I looked at the ivory handled razor. “And a straight razor?”
“My dad gave me that one.”
“You’ve got more?”
“I collect them.”
“But you carry it?”
“Everywhere I go.”
I surveyed the pile of personal items. There were no keys.
“You don’t have any keys,” I said.
“Bike’s at the shop.”
“Where’s the shop?”
“Oceanside.”
“That’s what? Eighty miles?”
He shrugged. “Ninety.”
“Long taxi ride.”
He grabbed his jeans, boots, and shirt. “It’s a longer walk.” He tilted his head toward the bathroom. “Is that locked?”
“No.”
“Be right back.”
In a moment, he emerged from the bathroom. The difference was overwhelming. Wearing dark washed denim jeans, the bracelets, a wife beater, and boots, he took a few steps toward me. Inspecting his straight razor as he walked, it seemed he was a different person. Without looking up, he slipped it into his back pocket.
He rubbed his growth of beard, glanced at me, and grinned. His beard no longer looked out of place, it was sexy. It seemed his tattoos were more colorful. He raised his hands over his head, stretched, and popped his back. As he lowered his arms, he hooked his right thumb in the pocket of his jeans and cocked his hip slightly.
Just like in the book.
I looked him over with eager eyes. He was no longer inmate Reynolds.
He was Becker Wallace.
I became flustered and my face went flush. I tore my eyes away from him and fixed my gaze on the doors ahead of me. “Are you, uhhm. Are you…are you ready?” I stammered.
“Suppose so.”
“Follow me.”
I led him through the doors, and to the front steps of the wing. “That’s Bauchet Street. It leads to Vignes. Vignes will take you to--”
“I know my way out of here.” He inhaled a deep breath, tilted his head back and let it out. He looked at me. “What time you get off work?”
I checked my watch. “An hour and ten minutes.”
“I owe you a ride and a cup of coffee,” he said. “Pick me up at the corner of Vignes and Cesar Chaves, and I’ll add dinner.”
“Done,” I said without hesitation. “I’ll be there and 3:35.”
He walked halfway down the steps and then turned around. “See you then, Officer Madden.”
It dawned on me that he didn’t even know my name.
“Bobbi.” I smiled. “Call me Bobbi.”
Chapter Two Hundred Twenty-Five
Tate
I leaned against the light post and watched the cars pass for almost an hour. It came as no surprise that no one offered me a ride. I wondered if I was dressed differently if someone would have. If I didn’t have tattoos. If my face was shaved clean and my hair was neatly combed.
My first tattoos were on my forearms. I got them in hope of warning those who would otherwise want to strike up a conversation not to bother. It discouraged a few, but not everyone. It seemed the ink was an invitation for people to ask me questions about the tattoo’s meaning or my thought process in getting them. The more ink I got, the fewer questions were asked. Now? People avoided me like the plague.
The unmistakable sound from a muscle car’s exhaust caused me to look up. A black 1971 Chevelle with white racing stripes came around the corner at the end of the block. The rumpity-rump from the racing cam and the sound of more than four hundred horsepower from the big block Chevy engine was music to my ears. One of my all-time favorite cars, the iconic machine was on my bucket list of things to own one day.
The engine accelerated, paused, and then accelerated again after the driver shifted gears. I gawked in admiration at the quality of the bodywork and the mirror-like reflection the black paint provided.
The driver shifted another gear. There was no showboating, no spinning the tires, and no overrevving the engine. It was apparent the owner admired the car as much as I did. Completely lost in admiring the piece of machinery, I gazed blankly as the car approached. When it rolled to a stop at my side, I blinked a few times and stared in disbelief.
The passenger side window opened halfway.
“Hey mister, want a ride?”
I wiped my hands on the thighs of my jeans and reached for the door handle. After opening the door and peering inside, I realized traffic was backing up behind her.
I hopped inside and pulled the door closed. “Holy fucking shit. This thing is spotless.”
