“Naw,” Retro drawled, taking the bottle of soda from the prospect with a nod of thanks. The pause was enough to heighten Einstein’s nerves. Retro didn’t look at him as he finished with, “Florida.”
Every one of his muscles locked tight. He attempted to swallow and couldn’t. Tried to breathe without success. Struggled to look away from the expression of sympathy on Retro’s features but was forced to watch as it morphed into alarm. “Breathe, brother.” Retro gripped the side of Einstein’s neck hard and yanked him forwards, a heavy weight on his shoulders folding him in half. “Fuckin’ breathe.” Retro’s voice held nothing but fear, and the idea he was causing that emotion in his best friend was enough to break the stasis.
Air rushed from Einstein’s lungs in a giant whoosh. That was followed by an embarrassingly loud pant for another breath, and another. Slowly, he pulled himself back under control, straightening as he looked around the room, eyes directed anywhere except focusing on the two men who had witnessed his moment of weakness.
“Oh, brother,” Retro said softly, leaning his head to press their foreheads together. “When you gotta fall apart, this is the safest place to do it, and you know it, man.” Eyes closed, he whispered, “We got your back in everything.”
“Even when I’m a weak-ass coward?” He pulled away and glared at Retro. If they’d asked him to ride with them now, he would have refused. Florida was a no-go zone for him and likely would be for the foreseeable future. “Shit, man, that just caught me by surprise.”
“I get it. I do. But that ain’t why we need you to stay here, man. Need you here because you’re what’s needed for these new members and our prospects. Everything’s lookin’ up since you agreed to take on the clubhouse like you have.” Retro reclaimed his seat and gestured around the room. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”
“Take on the clubhouse?” Einstein refused to think beyond the moment when they’d leave today. If he could play ostrich, it would be okay. No more embarrassment for him, no more difficulty for anybody. Just keep up the easy softball questions until they walked out the door. “What does that even mean?”
“Saved me, brother.” Mudd drawled out the words with a trace of laughter at the end. “You know how much I hate the scheduling and ordering, and you took it on like a champ. Entirely happy with how that turned out for me.”
“True story. This man is a born organizer.” Retro nodded. He spoke to the prospect who still hovered nearby. “Bring Einstein his usual, yeah? Then you can be released.” The man scurried away, a hustle in his steps that made Einstein proud of his coaching. “That’s all on you, too, Einstein, and don’t think I don’t know it. Having a persistent presence around here that’s willin’ to enforce what’s needed like puttin’ men in the ’round when they deserve it—that’ll give us better members in the end. Thank you, brother.”
“I’m just doing my part.” He held up a hand, taking the energy drink can from the prospect. “Make sure the downstairs bathroom is stocked, pros. From the chatter I’ve heard, we have a bunch of brothers inbound. Stay ahead of stocking the bar, too, yeah?” The man nodded and flashed him a smile before trotting straight to the hallway that held the club’s private office and public bathroom. “That reminds me. Does it bother anyone that the door to the bathroom is across the hall from the office? We could open up a door from this room and close that one off. Would mean visitors wouldn’t have any reason at all to be close to the club’s office. Easier to keep track of folks.”
Retro pursed his lips as he nodded slowly. “Had that thought myself many a time, but never had someone I felt would be responsible for the project.” He leaned forwards and slapped his palm against the low coffee table that separated their chairs. “Make it so, Einstein. Make it so.”
“Gonna hit the bank on our way out of town. I’ll get them to send you a signature request. That’ll let me put you on the account. That way you don’t have to wait on my ass before you write a check for shit.” Mudd twisted the top off his water and took a long drink, ending on a loud, “Ahhhhh.” He grinned. “Make my life a fuckton easier, I tell you what.”
“We all do whatever’s needed.” Einstein opened and drank half the can in one go, holding still as he waited for the zing of energy from the chemicals and natural ingredients in the mixture. It was early in the day yet, but if he ingested enough of the drinks, he’d guarantee himself a sleepless night. Which means a dreamless one. His heart rate sped up, and he nodded. “Happy to serve the club, brothers.”
