Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (16 page)

It also allowed him access to the Death Dealers clubhouse, except during some meetings. And when they were on, he and the other prospects were expected to stand guard outside the building no matter what the weather.

Officially, Death Dealers prospects are required to do anything a full member asks them—no matter how stupid, dangerous or, paltry—but they usually took it easy on Ned. A few of them had him go to the store for them late at night and other little jobs like that, but nothing major.

But they leaned heavily on Leo. They used him as muscle, they used him as an errand boy, and they used him for entertainment. The irony was that he didn't know he was doing the work for nothing. Unlike a prospect like Ned, the Death Dealers had already labeled Leo as a “hangaround”—what the cops, lawyers, and media call an “associate.” He was considered someone useful to the gang who technically could become a prospect. But in reality, he had little if any chance of ever becoming a member.

That didn't dampen Leo's enthusiasm. He carried out every task the members asked of him, often for little pay and sometimes for none. He specialized in using his strength or gun to intimidate debtors and witnesses.

So when Steve gave Ned a job that required muscle, he suggested he take Leo along. The premise was simple. There was a witness that needed intimidating. And to make it easier, it was a woman in her early thirties who lived alone with her great-grandmother in a big house in what was beginning to become something of an iffy neighborhood.

Ned didn't have a choice. He picked up Leo and drove to the address. Leo had tried to dress like what he thought a “normal guy” looked like, but Ned found his attempt comical, so he decided that he'd take over the initial part of the operation. They walked up to the house. Leo hid on the veranda while Ned knocked on the door. A young woman who matched the picture he'd been given answered. Without an explanation, Ned shoved the door open and barged inside. Leo followed.

Ned held the startled woman up against the wall by putting his meaty forearm against her neck. Leo, wild-eyed and ridiculously dressed, sized her up. “Guess what?” he said. The victim didn't answer. He continued: “No . . . guess.”

She stammered.

“No, no, no, you can do better than that.”

She began sobbing uncontrollably.

“Don't take it like that—it's nothing personal; all we have to agree on is that you won't testify.”

She closed her eyes.

“No, we need a deal here,” Leo continued. “I need to know that you will not testify.”

She nodded.

“I mean it,” he said. “Because if you testify, things could get very, very bad . . . not just for you, but for your whole family . . . you know what I mean?”

She nodded again.

“Okay, glad we could reach an agreement.”

Ned lowered his arm. Free, the woman ran into another room.

“Let's go,” Ned told Leo.

“Not yet,” his friend said, just before throwing a lamp at a mirror that was hanging on the wall.

“We gotta get out of here,” Ned said seriously.

“Almost, almost . . .“ Leo said as he started looking through the room. After a brief search, he found a little stereo, grabbed it, and ran out the front door. Ned ran after him. He noticed Leo was laughing. “That was pretty fuckin' easy,” he said.

Lara was shocked at how many people were at Siobhan O'Farrell's wedding. Tate had sent her there because Siobhan was the only daughter of Gerard “Big Gerry” O'Farrell, last remaining star from Springfield's branch of the Irish mafia.

She was marrying Jacob Weitzmann, a prosperous local real estate investor. He had—as far as Clegg, Tate, and her other contacts knew (Delvecchio refused to help her)—no organized-crime connections other than his illustrious father-in-law-to-be.

As Lara stood in line outside the gates of Leonardo's Banquet Center, she gave the rest of the crowd a once-over. It was an older group than you'd expect for a twenty-four-year-old marrying a twenty-six-year-old, but there are always lots of relatives at weddings. It was all dark suits and evening gowns, a lot of gold and plenty of fur, despite the eighty-degree heat.

The exceptions to the dress code were a bunch of young men wearing T-shirts, jeans, and leather jackets. She could tell that some of them were Death Dealers from their patches, but most had no patches at all. A few of them had a patch from another gang. It was Black-somethings, but she couldn't read the second word because the old gothic typeface made it illegible to her.

When she got to the front of the line, a well-muscled guy in a tuxedo asked her for her invitation.

“I don't have one . . .”

He interrupted. “You alone?”

“Yes.”

“You got a boyfriend in there?”

Her first instinct was to say yes to justify her presence, but his body language told her to say no. She did.

“Go right ahead, miss, and have a great time.”

Once inside, she approached a big-haired group of women about her age. She correctly guessed they were Siobhan's friends. She stood near them, pretending not to listen to what they were saying. It was mostly about gifts.

Eventually, one of them broke off from the crowd, so Lara said “hi.” The young woman smiled and introduced herself as Maria Mascarello. She asked where Lara was from, because she didn't seem like she was from Springfield. Lara told her, truthfully, that she was from the West Coast.

As they began to get along, Maria gave Lara a tour of the facility and pointed out some of the young and single men. None of them were bikers. Lara pointed out one biker she thought was pretty good looking, and Maria made a face. “You like that sort of thing?” she said. “Not for me, thanks.”

Then Lara asked her about a group of casually dressed people just outside the fence.

