by Zoey Parker
I walked out of the bar, seeing Rosie standing at the end of the line of bikes out front. Sperm, Boomer, and Bard walked out with me.
“I gotta go,” Boomer said. “I'm already late for my gig. Good luck.”
“Thanks for going to get her, and for taking care of her,” I said to Boomer as I straddled Rosie and strapped my helmet on. “I know it's more than I deserve, and I appreciate it. I'll do everything I can to end this quick.”
“Well, you won't be doing it alone,” Sperm said, mounting another bike and putting on his own helmet as Bard did likewise. I remembered that Bard used to ride a gorgeous Vincent Black Shadow, and I almost asked him what happened to it, but I figured this wasn't the time.
“Listen, guys, I'm grateful for the help,” I began, “but...”
“We're not doing this for your gratitude,” Bard said, starting up his bike. “We're doing it so we can make sure it's done, and done properly. I wouldn't even be bringing Sperm, except that he's the MC's Treasurer which means right now, he's the closest thing I've got to another ranking officer in the Reapers.”
Sperm glanced away for a moment, embarrassed.
“If this thing had gone the way it was supposed to go,” Bard continued, “no one wearing a Reaper patch would have been within a mile of it. But since we're involved now whether we want to be or not, I figure the sitting president of the MC should be present at this transaction to lend it weight and credibility. And unless you're in the mood to lose several of your front teeth over the next minute or so, concussion be damned, I suggest you shut up and ride.”
Bard revved his bike and rode south with Sperm right behind him. I gunned my engine and followed, hoping I could still fix this and find some way to get back on Bard's good side. I'd spent most of my life without a father, but Bard was the closest thing I'd had, and his disapproval felt like a knife in my heart.
Something else was bothering me, too. When Jewel had asked why we didn't hand the file over to the other Mafia families so they could handle it themselves, I had told the truth about my reasons. But it hadn't been the whole truth.
Deep down, I knew that I was doing this because I needed to end Jester myself. I needed my payback if I was ever going to be able to give things a chance with Jewel. Otherwise, I'd be starting off with that hole inside myself, wondering if I'd ever be whole enough to know who I really was with her.
I could only make sense to myself if I finished this my way. I could only know peace if I watched the light go out of Jester's eyes and knew that I'd sent him to hell myself.
We rode down to Belmont Harbor, the wide cement cove just off the upscale neighborhood of East Lakeview. This was where the wealthier people in Chicago kept their boats docked during the warmer months. The sunlight sparkled on the deep blue waters of Lake Michigan and families walked down the docks together, loading coolers full of snacks and drinks onto their boats so they could take them out to watch the fireworks later.
We parked our bikes a short distance from the harbor and started to stroll down the docks. A few people shot us weird looks since our biker clothes made us look a little out of place, but most of them were too busy laughing and playing around in their boats to notice us.
“So what are we looking for, exactly?” Sperm asked. “It's not like they'll be flying a flag with their stupid symbol on it.”
“I wouldn't be too sure about that,” Bard said, pointing.
We looked at what Bard was pointing at, and saw it was a huge white yacht with tinted windows. The flag it was flying had a medusa head in the center of three bent legs, and three stalks of wheat. The name on the hull was The Pride of Palermo.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I said. “It couldn't be this easy, could it? If the feds know they've got a yacht out here and it's this goddamn obvious, why haven't they come and arrested them by now?”
“Maybe the feds don't have enough hard evidence on them,” Bard answered. “Maybe they do, but they've been paid off. Maybe the Thorns are just hiding in plain sight. No way to know for sure.”
“Well, now what are we supposed to do? Just walk up to the boat, knock, and ask for Jester?”
Bard thought for a moment, smirked, and shrugged. “I can't think of a better plan than that, unless you feel like it'd be best to just spray the boat with bullets, lob a grenade or two in there, and run off. That might ruin a few bystanders' holiday plans, though. So let's approach them nice and slow, like we're the neighborhood Welcome Wagon.”
Bard started walking toward the yacht. Sperm and I exchanged an are-you-kidding-me look, then rushed to follow him. “Be ready for anything,” Sperm muttered to me, reaching behind his waist to brush his fingertips against the handle of his pistol.
We marched over to the gangway connecting the boat to the dock just as a fat, sweaty middle-aged man in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt walked up it. He was carrying two canvas folding chairs under his arm and hauling a styrofoam cooler by its plastic handle. He had close-cropped graying hair and dark skin.
“Yo, Giuseppe!” the man called up to the boat. “I got three more chairs in the van. You wanna send the boys down to gimme a hand with 'em or what?”
“Hey there!” Bard called out to him cheerfully. “You need a hand getting those up to the boat?”
The man looked at Bard and smiled. “Hey, yeah, that'd be great! Thanks, man.” He turned and bellowed up to the boat again. “Never mind, Giuseppe! You go ahead an' keep sittin' on yer ass, you fat friggin'...” He trailed off, shaking his head.
