Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (14 page)

He was pondering that question when Mehelnechuk emerged from his meeting. “We've got a few hours before we have to go,” he told Johansson. “So you can amuse yourself with these guys—but don't be drunk; I'm gonna need you tonight. Can you be back here by nine?”

“Sure,” he said. “What's going down tonight?”

“A party.”

Little John drove Ned back to the house. It looked pretty much exactly as he remembered it, although a few things were missing. He toured around, eventually stopping at the master bedroom. There was more missing from it than any other room.

“Looks like you're gonna need a mattress,” said Little John.

“Yeah.”

“Makes you wonder; what kind of guy . . . when he skips town . . . takes his mattress with him.”

Ned looked at Little John's face to see if he was joking. He saw no sign of it.

“Some people are strange,” Little John finally said. “Anyway, there's a 1-800 place that'll deliver today—you need cash?”

“No, no, I'm fine,” he said. “I think we've got some work to do.”

Vince Tate had to hire a new crime reporter right away.
Silhouette
readers liked their crime stories and he didn't want them on his case.

He called in Frankie Kerr, his managing editor. “I saw John come out of your office looking more relieved than I've seen him in years,” he said. “Did you promote him to super reporter or something?”

Tate chuckled. “No, no, no, he kinda demoted himself,” he said. “He volunteered to give up the crime beat.”

“Really? I wonder who got to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“John loved the crime beat, thought it made him something of a celebrity,” Frankie told him. “And in my experience, crime reporters cling to their beats like barnacles, unless there's pressure from outside.”

“You think John's being threatened?”

“Wouldn't surprise me—he's not the most likeable guy out there, nor is he the most imposing.”

“Nah, you're just being dramatic. I read John's stuff; it's basically pumped-up police reports with some bystander reaction. I don't think he's in any danger.”

“So, who's taking over?”

“I was thinking about Lara Quinn.”

“Miss Thing? You realize she's about fifteen years old?”

“Look, she's aggressive. She's the type.”

“Yes, and she's also really, really pretty.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“No, no, I'm not accusing you of anything . . . but she is plenty good looking. Don't you think that's inappropriate for the crime beat. Don't you think she'll kind of stand out amongst Springfield's undesirables?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“She looks like she just fell off a fuckin' wedding cake; you don't think she might be a bit obvious in . . . oh, let's say a strip joint or a leather bar?”

“Like John didn't? He looks like a frickin' zombie.”

“Nobody notices a zombie; everyone will notice Lara.”

“Yes, yes, yes, I know what you're talking about . . . but I really think her looks will be more disarming than they are a problem.”

Frankie gave Tate his most concerned look. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess you're right.”

But he didn't believe it.

It didn't take long for Ned to get comfortable in what he had known as André's house. He sat in the big leather couch in front of the big TV and flicked through the channels. Bored, he decided to call Leo.

“How's it goin'?”

“Where you been, man?”

“I got a new place.”

“Wait, you got a new place? But I live with you, man; I'm in our place.”

“That's not our place anymore; why don't you get over here?”

“Where's here?”

Ned sighed. “André's.”

“What?”

“I'm the new André.”

“Really, what's André think about that?”

“Look, you asshole, I got the house, the truck, the Harley, the TV . . . everything.”

“You got the drugs?”

“Oh, I have the drugs, my friend.”

“Party on, Wayne.”

“Party on, Garth.”

Johansson was at least relatively sober when he set off to meet with Mehelnechuk that evening. Since he'd been in a plane, he hadn't been able to bring any weapons with him, so he'd borrowed a .22 and a hunting knife from his new friends in New Hamburg. He was confused when the bikers at the clubhouse told him that Mehelnechuk had already left.

And Johansson was more than a little surprised when the guys he was riding with stopped their car in front of a bar. He was sure he was headed to a clubhouse. “What? Are we stopping for a drink?”

“Kind of, this is where the meeting is.”

“Here? At this place?” Johansson asked of nobody in particular.

“Won't people get hurt?”

The prospect who was driving the truck looked at him quizzically. “Not unless somebody does something stupid.”

Johansson grunted and went into the bar. He was surprised by what he saw. There was Mehelnechuk at the head of a long table with a bunch of Devil's Own. They were laughing and having a good time.

Johansson approached him. “Everything okay, boss?”

Mehelnechuk looked at him like he was an idiot. “Hey, Bamm Bamm, tonight's all about having a good time,” he said. “Why don't you go up to the bar and tell them I just bought you whatever the hell you want?”

“Really?”

“Really,” he said. Then he brought the big man close and told him: “But don't get drunk . . . and keep your eye on that big motherfucker by the door.” He motioned toward a 350-pound man with a tattoo on his face.

“Got it.” Johansson noticed that his boss was drinking club soda.

When Leo arrived, he looked like a kid in a candy shop. Ned couldn't help but be proud. When he opened the door, Leo ran in, almost screaming. Ned managed to calm him down enough to get him to sit in the couch. Throwing a little hardcore porn on the big TV helped.

“So this is all yours?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And I can stay here?”

“Sometimes, I guess; but this is my house man. I'm not living in the fuckin' apartment with you any more—it's all yours.”

Leo laughed. “Fuckin'-A! I can't believe this, you fuckin' live here . . . wait, is all this stuff yours?”

Ned couldn't help wonder why Leo hadn't asked about André. “Yeah . . . I guess so.”

“Well, let's make the most of it, my friend. Call Kelli. Let's have a paaaaaaar-tay!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . y'know what, we could have a party,” Leo was like a kid on Christmas morning. “We got the space, we got the drugs . . . we got the drugs, don't we?”

Ned nodded.

“Then we got the party; you call Kelli, I'll call Patsy, and we'll have a good ol' time.”

Johansson was confused. He simply didn't understand what had happened in New Hamburg and he wanted to ask the boss what was going on.

“There was a war going on in New Hamburg, right?”

“Sort of, it was kind of what we call a ‘cold war,' nobody was actually shooting, but the two sides were considered enemies.”

“So you showed up and started buying people drinks and supplying hookers . . .”

“Well, what would you have done?”

Johansson was formulating an answer when there was a knock on the door.

Two bikers escorted Bouchard into the room. Mehelnechuk stood up and greeted his old friend with a hug. He dismissed Johansson with a wave.

“So, how was your trip to New Buttfuck?” asked Bouchard.

“They are on board,” said Mehelnechuk. “As are Harriston, Mount Wayne, and Goresport.”