Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (11 page)

Since he didn't have a job, Ned couldn't qualify for a loan. So when he replaced the Hor-ni, he had to pay cash. But business had been so good that he could buy a pretty decent ride anyway. When he saw the bright yellow, four-year-old Chevy SSR pickup on a lot, he was shocked by how little they wanted for it. It was a V8, a pickup
and
a convertible. He bought it without negotiating.

The following day, he and Leo went out collecting. Leo quietly wondered why, but didn't say anything. After all, it was Tuesday, and they never went collecting on Tuesday.

Thirty minutes into the trip, Leo realized where they were going. “You sure?” he asked Ned.

“Oh yeah,” he replied. “Should be fun.”

Leo laughed.

They pulled up to Torchy's at about three, exactly when Pat and Pete would be setting up the bar.

Ned kicked in the door. “Hey Pat!” he shouted.

Pat, who was wiping down the bar, dropped his rag and started laughing. He walked right up to Ned and said: “Hey Pete, lookit what the cat threw up.”

Ned bashed him in the face with his gun, breaking his nose.

As Pat was rolling around on the floor in pain, Leo ran up to Mulligan and twisted his arm around his back so violently it fractured in two places. He marched him over to Ned. Ned looked at the scared man and said: “He's yours, Leo, do what you want.”

Pat had made it up to his hands and knees when he started vomiting violently. Ned laughed, then kicked him in the face.

When Pat stopped moaning, Ned said: “Hey, Pat, I think you owe me a few bucks—not André, but me.”

“What?”

“Yep, I been calculating every cent you owe,” Ned told him calmly. “You actually owe me a little more than $17,000—before interest—and . . .”

He was going to continue, but Leo interrupted. Ned hadn't noticed, but Leo had been beating Pete violently with his fists and his gun since they had parted. Consequently, Pete's face was purple, swollen, and bleeding. Leo, child-like, was trying to get Ned's attention.

“Lookit, lookit, lookit, Ned!” he shouted, as he plunged the barrel of his pistol into Pete's mouth, breaking one of his front incisors. “It's just like that show!” Then he turned to Pete and mock-angrily scolded him: “Tell me where the drugs are, Ramirez, or you'll be snorting in hell!”

“Okay, okay, that 's great, Leo,” Ned told him. “But I'm doing business here.” Leo left dejectedly, dragging a now unconscious Pete behind him.

“So, Pat, you wanna talk business?”

“I don't have no $17,000.”

“$17,162 and change.”

Pat started weeping.

“Aw, come on, don't cry, big fella,” Ned mocked him. “You owe me a lot—I mean a lot—of money, so what are you gonna do about it?”

“I don't know.”

Ned hit him in the knuckles with his gun. Pat screamed. “I think you better figure something out,” Ned said. “Right now.”

Pat moaned and whined.

“Now!”

“Okay, okay, okay, okay, I can give you the ten thousand now,” he managed. “Then a hundred a week after that.”

Ned grinned. “A hundred a week?” He asked. “That's less than minimum wage. Gimme three-hundred a week on top of what you'll be buying—and if you want drugs, remember, they come from me; you go to the cops, you're dead; you go to another dealer, you're dead; you give up selling altogether and you're dead. You got it?”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Pat said. “It's a deal . . . so will you call me an ambulance?”

Ned laughed. “Fuck that,” he said. “We had a deal before and you fucked me over repeatedly. . . you reap what you sow, Pat.” Then he kicked him in the face. “Now, where's my ten thousand?”

Pat sputtered and said something nonsensical. Ned shook him. “It's in, it's in, the bar fridge,” he finally admitted, pointing to the correct door.

Ned dropped Pat and went to the fridge. It was full of beer bottles. He threw them to the ground, smashing most of them. Nothing.

Then he looked in the ice tray. There was a manila envelope inside. He opened it; it was full of cash.

Satisfied, Ned looked up at Leo, who was still beating an unconscious Pete. “Yo, Leo, we really gotta get outta here,” he said.

Leo looked at him like he was asking him to leave an amusement park. After a few seconds, Ned nodded toward the door and Leo complied. He didn't stop laughing until they were past the Bay Bridge.

Johansson didn't know what to expect as he followed the bikers' directions to the office. When he finally arrived at 317 Barridge Street, he was surprised that the only Harley he could see was the one he had ridden in on.

What he did find was a medium-size rectangular building packed among the factories and auto wreckers that dominated the area. The building was painted black and red (the Sons of Satan colors) and had a sign above the door that read: “SOSMC Martinsville.”

Johansson could not recall ever seeing a building that large entirely without windows. He did notice that there were video cameras on each corner and a number of satellite dishes and other antennas on the roof.

As he passed by the stumpy concrete barriers that surrounded the building, he approached a thick, red metal door. He heard it buzz open before he rang the bell. He was surprised at how heavy the door was.

Inside, he saw what looked like the reception area of an office designed by teenage boys. The old furniture was in rough shape, there were posters of nude women on every bit of wall not covered in graffiti, and the detritus of a party—beer cans, cigaret butts, pizza boxes,and snack food wrappers—littered the floor.

Two men greeted Johansson. They looked pretty much like how he pictured bikers—long hair, beards, and leather jackets—but they were both very young (perhaps in their early twenties) and very slim. The bigger of the pair told him it was an extremely bad idea to keep the boss waiting, and he took Johansson through another metal door that buzzed when it opened. It led to a meeting hall with a full bar.