Her mouth curled into a prideful grin. Her dirty blond hair was no longer twisted into a bun. It was loose, curly, and tumbled over her shoulders and onto her chest. Wearing a fitted Heather Gray dress with pink accent stripes, she looked nothing like she did at work, and everything like I imagined she would.
She checked over her shoulder, saw a break in traffic, and let out the clutch. As the car lurched forward, she pressed the gas and merged into the long line of cars.
“My dad gave it to me as a graduation gift.”
The interior of the car looked – and smelled – new. “Whoever restored it did a great job.”
“He did it. Even the paint work.”
I buckled my seatbelt and then shot her a look. “Your dad?”
“Every nut, every bolt. In his shop.”
“Holy shit. What did he do for a living?”
She grinned. “Restored muscle cars. He retired a few years ago.”
“That’s a shame he retired. There’s not very many men around that do work like this.” I wiped my hand along the dash. “It’s a lost art. Everyone wants a BMW or a Benz these days. No one wants to spend sixty grand on a Chevelle.”
As she merged into the freeway’s traffic, she pressed a cassette in the cassette player. After a few seconds of silence, the Chi Lites Oh Girl began to play.
The song took me back to my childhood. Although it wasn’t of my era, my father listened to it when I was a kid. He believed all of the good music was recorded prior to the 1980’s. His record collection and turntable came into my possession upon my parent’s passing, and I listened to his records while I wrote.
“I love this song,” I said.
“It was one of my mom’s favorites.” She laughed and motioned behind her. “My dad made this mix tape for me. It’s a bunch of her favorite songs.”
I glanced over my shoulder. A large case of what I assumed was cassettes sat in the center of the rear seat.
“No CD player, no iPod, and no automatic transmission.” I closed my eyes and became immersed in the music. “This is fucking awesome.”
“Are you like Becker Wallace? Do you hate technology?”
I opened my eyes and looked at her. “I don’t hate it. I just haven’t embraced it yet.”
“Will you?”
“Why don’t you have a CD player or some Bluetooth bullshit?” I asked.
“It wouldn’t be era correct,” she said. “My father would crucify me if I did.”
“I’m going to fight it as long as I can. For now, I like my life just the way it is. If I want to do a status update, I roll into the shop and announce it.”
She chuckled. “That’s funny.”
The song ended, and Bob Dylan’s Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door began. “You know what? Things were simple back then. A man just lived his life, had whatever he surrounded himself with at his disposal, and didn’t have to worry about being inundated with everything that happened on earth. If some kid got shot by a cop in Mississippi, people in that town knew about it, but the world didn’t. Now, anything that happens is plastered all over the internet. Instantly, people are depressed about something they’d otherwise know nothing about. I can’t see that there’s any good that comes from it.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Awareness?”
“Awareness of what?” I laughed. “That mankind has the capacity to be evil? Cane proved that long a
go. Now we’ve got Blue Whale Challenges that encourage people to commit suicide, Facebook live feeds of people drowning or being shot by cops, and kids with smart phones recording car wrecks and watching people die instead of administering aid. I want it to be 1960 again.”
I looked at her. Her eyes shifted back and forth between the road and me. I waved my hand toward the cassette player. “Right now? It’s about as close as it can get. That’s why I ride a bike, don’t have a smart phone, and don’t use social media. For me, it’ll always be 1960. Close as I can get, anyway.”
She smiled. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Are you Becker Wallace?”
I snickered. “Pretty much.”
She nodded lightly. “I thought so.”
The songs of the 1970’s continued to play, each of which were on my list of favorites. I found it awkwardly reassuring that we shared the same taste in music and that she was driving my dream car.
One day, when I hit it big, I’d own a 1970’s Chevelle. For the time being, I’d decided to simply sit back and enjoy Mr. Madden’s handiwork.