Retro stared at him, the expression on his face searching. Einstein locked their gazes together, trying to project confidence and steadiness. By Retro’s headshake, he didn’t think he’d been successful. “You sleepin’ at all, brother?” And by that question, he knew he hadn’t.
“Yeah.” Einstein shrugged. “Some. Probably not as much as I should, but more than I was at first.”
That was no lie.
The first few weeks of staying in the clubhouse had been a reverse reflection of his previous depressed hibernation existence. Instead of too tired to do anything except breathe—and some days that had been questionable—beginning with the first day he’d woken in the strange bed, he’d been filled with anxious energy—an unbroken desire to stuff every instant of every day with activity. The clubhouse had definitely benefited, and he didn’t think anyone would complain.
“Still losin’ weight, though. You gotta eat, my man.” Mudd’s statement wasn’t finger-pointing, just stating truth as he saw it. “Belt of yours doesn’t lie.”
Einstein didn’t bother glancing down, knowing exactly what Mudd was talking about. The heavily worn and creased hole where his belt had notched for years was two beyond where he currently wore it, and that current hole was nearly too loose. Is already too loose if I got much change in my pockets. He nodded and paid lip service to what he knew Mudd and Retro wanted to hear. “I’m workin’ on it.”
“Well, work harder. Don’t make me sic a prospect on your ass.” Retro slapped the table again, then sat back in his chair. “Because I’ll have a motherfucker set a timer and remind you if I gotta.”
“Yes, boss.” Einstein glanced away, looking at the members gathered near the bar and pool tables. “Anything special going on here while you’re gone?” As long as he didn’t focus on where they were headed, he could keep breathing. “What’s the goal with your trip?”
“Rebels and Riders are arguing about territory. If what happens that I think’ll happen, Bastards need to be there to not only witness, but stake a claim ourselves.” Einstein’s attention snapped back to Retro, who held up a palm. “Not in opening another chapter. Fuck no. I do not need that shit, man. But if either of those clubs or anyone else who’s going to be present think to open a charter, then they’ll need patchover men to fill the ranks. IMC’s gonna be there, too, and you know how Twisted is about his territory. He’s already got a panhandle presence, but with the Rebels takin’ over the Jailbreakers, those two are butting up against each other all the fuckin’ time now. Personally, I’d like to see Blackie win the toss, because not only is he a stable leader, but he’s got good men under him.”
“Why’s the focus on that area?” Fuck, I can’t even say the state now? Jesus, he was being ridiculous. Huffing out an angry breath, he forced out, “Florida, I mean.”
“Rebels have a member who lives there in Baker. Truck doesn’t spend his time in Little Rock anymore, preferring to keep close to home. He and Vanna have a place there.” Retro laughed. “A couple of places, but Blackie doesn’t like to talk about the second home they’re not using. Whatever.”
“So Rebels are looking to start a new chapter?” If only a single member was in play, that would explain the need to do patchovers to fill in the gaps. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“Well, Bane is one of Blackie’s boys in the Freed Riders. And Gunny’s in play now, so that’s two Rebels to one Rider.” Mudd shook his head and drained his water, crumpling the plastic in one fis
t. “And our master of information here forgot about the CoBos also comin’ to play. Gonna be a pocketful of players all jostling for position.”
“You’re thinking of throwing one of our members into the mix, too?” Einstein ran names through his head. “Can’t think of anyone who’s already got a…a Florida connection.” The state’s name came easier that time, rolling off his tongue with hardly a hesitation. “Who you looking at?”
“Who you lookin’ at?”
Mudd’s attempt at mimicry butchered Einstein’s accent, something he hadn’t realized had thickened while they spoke. It only came out these days when he was stressed, and since he knew the men around him saw it as a barometer, the Philly accent was something he tried hard to control. “Fuck you, I don’t sound like that.”
“Fuck you.” Mudd tried again, then laughed hard. “Too easy, brother. You’re too easy sometimes. Monday.”
Einstein flinched. Monday was a fairly new member, well over his year of integration, so he was a full patch with a voice, always well received by the members. “Would hurt to lose him, man.”
