Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set

by Scott Hildreth

  We sat around the table, eating pork tamales smothered with red sauce. When I was stuffed, I pushed myself away from the table.

  “I can’t take another bite.”

  “Have one more,” Carma’s mother said. “They’ll go to waste.”

  “They won’t go to waste,” I insisted. “You’ve got a refrigerator.”

  With her face wearing a playful scowl, she pushed the dish toward me. “They don’t keep.”

  “They sure do.”

  She smiled. “The refrigerator’s full. There are two left. Eat them. Show me you love me.”

  I rolled my eyes. Arguing with her was impossible. Reluctantly, I placed the remaining food on my plate.

  She smiled. “Your appetite makes me happy.”

  “Your cooking makes me happy,” I replied.

  She picked up the dish. “Thank you.”

  While I stuffed my face, Gina washed the dishes. Carma sipped her coffee and gazed into the living room. Sam, as always, sat in his room and sulked.

  It had been ten days since her father’s arrest. Each one brought with it a different level of tension—concern that today might be the day that the family was forced to move from the place they called home.

  I carried my plate to the sink. “It was great, Gina.” I kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  With her hands submerged in the soapy water, she kissed my check and smiled. “Your friends are coming.”

  They came every day. Each time, she heard them long before I did. My hearing wasn’t as good as it should be, a product of a decade of gunfire and bomb blasts. Nevertheless, Gina’s hearing was astonishing.

  “I’ll let them in,” I said.

  By the time I got to the door, they were in the driveway. Sorry that I hadn’t saved Bama a tamale, I pulled open the door.

  My knees went weak.

  None of the fellas needed to say a word. I could see it on their faces. I knew.

  My heart stopped.

  I swallowed a massive lump that had risen in my throat and wiped a tear away from my right eye. I looked at Bama, Goose, Cash, Ally, and then at Tito.

  I opened my mouth, but all my parting lips could do was quiver in anticipation. Incapable of asking the question, I simply stared.

  Tito stepped off his bike. Our eyes met. He nodded.

  Oh. My. God.

  My eyes welled with tears. With my mouth incapable of uttering a single word, I stood in the doorway and shook.

  A familiar thunder in the distance caused me to shift my teary eyes away from the men. Hearing problems or not, I’d recognize the sound from a mile away until the day I died.

  I glanced toward the rumble.

  Ghost’s Eleanor GT500 Mustang cleared the hill.

  “What’s going on?” Carma asked.

  I faced her.

  “Oh my gosh,” she gasped. “What happened?”

  I waved for everyone to come inside.

  “What’s wrong, Reno?” Carma asked. “You’re crying.”

  I sat on the arm of the sofa and let out a sigh.

  Please, Lord.

  Let me find the words to tell her.

  I looked at Tito. Just to be sure.

  He pulled off his backpack, lowered it to his side, and grinned. Then, he gave a nod.

  “Tito’s got something for you,” I said. “And, for your mother. And, your father. And, Sam.”

  Confused, she shifted her eyes to Tito. “What’s going on?”

  He unzipped his backpack, pulled out four manila folders, and handed them to her. Each was marked with each respective family member’s name.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Open it,” I said.

  She handed her mother the remaining three envelopes and opened hers. As she pulled the documents from the folder, Baker poked his head inside the door.

  “Sam! Get out here!” Baker shouted. “We’re going to the racetrack!”

  “Nobody’s going anywhere,” Gina said. “I’m sorry.”

  While a dozen anxious faces watched, Carma held the document up and studied it. After scanning the contents typed in each of the small boxes, she looked at Tito. “Is this real?”

  “Certified copy from the State of California.”

  She pulled out a perforated sheet of blue and white paper. Her eyes went wide. “And this?”

  “From the Social Security Office,” he replied. “It’s as real as it gets.”

  Carma looked at me. “What does this mean?”

  I glanced at Gina and then met Carma’s curious gaze. I leaned forward and gave her a kiss.

  Nearly overcome with joy, I took a step back. “It means we need to unpack these boxes,” I said with a smile. “But only after we go get your father. This nightmare? It’s over.”

  205

  Carma

  Wearing my new black midi fit and flare dress and a pair of equally new four-inch heels, I stepped to the edge of the desk. “Good afternoon, I’d like to speak to Detective Marc Watson.”

  “Is he expecting you?” the desk sergeant asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “May I tell him who’s here to see him?”

  “Yes, you may,” I replied. “I’m Carmelita Rosarita Garcia Lorca.”

  He blinked a few times and then called Watson. “There’s a Carmelita something-or-other here to see you.”

  “Rosarita Garcia Lorca,” I said.

  The desk sergeant nodded. “He’ll be just a minute.”

  Watson opened the door, made eye contact with Reno and then looked at me. He straightened his posture. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Yes, Sir,” I said. “My father came up missing two weeks ago. A friend of a friend of a friend was here on a misdemeanor charge, and said he saw my father in the jail. I’d like to know what charges you have against him.”