As we rolled down highway 5, just outside of San Clemente, I recalled the day I went for a ride while I was writing the book. It was the day I realized who Becker Wallace was. For me, it was the turning point. The day the book made sense to me. Every book I’d written had one, but, no differently than the readers, I was in the dark until that moment came.
I gazed out the window, fixed my eyes on the ocean, and mouthed the words to The Weight, by The Band.
My mind drifted to thoughts of how things had changed for my closest friends, for the club, and for our future. Most of the men had Ol’ Ladies, kids, or kids on the way. The club’s biggest rival, Satan’s Savages, was now defunct.
It was the dawn of a new generation, no doubt.
The thought of the men having families, commitments, and loyalty outside the club was oddly rewarding. Knowing the men as well as I did, I realized in some ways, the commitment of a relationship and of a family would take each of them back to the 1960s.
Kids gathering at Cholo’s house playing baseball and running along the beach. I could see our resident surfer, Pee Bee, teaching them to surf.
“Which Oceanside exit?” she asked.
I looked at her, unaware that we’d made the entire trip. It seemed like only minutes had passed. “54-A”
She changed lanes. “Almost missed it. Where from here?’
“Follow it to Mission, and then hang a left.”
I gazed out the window as she drove through town. It seemed I was seeing everything for the first time. During my recent trip to prison, something had changed, that much was clear. I didn’t know exactly what it was, or why. The not knowing troubled me.
Maybe with MS-13 being gone from our city, and Satan’s Savages now locked away for a lifetime, I realized our club could simply exist doing what we did best.
Living each day as if it was our last.
I pointed to the left. “Turn here. It’s right here on the left. Cream colored building.”
Her eyes went wide. “I’m guessing they know you’re coming.”
“I called ahead, yeah.”
Amidst eighteen Harleys, seventeen men, and half a dozen Ol’ Ladies, she rolled to a stop. “Do they know I’m coming?”
“They do now.” I opened my door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you.”
Chapter Two Hundred Twenty-Six
Bobbi
I opened the door and stepped out of the car. The building’s open garage door gave full view to the sea of motorcycles that were neatly parked inside.
I knew why, too. Crip made them park inside so no one would know who was there, and who wasn’t. If you wanted to know, you needed to pull in and see for yourself. If you did, you’d have to face the wrath of him and his sidekick, Bones.
The dozen or so men that were gathered in the building didn’t capture my complete attention. It was the five men that stood in the afternoon sun, leaning against the outside of the building. Wearing jeans, boots, and their kuttes, they resembled one another in dress, but were different in their appearance and age.
I told myself not to stare, but it was more difficult than one might think. I didn’t have to be told their names, I felt like we were already acquainted. I’d been through hell and back with those five men.
We were twenty feet from them, but Tate’s descriptions of the men were spot on. In the center, with salt and pepper hair, and a few day’s growth of beard, stood Crip, the president.
To the right of Crip, the 6’-8” Sergeant-at-Arms and resident teddy bear, Bones, stood with a smirk on his face.
Beside Bones, Nut Bucket paced back and forth, nervously smoking a cigarette like it was his last. His eyes met mine for an instant, and then he looked away.
To Crip’s left, the former boxer of Hispanic-Irish heritage, Chico, reached for his ball cap. He gave a slight nod and tugged against the bill. Upon seeing it, I almost cried. He did it in the book when he was nervous or felt uncomfortable. I wondered if the scene where he was tortured by the Mexican gang was real, or made up.
Beside Chico, the last of the six men who graced the pages of TD’s books stood. He was a loner of sorts, and had a daughter who he raised on his own. I enjoyed Smiley’s dry sense of humor, and seeing his close friendship with Nut Bucket. I wondered if anyone really vaped as much as he did in the books. It seemed he always had that thing in his hand. Blowing vapor in Crip’s face just to get a reaction.
As Tate walked to my side, Chico took a step in our direction. Seeing his slight limp caused a lump to rise in my throat. I imagined his captors smashing his feet with a hammer.