“Them? Ugh, those are what my dad calls ‘the bloodsuckers'; you know, like reporters, the media,” she said. “Every time anyone who is anyone tries to do anything anymore, they show up and try to ruin it. Fuckin' paparazzi.”

“Is Siobhan famous?”

“Not yet, but she has an awesome demo tape—it'll blow you away,” said Maria. “It's her dad who's famous. He's a big-time businessman.”

“Oh, what business is he in?”

“I dunno. Business.”

Just then, Lara saw the only person she recognized at the party. It was Marvin “Big Mamma” Bouchard, holding court in full Sons of Satan colors. He was surrounded by four or five other men, mostly in their forties and fifties. They were wearing expensive suits.

Lara took a deep breath and walked up to him. She could smell his leather jacket. “Hello, Mr. Bouchard.”

Bouchard smiled and returned the greeting. The other men left without a word.

“What can I do for you, turtle dove?” he asked as they sat at a table. A waiter brought two glasses of champagne without being asked.

“My name is Lara Quinn . . .”

“You look like you are a friend of the groom's, but your name sounds like you are a friend of the bride's.”

“Actually, I'm neither . . . I'm a reporter from the
Silhouette
. . .”

“A reporter? Really?” he was grinning very widely, almost laughing. “And they let you in?”

“Yes.”

“And you just walked up to me and started talking?'

“Yes.”

“This is indeed a strange, strange world,” he chuckled. “Okay, Scoop, what do you want to know? Consider me your source on the inside.”

Lara stammered.

“Okay, you can tell your paper that the notorious Marvin Bouchard is happy to attend the wedding of these two fine young people,” he said. “And wishes them the utmost in health, happiness, and prosperity.”

While they were talking, another man approached. He was short and stocky and walked with a slight limp. Although he was wearing an impeccably tailored Armani suit, he ruined the effect by matching it with a black shirt with no collar and about a half-dozen gold chains. His face was marred with a strange scar on his left cheek that looked like his mouth extended back and upwards. Lara tried not to stare.

He sat down beside Bouchard, facing Lara. He was not smiling. Though his eyes never left Lara, he asked Bouchard: “Who's your little friend, Marv?”

“This is Lara Quinn . . .”

“I know who she is.”

“. . . and may I present . . .”

“You won't present anything,” Mehelnechuk interrupted. “I don't think it's a very wise idea for you to be speaking with such a pretty young girl when your wife is here. Come with me, Marv.”

They both stood up. Bouchard excused himself.

Seconds after the two men left, two others—much younger and much bigger—stood on each side of Lara. “Miss, we're gonna have to ask you to leave,” one of them said. “And it would be better for everyone if you didn't make a scene.”

Lara got up and left. She thought about talking to the other reporters, but decided against it.

Ned walked into Steve's office at the Strip. “You get the job done?” he asked.

“Yeah, it was easy,” Ned replied. “No problem really; didn't even need Leo—in fact, I wish I hadn't brought him.”

“Why?”

“Well . . . can we talk in front of him?” he said, motioning at Bradley Myers, who was sitting on a nearby couch.

“We can only talk in front of him,” Steve chuckled. “See, Bradley here is my lawyer, and if the cops or some other smart-ass tapes me or bugs me or even overhears me, it's inadmissible in court because of attorney-client privilege—I can say I killed Jimmy Hoffa and they couldn't do shit.”

Ned laughed. “Okay . . . well, he stole something on the way out . . .”

“Aw, c'mon, you can't begrudge him a little extra; he doesn't make much and he does everything you say. ‘Course I don't condone stealing, but that's his problem.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So why did we have to do that job anyway?

“Well, a couple of our guys fucked her, and now she's pressing charges.”

“Pressing charges? Do you mean they raped her?”

“That's what she says, but my boys say it was all consensual, so I have to believe them,” Steve said. “Besides, that's up to the courts to decide.”

“And if she doesn't testify . . .”

“Our two friends don't go to jail.”

Ned rubbed his face in frustration, then sighed.

Mehelnechuk had been grooming Sean Feeney for a while. He liked the kid. He wasn't very big, but he had presence. In fact, he reminded him a little of himself.

Feeney attracted the attention of the Sons of Satan when he was selling drugs for the Screaming Eagles, a New Devon-based gang controlled by the Martinsville Sons of Satan. They'd seen him sell drugs, seen him intimidate witnesses, and even seen him set fire to a Lawbreakers bar. But what really impressed Mehelnechuk was the fact that Feeney had gone to prison, done hard time, for something that wasn't his fault. He very easily could have gotten off if he talked, but he decided to take one for the team. Mehelnechuk was aware that not too many twenty-three-year-olds with two young children at home would have done that. Mehelnechuk wanted to reward him.

That desire dovetailed perfectly with another one of Mehelnechuk's plans. The Lawbreakers were no longer invincible in his hometown, and he wanted to take advantage of it. So he decided to start a new gang in Hagerstown, on the other side of Springfield—deeper into Lawbreakers' territory.

Feeney, he decided, would be the one to lead it. He was a tough kid, dedicated to the cause and a proven earner.