Bard looked at us and jerked his head toward the man. I stepped forward and grabbed the cooler while Boomer took one of the chairs. Bard took the other and we carried them up to the top of the gangway.
“Thanks a bunch, fellas, I really appreciate it,” the man said, digging into the pocket of his cargo shorts. “Here, lemme give youse a little somethin' for yer trouble...”
“No need,” Bard said, holding up a hand. “We're just happy to help. You guys heading out to look at the fireworks?”
“Yeah, me an' the boys have been lookin' forward to this fer weeks,” the man replied exuberantly. “We been workin' real hard, so now it's time to reward ourselves. A little grillin', a little Uncle Sam, maybe even a little bit o' this if they behave themselves.” He reached into the cooler and rummaged under the ice, producing two bottles of beer. “Can I tempt ya? We got plenty.”
“No, thank you,” Bard said. “Very nice of you to offer, though.”
He mopped his sweaty brow with his short sleeve, then extended his big, meaty palm to Bard. “Well hey, happy Fourth, huh? Name's Antonio. Pleased to meetcha.”
“The pleasure's all ours,” Bard replied, shaking his hand. “My name's Bard, and this is Rafe and Sid.” I stifled a laugh. It wasn't like Bard could introduce him as “Sperm,” after all.
“With them vests an' patches yer wearin', I guess youse guys are bikers, huh?” Antonio asked. “I always heard you fellas was supposed to be real patriotic types. Are you here collectin' donations for cancer research or Toys For Tots, somethin' like that?”
“That's a very good guess, Antonio, but no,” Bard answered. His tone was still light and breezy. Meanwhile, the gentle rocking motion of the boat under me was making my head spin again. I took a deep breath and prayed I'd be able to shoot straight if it came to that.
“Actually,” Bard continued, “we were looking for your yacht. It's a real beauty, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Antonio answered. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes darkened with suspicion. “Lookin' for my yacht, huh? An' why is that? You lookin' to buy it or somethin'?”
“No, but we heard that Jester might be inside,” Bard said evenly, “and we were hoping to have a word with him, if possible.”
Sperm and I bristled, preparing to draw our guns depending on Antonio's reaction. But Antonio just frowned for a moment, confused. “Chester? I'm afraid you might have the wrong boat, there, pal. There ain't no one named Chester here.”
> “How about Angelo?” Bard asked without missing a beat. “Might he be around? We really do hate to bother you, but we had some business we wanted to discuss with him.”
Antonio's frown deepened. My hand slowly started to drift behind me toward my gun. I didn't like the idea of a gunfight on a dock full of Fourth of July party-goers, but I liked the idea of being unprepared for one even less.
“Business?” Antonio asked. “What kinda...” He stopped, then his face brightened and he burst out laughing. “Holy shit, really? Is that what you guys came for? Hey, wait here. He’s gonna get such a kick out of this!” He walked into the yacht's cabin, and we heard his voice calling out. “Angie! Angie, come on out here! You ain't gonna believe who's here to conduct a little freakin' transaction with you!”
Bard turned to shoot us a bemused look.
A few moments later, a boy in a White Sox t-shirt with a matching baseball cap emerged from the cabin. He looked about ten years old. “Hi, I'm Angelo,” he said. “Most of my friends call me Angie, though. Are you guys really here to buy my Frank Thomas?” he asked.
“Your what?” Bard replied.
The boy reached into his pocket and carefully removed a baseball card encased in thick clear plastic. The picture showed a young black man in a White Sox uniform, kneeling on the diamond next to a plate as another player stepped on it.
“Frank Thomas,” Angie said incredulously, as though Bard had asked him whether water was really wet. “The Big Hurt? I've got his No Name Rookie Error Card from 1990, the first season he started playing for the Sox. My friend Nathan tried to tell me it was only worth $500, but I looked online and there was a website that said they only printed 100 of these so they're worth over $1,000. So do you want to buy it, or what?”
Sperm and I looked at the kid, then at each other.
“Call me crazy, boss,” Sperm said to Bard, “but I think maybe we've got the wrong boat.”
Chapter 35
Jewel
Growler held up one finger.
“Just the one?” I asked. “Really?”
Growler nodded. His tangled locks of hair billowed around his scarred face.
“Are you absolutely positive?” I teased, smiling. “Because I find it a little hard to believe you're holding that many good cards.”
Growler nodded again vigorously, holding up his index finger again.
“Okay,” I said, “but just so you know, if you're bluffing, I'm not falling for it.”
Growler nodded once more, switching to his middle finger.
I laughed. “All right, but when you lose, don't give me that puppy-dog eye of yours.”
Growler chuckled from deep in his throat, lowering his finger. I dealt him a single card. He carefully laid his four cards face-down on the cot in front of him, then added the fifth card to them and picked them up again. I couldn't imagine that patience was a common trait among bikers, and I was amazed by how much of it he showed in working around his disabilities. And once I got past his frightening appearance, it was easy to see that he was a very charming person in his way, with a wonderful sense of humor.