Towering over the other men, the Sergeant-at-Arms took a few steps in our direction.
Please, don’t say it. Tell me at least that part was a lie. If I hear you say ‘what’s shakin’, motherfucker’, I just might break down.
He opened his arms and grinned at Tate. “What’s shakin’ motherfucker?”
My knees wobbled.
It was his signature greeting. When the men saved Chico from the Hispanic gang, he said it as he lifted Chico to his feet. Those three words, alone, brought me to tears.
“C’mon,” Tate said. “They won’t bite.”
“Fellas, I want you to meet someone,” he said. “This is Bobbi. Bobbi, this is Pee Bee.”
I shook the hand of the man I knew as Bones. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Same here.” He waved his massive arm toward my car. “Like the car.”
“Thank you.”
“The ugly fucker’s Crip,” Tate said.
Crip shook my hand. “Thanks for getting him home in one piece. That car’s pretty slick.”
“It was the least I could do, and thank you.”
As he pulled his arm away, I looked at his right bicep. If the books were real in their depictions of the men, he’d have a SEAL Trident.
My heart skipped a beat as he turned to the side, revealing the eagle, anchor, and pitchfork tattoo.
“This is Cholo,” Tate said, waving his hand toward the book character I knew as Chico, the former Golden Gloves boxer.
I shook his hand. “I’m honored.”
He smiled and tugged against the bill of his cap. “Appreciate you giving him a ride.”
“No problem.”
“And, these two fools are Smokey and P-Nut,” he said.
P-Nut blew a huge cloud of smoke to the side and stepped toward me. After shaking my hand and giving a nervous nod, he shuffled toward the building and began pacing back and forth.
Smokey shifted his vape from his right hand to his left, and then extended his hand. I couldn’t help but notice the green dragon tattoo that covered his right arm, just like in the book. I wondered if he really had a snake tattooed on his stomach. I doubted it. After all, they were his worst fear.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
He grinned. “Likewise.”
Crip cr
ossed his arms over his chest and looked at Tate. “Heard a rumor that there was an unfortunate incident while you were in there. Any truth to it?”
Tate nodded. “One of Satan’s Savages men was killed. Other than that, it was smooth sailing.”
I froze in my tracks.
Satan’s Savages?
In the books, the Dirty Diablos were undoubtedly a portrayal of the Filthy Fuckers. The Dirty Diablos rival club was called the Savage Sinners MC. My guess was that the Savage Sinners MC was really Satan’s Savages.
If the Dirty Diablos were an accurate depiction of the Filthy Fuckers, and it sure seemed they were, I doubted it was ironic that one of the Filthy Fuckers came to prison for a day, and a member of their rival gang was killed while he was there.
My guess was that the Filthy Fuckers were every bit the vigilante group that the Dirty Diablos were. In book one, Crip’s Ol’ Lady, Taylor, was beaten by the Savages in retaliation for Crip beating two of their members in a bar fight.
Bones hunted each of them down and cut off their hands.
Their acts of retribution throughout the series didn’t make light of violence or condone it, it simply used violent acts to administer the justice where it was due.
I stared blankly at Tate.
I recalled what Turner said. Prison justice is blind to loopholes, legal restrictions, and limitations. Inside the walls, the men get no less than what they have coming to them.
Darin Wheatland got what he had coming. Only someone on the outside could have found out about the deal he was cutting with the DA.
Tate was that man.
It didn’t bother me to think that it may have been Tate that killed Wheatland. In fact, it filled me with an ironic sense of pride. Knowing that I stood amongst the real Dirty Diablos was an honor.
Strangely, as Crip and Tate talked, I didn’t feel out of place. I simply stood and put the pieces of the puzzle together, feeling all the while that I was fortunate to have met the man who I’d grown to love as being Becker Wallace.
“Be right back,” Tate said.
I smiled. “Okay.”
He walked into the building, and then returned, wearing his kutte. His patch read Meathead, and I wondered how he got the name.
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