“Love his connections, and we wouldn’t lose him. Not really. He’d answer to a new president, but the intent would be to keep those lines of communication as open as possible, without compromising his honor or affiliations.” Retro shrugged. “Like Po’Boy being a full member of the CoBos but still tight with his old friends. IMC hasn’t hurt for him patching out. If anything, it’s tightened the already close relationship between the two clubs.”
“Gotcha.” Thoughts rolled through his head, and he picked out the most troubling. “Any idea which club will come out on top? Rebels are allies, but man, they’re exploding overseas, too. Does it make sense for them to spin up a new chapter there when they’ve already got the other ones nearby?”
“Like I said, I’m personally rooting for Blackie’s man. We’ll see.” Retro stood and stretched, his head swinging side to side as he surveyed the inside of the clubhouse’s main room. “Leavin’ my house in good hands.” A palm fell to the top of Einstein’s shoulder, gripping tightly as Mudd stood too. “Faith in ya, brother.”
“I’ll keep it safe.” He pushed to his feet and walked towards the front door, depositing his empty can next to where Retro and Mudd placed their trash. It’s the little things. Clearing their own garbage meant respect to the club, but also respect to the men aiming at a better life as a Bama Bastard, because otherwise, the prospects would be on cleanup duty. Einstein nodded his approval at how easily Retro and Mudd modeled the kind of club they wanted from the ground up. “My oath, brothers.”
Their bikes grew small in the distance by the time Einstein turned to reenter the clubhouse, finding Crazy Mike standing beside him. “Brother,” he offered, meeting the extended fist with a closed-knuckle bump. “How you doing?” Shit, there’s my accent again. Einstein shook his head. “Don’t start, man. Mudd already gave me enough grief for two men. Let’s go inside.”
“Not sure Einstein is the right name for you, but couldn’t any one of us argue with Retro when he picked it.” Crazy Mike followed him through the door, closing the distance as they entered the main room. “Bronx woulda been better.”
“Except I’m not from the Bronx.” A quick sweep of the room showed him everyone was still in pretty much the same places they’d been before. “Philly, born and bred.”
“I knew that, but we can’t call you Philly. That’s a female horse. That’d be weird, brother.”
“That’s a different— Know what, never mind.” He sighed. “Something you needed, brother?”
“Yeah, I didn’t want to distract Retro with it.”
Einstein stiffened, because Mike starting a conversation like that wasn’t conducive to continued relaxation. "Oh?”
“Yeah. Got some word from Georgia.” Mike lifted one shoulder. “Might not be anything.”
“His extended family?” Retro’s old lady had family in Atlanta, and yet another branch that wrote in Cyrillic. “Which Georgia, brother?”
“The States version. Not sure what it means, just that Chulpayev is asking for information on the group on the East Coast.”
Swinging slowly to face Crazy Mike, Einstein narrowed his eyes and waited.
“He’s digging into info about Scarloucci, man, but not Dominic. His old man.”
“And you didn’t think to raise this as a topic before our president and VP rolled off the lot on a little bitty road trip?” Not attempting to modulate his tone, Einstein made certain everyone within earshot—which was anyone on the main floor of the house—could hear not only every word but the incredulity flooding his system. “Are you fucking insane? We call you Crazy Mike because of how you are with a little booze in you, man. Not because you’re certifiable. What the fuck, brother?”
“I tried to tell Retro before you came downstairs. He was focused on whatever shit is happening with the RWMC and IMC.” Crazy Mike gave Einstein wide eyes, looking utterly deranged. “Told me to talk to you. So that’s what I’m doin’, brother. Talkin’ to you.”
“Okay, let’s head into the office.” Einstein gestured towards the hallway. “Bossmen are stopping at a couple of places before they get out of town, so if I think they need to come back, we’ve got a few minutes at least.” He opened the office with the key Mudd had given him weeks ago and made his way around the desk, taking a seat before he spoke again. “Shut that,” he said, pointing first at the door and then towards the straight-backed chair facing the desk. “And sit.” Once Mike was perched on the edge of the seat, Einstein leaned back and stared at him. “Talk.”