  “His name?”

  “Oscar Arturo Valdez Rosarita.”

  Watson approached the desk. “My apologies,” he said. “Give me a moment.” He looked at the sergeant. “Oscar Arturo Valdez Rosarita. Look up the name and see what he’s in here for.”

  “Illegal entry,” the desk sergeant said.

  Watson looked at me. “He’s being held for deportation to Mexico.”

  I cocked my hip and tossed my braid over my shoulder. “Mexico!? Mexico? Why would you deport him to Mexico? He’s a US citizen.”

  “He doesn’t have any paperwork, and he’s refused to speak to anyone since his arrest,” Watson said.

  “So, you arrested him based on the color of his skin?”

  “No, he was detained based on his—”

  “Because he’s Hispanic?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Did he commit a crime?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  I spun to face the desk sergeant. “Is he charged with a crime?”

  He looked at the monitor. “No, ma’am.”

  I looked at Watson. “Have you ever heard of the ACLU?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I have.”

  “Have you ever had them crawl up your ass with a microscope?”

  “I haven’t yet, no.”

  I looked him up and down. “Would you like for me to make that call?”

  “I would rather you didn’t—”

  “Did you give my father the opportunity to call his family?”

  “I believe he was given—”

  “You believe?” I interrupted. “Or you’re sure? You’re hoping, aren’t you? You’re hoping he was given that opportunity. Because if he wasn’t, that’d be two strikes against you. Have you heard of CNN? The San Diego Tribune? Do you know Peyton Price? The award-winning reporter?”

  Watson swallowed heavily, looked at Reno, and then at me. “I’m aware of her existence, yes.”

  “She’s a close personal friend of mine,” I declared. “I’ll have her write an article of this travesty of justice so fast that it’ll make your head spin. You do realize my father has rig
hts? As a US citizen? That going to the store while being brown isn’t a crime?”

  “Do you have any proof of citizenship?” Watson asked.

  I opened my purse. I pulled out a social security card and a birth certificate. “I think you’ll find these in order.”

  Watson looked at the documents. “I do not have the authority—”

  “Get someone who does.” I pointed to the two chairs. “We’ll be sitting right here, waiting.”

  I extended my hand. Watson looked at it with an open mouth.

  “The documents,” I said. “You’re not taking them.”

  He handed them to me and then excused himself. As the door closed, I looked at Reno.

  “How am I doing so far?” I whispered.

  “Damn. Kind of a…well…just a bit harsh.”

  “Good. That’s what I was after.”

  In fifteen minutes or so, another man came through the door and introduced himself as Detective Wright. A frail man in his early forties with thinning hair and thick-lensed glasses, he looked like no match for me.

  After reviewing the documents, he looked perplexed. “He’s been here two weeks. He hasn’t so much as spoken.”

  “He’s been advised by the family attorney not to speak to police unless there’s an attorney present,” I responded. “Was there an attorney present?”

  Wright and Watson exchanged glances.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” I said.

  Wright reviewed the documents a second time, made copies, and visited with his superior. After a few phone calls, he returned and promptly apologized.

  A half hour after that, an unmarked police car pulled up in front of the building. My father, a few pounds lighter and wearing an undeniable smile of relief, opened the car door and got out.

  Upon seeing him, I leaped from her seat and rushed outside. “Don’t say a word to these men,” I demanded. “Not one.”

  Trying to withhold his emotion, he returned a solemn look.

  Then, the three of us shared a much overdue hug.

  In front of a police station. Wearing my new black midi fit dress.

  Without fear of repercussion or deportation.

  206

  Reno

  While the Temptations My Girl played loud enough for all of Mission Beach to hear, Oscar and Gina danced like it was the night they met for the first time. Carma and I had danced for so long over the course of the night that I feared my legs would give out if I took one more step.

  Resting on one of Goose’s hand-crafted wooden benches, I waved a dismissive hand toward the dance floor when Carma asked if I was ready for one more song.

  “I can’t even stand,” I said. “You’re going to have to give me a minute.”

  She took a seat at my side and glanced around the rooftop. “This was sure nice of Goose to throw a party for us.”

  “He’s a good dude.”

  “They’re all good dudes.”

  I scanned the group. Detective Watson and his wife Taryn. All the Filthy Fuckers and their respective others. The Devil’s Disciples and their female counterparts. A small group of Hells Angels. Carma’s boss—and the MC’s close friend—George. Carma’s co-workers, all of which were male.

  “You’re right,” I said. “They’re all good dudes.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” she said. “Talk about a relief. This is just crazy.”

  “I guess I should have known,” I said. “If the little fucker can hack into the Pentagon’s computer system, why couldn’t he hack into the Social Security Administration’s and a few others?”

  “I had no idea he was that good.”

  “Tito?” I laughed. “He’s as good as it gets.”

  “Well,” she said. “We’re all set now. We’ve all got our driver’s licenses. My father’s going to work part-time as a consultant. Sam’s going to sell cars, and mother’s happy just being herself.”

