Cecilia. If I go home now, she’ll just get angrier and angrier about Mom and Dad and do something stupid. She might even go to the courthouse and disown them as parents. When Cecilia and anger are involved, anything is possible.
“Are you excited to get your dress?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say dryly. “You know how much I love getting dressed up.”
She thumps me in the arm. “Well, you’re going to have to love it. For me. I won’t take no for an answer. Do you remember prom night?”
I pull into the mall’s parking lot. “I remember prom night,” I say.
I walked into my bedroom to find Cecilia leaning over my long pink dress with some haircutting scissors in her hand, hacking away at the knees. “You don’t want to look like an old lady, do you?” she asked me. “Come on, let’s have some fun!” In the end I had to wear one of Mom’s dresses, held together with clips. Everything was going fine until the clips came loose on a fast song, and my date—a boy I hardly knew at all, really—fell away from me laughing.
“I was Balloon Girl for the rest of the night,” I remind Cecilia as we climb from the car.
“Oh yeah,” she says, nodding slowly. “I remember now. For some reason I always think that story has a happy ending.”
“That’s because it does for you,” I say. “You went home with Richard Whatever His Name Was and lost your virginity on an old couch. Hooray for you.”
“How dare you!” Cecilia snaps, causing several people to turn and face us. “It was a futon.” She marches at the automatic doors.
“Excuse me,” I say, catching up with her. “Please accept my sincerest apologies.”
She says nothing, taking out her phone and texting, forcing me to guide her out of the way of pillars and people because she won’t look up. “Shotgun is annoyed,” she says. “But he says he’ll pay. I suggested that we should just elope. We’re in Vegas, so why not? I said it as a joke to Mom and Dad, but seriously, why not?”
“That’s not funny,” I say. I sit us down on a bench opposite Cecilia’s favorite clothes store.
“Who said I’m joking?” She drops her phone into her pocket. “I’m dead serious, Mona. I don’t see why I should force Shotgun to do the whole dog and pony show if those stuffy idiots won’t even show up.”
“I wish you wouldn’t insult them,” I say. “It makes me angry at you, and I’ve never enjoyed being angry at you.”
“How is it my fault? I never asked them to smell their own farts, did I?”
“They’ll come to the wedding,” I say. “I know they will. You talk about Grandad. Well, remember how much Grandad loved his family. He passed that down to Dad. I know he did. Dad won’t miss it.”
“Mom will,” Cecilia says.
“Maybe,” I agree. “Yeah, maybe Mom will.”
“Oh, by the way.” Cecilia stands up. “At two o’clock we’re meeting Shotgun and the best man for lunch.” She disappears into the store, where the smiling, suited attendant welcomes her in.
I chase after her. “Hey! What do you mean, we’re having lunch? I didn’t agree to that.”
“Isn’t this just lovely?” Cecilia lifts up a dress I would never choose on my own, hot pink and cut at what seems like the panties.
“You didn’t tell me about lunch,” I say.
“Or this.” She picks up another dress, this one somehow shorter.
“Ceci!” I grab her wrist.
“Wow,” she says. “You haven’t called me Ceci since we were seventeen. I thought you were too high and mighty for that now.”
“For God’s sake . . .”
“You sound like Mom when you say that.”
“You didn’t tell me about lunch. When I agreed to be your maid of honor, it was under the condition that I wouldn’t have to meet with the bikers, or go to the clubhouse, or anything like that. That was my one condition.”
“What do you want me to do?” she says. “I’m having lunch with Shotgun, and he’s bringing his best man. Do you want me to fuck both of them?” She raises her voice, not caring when the cashier and the attendant look over, while pretending not to look over. “I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you, me bending over and taking one in the ass and one in the—”
“Okay!” I interrupt, even though I know what she’s doing. “Fine, I’ll come.”
“Anyway, you don’t need to be weird about it. Look. Let me show you something. The Seven Sinners did a bit of a joke last year, a topless calendar. They gave the money to a homeless children’s charity.” She shows me her phone.
The man’s hair is short, spiky, black. His eyes are so dark, they look as black as his hair. His features are sharp, the sort of features that make me wonder what his face looks like in different expressions. Right now he is staring blankly, and yet there is something in his face, a hint of a roguish smile. But the thing I notice most is that he’s shirtless, and his body is incredible. His chest is huge, his pectoral muscles bulging, his abs are a sheet of ridged muscle, and his arms are a series of massive round muscles. He looks like he could lift me up with one hand and think nothing of it. I even think about what it’d be like, having this man lift me up. The scar across his chest intrigues me, a pale line from nipple to nipple.