“Okay, dealer takes three,” I said, discarding three and replacing them from the deck.
Growler studied his cards for a moment, rearranged them, then put them face-down again and tossed three cocktail toothpicks with red plastic frills into the pile in the center.
“And we have a bet of three hundred from the handsome young man with the metal toes,” I said. “Well, sir, the house sees your three hundred, and raises you seven.” I took a toothpick with green frills from my pile and threw it into the center with the half-dozen others of various colors.
Growler thought for a moment, then shrugged and added seven red-frilled toothpicks to the pot. He pointed to the cards in my hand, then pointed to the cot, indicating that I should show my cards.
I put my cards on the cot face-up. “Three Queens.”
Growler flipped his cards over, revealing four deuces. He chortled to himself, sweeping the pile of toothpicks over to his side of the cot.
“You've got to be kidding!” I exclaimed. “How does one guy get so lucky, huh?”
Growler wrote on the blackboard, holding it up. “That's what I ask every day when I look in the mirror.”
I burst out laughing. Growler grinned.
“You want me to keep dealing?” I asked. He nodded and I scooped up the cards, shuffling them. I used to play Five-Card Draw with my grandmother when I visited her as a child, and it was one of the only card games I knew how to play. It was a good way to pass the time, and I knew Growler was trying to ease my mind while I waited for Rafe.
But I was still so nervous I could barely sit still. I was no longer fretting about how I would feel if I got shot. Instead, all I could think about was how I would feel if Rafe got shot.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
Growler scrawled on the board. “8 inches.”
I laughed again. “Jeez, you bikers and your dick jokes, I swear. No, what I wanted to ask...and I mean, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, obviously, or if it makes you uncomfortable...”
Growler pointed to his missing eye, tongue, arm, crotch, and feet, then drew a question mark in the air and cocked his head. Clearly, he knew I was going to ask how he'd lost them.
“Yeah, that,” I said, a lump in my throat. I hadn't known about his crotch until he pointed to it. Good lord, how awful, I thought.
Growler blinked at me with his one eye for a moment, then wrote on the board again. “Leprosy's a bitch.”
I stifled a laugh. I'd only known him for an hour, and already I found myself strangely inspired by him. I couldn't imagine the kind of inner strength it would take for someone to be able to make jokes after everything he'd been through.
It was funny, in a way. My entire life, I'd seen gangs of tough bikers in movies and TV shows, but I'd never actually met one until a few days ago. The fictional bikers were always portrayed as shallow, violent thugs and psychos. So far, the ones I had met in real life had surprised me tremendously.
“No, come on, seriously,” I replied. “Was it some kind of gang-related...thing? Was it anything like what Rafe's involved with now?”
Growler looked at me for almost a full minute, his expression a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. Finally, he wrote on the board. “Thinking about a future with him?”
“Was I that obvious?” I chuckled.
Growler nodded.
“It's just...this whole life is very new to me,” I explained hesitantly, trying to find the right words. “Before a few days ago, the most exciting thing that ever happened to me was almost getting hit by a car while crossing the street, and now I've been chased and shot at. I even killed someone yesterday. Can you believe that? Because I still can't.”
Growler raised an eyebrow in surprise, then made a “go on” gesture.
“And somehow, I've survived it all, and I want to believe that means I can survive whatever else I'd have to if Rafe and I were...you know.”
Growler put up two fingers and crossed them.
“Right,” I said. “But then I see you, and no offense, but whatever happened to you isn't something I had even considered as one of the risks before. For him, or for me. Which probably means there are about a hundred other risks I hadn't thought of either, right?”
Growler nodded.
“So I guess I'm sitting here, and I'm worried that he won't come back, or that only part of him will, or something else will happen that's horrible and too big for me to even imagine. And I'm wondering if anyone could possibly make a relationship work under those conditions.”
Growler thought for a moment, then wrote, carefully trying to squeeze all of his words into the board's limited space. “Many do under these conditions & worse. Only works if it's important enuff 4 them 2 make it work. Up 2 u.”
I nodded. He was right, of course. The world was full of cops, soldiers, rescue workers, and yes, even criminals, many
of whom had to live with these same fears every day. Why couldn't I? Besides, despite my own previously-sheltered life, I still knew that unimaginable, unpredictable violence and tragedy could easily hit anyone anyway, forcing them to live with—or grieve—the consequences. At least I'd be more prepared for it than most.
“Thank you,” I said. “You're pretty wise for a biker.”
Growler wrote again. “Wasn't always. Lose 34% of ur body & u start 2 think about what u still have & how 2 make the most of it.”
Before I could respond, I heard a loud crash in the bar, followed by men's voices yelling and a sound I'd come to know much too well—shots from handguns and machine pistols.
Growler jumped up from the cot, surprisingly agile on his prosthetic feet. He motioned for me to get back against the rear wall, then tipped the cot over and slid it up against the door before locking it. He drew a gun from the back of his waistband and darted over to the back door, opening it just a crack.