  I glanced toward the temporary dance floor. Gina and Oscar were still going like the night was young, but it wasn’t. Goose had hired the DJ to stay until midnight and had already slipped him some extra money to stay another hour.

  “Looks like she wants to be a dancer,” I said.

  Carma smiled. “She loves to dance.”

  “Your father, too?”

  “He doesn’t have a choice.”

  “Is that how it works?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Marriage? Does the man lose his ability to have a voice?”

  “Absolutely,” she deadpanned.

  “He’d have to be comfortable his wife had a good voice then, wouldn’t he? If he was relinquishing his?”

  “I suppose so.” She looked at me. “Do I have a good voice?”

  I chuckled. “You did a few weeks ago when you were chewing Watson’s ass at the police station.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I felt terrible about that.”

  I looked at Watson, who was fifty feet away, talking to Crip. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “That day we went there? To the police station?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He knew you were coming, and why,” I said. “I told him.”

  She stood and turned to face me. “Seriously?”

  I covered my face with my forearms, like a boxer who was protecting himself from an assault in the ring. “Uh huh.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was afraid you would do what you did,” I said through the opening between my arms. “I didn’t want him to end up arresting you.”

  She stepped to the side and glared. “Arresting me?”

  I lowered my arms. “You got pretty close to being out of hand.”

  She gave me a look. “According to who?”

  “According to me.”

  “Based on your experience in pushing the limits with police officers?”

  “I don’t have any experience pushing the limits,” I said with a laugh. “I just shoot them.”

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “You haven’t shot a cop for real, have you?”

  “Just one.” I nodded toward Watson. “Him.”

  She chuckled. “Whatever. With what? A Nerf gun?”

  “No. I shot him with Alacrán’s gun,” I said. “Twice. He was wearing a ballistic vest, so he lived through it.”

  “Oh my gosh. Why would you do that?”

  “It was part of the plan. I had to convince him of a few things.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

  “He was going to arrest Alacrán. I didn’t want that to happen. Didn’t feel I could take the chance that he’d stay locked up forever. So, I shot Watson, then shot Alacrán. I let him take the credit for it, though.”

  “They never named him as the killer,” she said. “Probably a good thing.”

  “So, you’re not mad that I told him about us coming to the station?”

  “No,” she said. “But I believe in payback.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure.” She sat down and kissed me. “I’ll wait until the time’s right, and then I’ll decide. You’ll know when it happens.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “I suppose you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering if every trick I play on you is payback.”

  “Payback’s a bitch,” a gruff voice said from behind us. “Or so I’ve heard, anyway.”

  “Hi, Bama,” Carma said without turning around.

  “How’s it going, Kid?”

  “Pretty good. My dance partner’s worn out.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Is, too,” she insisted.

  Bama cleared his throat. “I beg to differ.”

  She laughed. “Are you asking me to dance?”

  “I’d like to dance when the next good song comes up,” he replied. “As long as it’s okay with the Mister.”

  “The Mister’s fine with it,” I said. “He’s too tired to dance.”


  Bama walked in front of the bench and shoved his hands inside his overalls. “I’ll have you know, back in the day, I used to cut a fine rug.”

  “What does that mean?” Carma asked.

  “It means I could dance.”

  “It’s not something you forget,” Carma argued. “Once a dancer, always a dancer. You’ve either got rhythm, or you don’t.”

  While they were talking, Lady Marmalade, by LaBelle began to play.

  “Oh my Gosh.” Carma jumped up. “Can you dance to this?”

  Bama gestured toward the dance floor. “A more accurate question would be, can you?”

  Carma was one hell of a dancer, but she had her hands full with Bama. They danced for three songs, back to back, drawing every ounce of attention to themselves during each song.

  While they danced, I glanced from group to group, and from person to person. I recalled when Crip explained how Peyton’s presence allowed him to become a better person, and that he hadn’t had a PTSD episode since they were together.

  I hadn’t had any kind of meltdown since Carma and I committed to one another.

  Carma’s presence wasn’t a result of her ability to keep me grounded. She was in my life because I loved her, and I because I couldn’t imagine living a life without her.

  She told me when we met that she didn’t have any friends to speak of. The fifty people gathered around the dance floor clapping while she and Bama danced stood as proof that she now had many friends.

  Friends I knew she could count on when things got tough.

  Or.

  When all a person needed to do was have a bite of octopus and dance to a little 70’s groove music.

  Either way, the group of friends that gathered to celebrate her family’s freedom had her back.

  Epilogue

  Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays I worked the morning shift. On Wednesdays, I worked the night shift. It coincided with Reno’s standing mid-week meeting with the MC and allowed us to get home at roughly the same time.

  I double-checked my tables, straightened a misaligned condiment caddy, and turned toward the door. I gazed through the glass. My new car was parked at the curb. I pressed the button on my key fob.

  The alarm chirped and the lights flashed.