He was led through another door and up a staircase. At the start of the corridor, he saw a door with a sign that read, “Keep Out.” The biker who came up with him knocked on the door.

“Send him in,” said a voice from inside.

The biker opened the door and Johansson walked in. He was surprised at what he saw. Mehelnechuk was sitting behind an expensive wooden desk in a tidy, professional-looking office. It was the only place he had seen inside the building where the walls were not covered in pornography or graffiti. Instead there was just one framed photograph of a group of men in leather jackets holding up the Sons of Satan logo. Mehelnechuk and Marvin Bouchard (whom Johansson recognized from a couple of stories he'd seen on TV ) were in the center.

“Thanks for coming,” Mehelnechuk said without raising from his seat or offering his hand. “Can I get you something?”

“No thanks, I'm fine.”

“Good. How are things in Stormy Bay?”

“Awesome, I'm selling everything you can supply . . .”

“Except for personal use, of course.”

Johansson chuckled. “Yeah.”

“Just weed, though, no coke or meth, right?”

Johansson recalled that Mehelnechuk took a dim view of coke and meth. Of course, he dealt both, but he would not allow his men to use either. He said he had seen them fuck up too many people. The penalty for coke or meth use on Mehelnechuk's watch was severe and, Johansson had heard, potentially fatal. So he lied: “No way, profit margin's too rich.” Then he continued. “The bar is packed pretty well every night, I've got some big plans for . . .”

Mehelnechuk interrupted again. “That's chump change; if you want real money, you'll make it here in a bigger city.”

“What do I have to do?”

“I'll let you know.”

“Uh . . . okay.”

“Don't worry so much,” Mehelnechuk smiled for the first time in Johansson's presence. “You're going to Springfield to join a club called the Death Dealers—it's all set up—but you have to come back to Martinsville whenever I need you.”

“Here.” Mehelnechuk handed Johansson a leather briefcase, its elegant design ill-suited to the scruffy young man who received it. There was an awkward silence that only broke when a frustrated Mehelnechuk ordered Johansson to open it.

Inside, he found a sawed-off handgun, a cellphone, and five thousand in cash. He grinned.

“Use the money to get yourself a place to stay and some decent clothes—the guys out front can help you with that,” Mehelnechuk said. “Keep the other two things with you at all times—and keep the phone charged up. Don't worry about the bill; I have a connection in the business.”

“What will I be doing?”

“Making money.”

Months later, in Mehelnechuk's hot tub, Johansson realized that he was making a lot of money. Although he was making it by performing for his master, he was okay with that. He'd have liked to be his own boss again some day, but for the time being, he was content to follow orders and rake in the bucks.

Jamie Roblin knew on an intellectual level he had to eat, but he just didn't feel like it. He paced around his apartment, just as he had a million times before, trying to think of something he could eat that would have a tiny bit of appeal for him. He'd been pacing for about two-and-a-half hours when he finally decided upon a box of Froot Loops and a two-quart bottle of orange soda.

He was just digging into his meal when he heard a knock at the door. It was the secret, coded knock he instructed all of his business associates to use, but it still made him nervous. He grabbed a handgun and approached the door slowly. He heard the knock again. He looked through the peephole and grinned.

It was none other than Marvin “Big Mamma” Bouchard. The big man himself had come to pay Jamie a visit. He'd been dealing with the Sons of Satan for a couple of years now, but had never met any of the important ones. And everyone who was anyone knew who Bouchard was. He was in the paper and on TV all the time. For a small-time meth cook like Jamie, a visit from Bouchard was something of an honor. It must, he thought, be something big. So he put away his gun and opened the door.

“Mr. Bouchard . . . uh . . . nice of you to come.”

Bouchard smiled warmly, shook Jamie's hand, and walked in with three other big bikers. “Sit down, sit down, Jamie,” he said. “Relax.”

Jamie did as he was told. Two of the big bikers sat beside him on the couch. It was a small couch and they were big guys, so it was a tight fit.

“You do a pretty good business with us, don't you Jamie?”

“Oh, yeah . . .”

“I mean, we pay you lots of money for lots of drugs and it works out pretty good, doesn't it?”

“Yep.”

So why do you sell to the fucking Lawbreakers?”

“Oh, that . . . them . . . I always sold to them, I have been selling to them for years . . . I sold to them long before you guys . . . they're small-time, not like you guys . . . it was the deal . . .”

Bouchard grinned and shrugged. “Well, my friend, it's not the deal anymore.”

Jamie panicked. He tried to stand up, but the bikers held him down. Each grabbed one wrist and held his hands on the coffee table. The other biker, who had been behind the couch, emerged with a large claw hammer in his hands.

Jamie screamed.

“Stick something in his mouth, Lou,” said Bouchard. The biker with the hammer wadded up one of Lennie's T-shirts from the floor and shoved it in his mouth. He knew better than to spit it out. “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, the reason you have that filthy old T-shirt in your mouth is because you have a nasty habit of interrupting, and I have something important to tell you.” He sat down. “I'm telling you because you are a popular, likeable guy,” he said. “You know everyone. You can get my message out to everybody in the business.”