“Chulpayev put out a call that has made its way into our network.” Mike started the kind of efficient info dump Retro had drilled into all of them through the years. “The ask is for info on Luciano, not Scar and not Franco, the grandfather. Unsure what the interest in the unblooded generation is.”
Franco was old-school, second-generation mafia, first-generation immigrant from the old country. He’d hung around the Monster Devils just enough for Einstein to know him on the surface. If Einstein had given any thought to the old man after Scar had taken him and his family, it would have been to wonder at what reaction he would have given to the idea of bringing family into the argument as Scar had. His focus hadn’t been on the old man, though, and he’d paid absolutely no attention to the man who stood between the generations.
Luciano had disavowed the associations his own father treasured, moving well out of the line of fire by political positioning as well as geography. He’d married a woman from the west, another thing that further divided him from his father. Franco had turned his back on his noncompliant offspring, focusing his attention on the tight-knit group of men in his crew.
As Don, it should have been an embarrassment that his only child had disavowed the family business, but somehow, the old man had turned it into a positive for his outfit. That had only grown when his grandson Dominic had angled his way back into the fold, making his bones as underboss for a capo of a splinter group. Then Lou had brought that splinter home and carved out his own piece of the pie in the form of the Monster Devils, an MC with an enviable sense of being untouchable.
That was the group that had drawn Einstein in, back when he’d still been just Jimmy. The club had made him feel invincible. Young and stupid, he hadn’t paid enough attention to the jobs they were asked to do, things that had nothing to do with the club itself and everything to do with the older Scarloucci’s business. Even after he’d met and married Lauren, he’d stayed in the club. Turning a blind eye to the inner workings of the club’s leadership, he’d spent years defending the club to his wife, until the birth of Makayla had set the tone for his exit.
Leaning over the bassinet, Jimmy stared down at the tiny bundle of blankets. He dipped a finger into the folds—pink and white, so soft to the touch— and drew back the edges until he could see his daughter’s face. “She’s so small,” he whispered, unable to pull his gaze away to look at Lauren.
Lau
ghing, she told him in a normal voice, “She’s not little. Nearly seven pounds, honey.”
“That’s little, Laur.” The small face scrunched up, and the little girl made a sound. “She’s scrunchy.” He kept staring. His daughter opened her eyes and blinked. “Hey there, little girl.” Her face scrunched again, and she emitted a small wail. “Oh, no no, baby girl. Shush, now.” Glancing up at Lauren, he asked, “What do I do?”
She smiled. “She’s probably hungry. Bring her here.”
He looked at the legs of the bassinette, finding them flat and unhelpful. He tried to grip the sides, but the molded plastic felt slippery, and he was afraid he’d drop the whole contraption. Using his feet and hands, he scooted it a few inches towards the bed where Lauren was.
“Silly. Just pick her up.” Lauren was giggling now, not trying to hide her amusement.
“How?”
Lauren made a scooping motion with both hands.
He looked back down, measuring the distance between the bottom and top of the blanketed bundle. “What if I drop her?”
“Don’t,” she stated, as if that was something entirely under his control. Another glance at his wife showed her smile had spread ear to ear. “Just pick her up, Jimmy.”
So he did. Slowly, he wedged his hands under the squirmy body and lifted, adjusting carefully as he held her a few inches over the bottom of the bassinette, ensuring he had a secure grip.
“Hold her against your chest,” his wife coached, and he’d brought Makayla tight to his body as emotions flooded through him. “Now, bring her to me.”
Jimmy shuffled the few feet to the bed, then rebuffed his wife’s attempts to retrieve their daughter from his arms. Makayla was snuffling now, turning her head towards him, and he stared at her face, mesmerized by each sound and movement. “She’s so pretty.” Lauren’s hand covered Makayla’s chest, a finger dragging the blanket down a little farther, and a hand peeked out, tiny fingers curled around the edge of the fabric. “Oh, honey, she’s so pretty.”
Tangled Threats on the Nomad Highway Page 4