Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (21 page)

“Sorry Steve, late night last night,” Ned croaked into the phone. “Ever since I've been living in the clubhouse, I haven't really gotten a hell of a lot of sleep.”

“The boys like to party . . . and they do it in shifts . . . I should have warned you.”

“Oh, it's cool . . . just don't expect too much from me.”

Ned heard Steve sigh. “Bad attitude, young man,” Steve said. “I expect a lot out of you today . . . you're going to be meeting with the big boss tonight.”

“Bouchard? I thought he was in jail.”

Steve laughed. “No,
his
boss.”

As Ned was leaving, he was pushed aside by two Death Dealers prospects who were dragging a teenager into the bar by his arms. The kid was screaming, and obviously in pain.

Little John Rautins, the ranking member in the clubhouse, was also rousted by the noise, “What the fuck's going on?” he yelled.

“We caught this little fuck spreading the word he was a Death Dealer, and he was getting the wrong kind of ‘attention' if ya know what I mean,” one of the prospects said. “And you know what that means.”

The kid in question looked terrified. Rautins looked at him and shook his head. “My hands are tied; do what you have to.”

Rautins then put his arm around Ned and led him out of the room. They could hear the prospects slapping the boy around as he cried out to be left alone. After what sounded like one particularly brutal hit, he went silent and Ned could hear the prospects hooting congratulations at one another.

Ned, disturbed, asked Rautins if that kind of brutality was really necessary.

Rautins laughed. “It's something we inherited from the Sons,” he said. You gotta punish fakes. Otherwise, your name means nothing.”

“Yeah, but it looked like they were gonna kill that kid.”

“I'll be the first to admit that those two have a tendency to go too far,” Rautins said. “But, in our particular business, they take a lot of the pressure off guys like you and me.”

The two prospects put the bloodied kid in a blanket and carried him past Ned and Rautins.

“You didn't kill him, did you?”

“Nah, just taught him a lesson.”

“What you gonna do with his ass now?”

“Dump him in the alley behind the Lawbreakers' clubhouse—then see what happens.”

Ned had never been to such a fancy restaurant in his life—and he felt awkward about wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Steve, dressed almost exactly the same and covered in tattoos, didn't seem to care.

The hostess, waiting behind a lecturn, was clearly disturbed by their appearance. Again, Steve didn't seem to care. He walked up to her confidently and said to her: “Mehelnechuk party.”

Immediately, her sneer turned to a welcoming, if manufactured, smile. “Oh, right this way, gentlemen,” she said with a veneer of friendliness. “Mr. Mehelnechuk is expecting you.”

She guided them to a large table where a lone man was seated, reading a newspaper. He was wearing a beautifully tailored suit and very expensive leather shoes. As he approached, Ned could see that he had a big gold watch and other obvious jewelry.

When Mehelnechuk put his newspaper down, Ned recognized him as the guy with the scar that he'd seen a couple of times before at the clubhouse. Ned was surprised this guy would be at a meeting with the boss.

“Hello, gentlemen,” he said.

“Hey, Ivan,” said Steve. “Looking good.”

“Steven,” Mehelnechuk nodded, then looked at Ned. “Great to have you here, Mr. Aiken. Order anything you want—tonight is your night.”

“Uh . . . thank you, sir.”

“Drop the formalities. I'm Ivan,” Mehelnechuk said as he extended his hand. “It's very nice to finally meet you.”

“Meet
me
? Why?”

“I've known about your work for quite some time now, and I have to admit that I'm more than a little impressed.”

“Uh . . . thank you, thank you.”

“Sit down, relax; you are among friends here . . . really.”

They ate dinner together. Ivan ordered something in French for a confused Ned, who was happily surprised to get a steak, French fries, and green beans.

After they ate and exchanged pleasantries, Mehelnechuk got down to business. “Ned, the organization is grateful for what you did—how fast you thought and how quickly you acted—in the Babineau situation.”

“What? Cleaning up after Leo? That just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Do you hear this kid, Steve? Seriously, you are one in a million—or at least a thousand. Most of our guys would just stay at home and wait it out, or run away. But you went in, beat the cops, and kept the rest of us out of trouble—your instincts are those of a future chapter executive.”

Ned felt warm in the face. He didn't know what to say.

“Anyway,” Mehelnechuk continued as the waiter brought them desserts and after-dinner drinks. “The organization is very grateful for what you did in the Babineau situation.”

“What did I do?”

Mehelnechuk laughed, and Steve followed suit. “Don't worry, just keep it up,” Mehelnechuk paused. “So . . . what's this thief giving you?”

“Sorry?”

“What's your deal with Steve?”

“Thirty percent.”

“It's thirty-five now.”

Steve blanched. “Don't worry Stever, you'll both be happy to know that Ned's territory now includes Stoney Point and Rockston; the five percent you lost on this one distributor will be more than made up by his bigger area.”

The three agreed it was an equitable deal, and Ned indicated that he was eager to get back to work. Ivan suggested they go outside to enjoy some cigars.

Outside on the sidewalk, the three men were smoking and chatting, telling jokes, and dissing enemies when Ivan suddenly handed something to Steve.

He, in turn, handed the plastic bag to Ned. Confused, Ned was looking in his hands when he heard the whoop of a police car that had stopped just in front of them. Without thinking, he threw the bag into a nearby hedge.

The cops piled out of the three cars that had arrived and arrested Mehelnechuk, Steve, and Ned.

Three hours later, Ned was in jail for possession of methamphetamine (there wasn't enough in the bag to warrant a trafficking charge), while Steve and Mehelnechuk were released due to lack of evidence.

Antonio McIntyre knew that when white people he didn't know approached him on the street, they were either cops or guys looking for drugs. And these guys—two scruffy-looking dudes who piled out of an old Chevy S-10 pickup—didn't look like cops. But in his line of business, Antonio knew that it was wise to treat 'em all like cops until you knew they weren't.

The bigger of the two walked out with his hand outstretched. “Tony,” he said. “We're friends of Paul's.”

Antonio didn't shake his hand. “Paul? What Paul? I know a lot of Pauls.”

“C'mon, Tony, don't be like that—big fat Paul with the beard down to here,” the man paused. Even though he knew which Paul they were talking about, Antonio offered no response. “He thinks we're cops,” the man said. “Stan, why don't you show him we ain't cops?”

As instructed, Stan reached into his paper shopping bag and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun. He pumped one shot through Antonio's chest and another that took off most of his face.

Later that same day, another Martinsville street-level dealer—Don Queen, who distributed weed, hash, and meth at a local bowling alley—received a visit from three tough-looking guys who asked to speak with him in his office.

Unlike Antonio, who was afraid of getting arrested, Don was afraid of getting his ass kicked, so he did what they said. He recognized one of the young men as the younger brother of a guy he knew from high school—Ryan Knowles—and he knew that anyone from that family was too psycho to be a cop, let alone an undercover one.

Don led them into the windowless storage room behind a handwritten “employees only” sign, and sat down on a cardboard box full of toilet paper rolls. He asked what he could do for them.

Their obvious leader asked how much he was paying the Sons of Satan for product.

Rather than mess around with these guys, Don told them the truth without hesitation.

“Wow,” said the tough guy. “Don't you think that's a bit high just for weed?”

“That's not for weed; that's for hash,” said Don, hoping that they'd sympathize with him.

“Wow. What say we give you weed, hash, and meth for three-quarters of what you pay now? Better stuff even.”

“I'd say I'd love it, but I don't want to get into any trouble with the Sons.”

“Let us worry about the Sons.”

Then the the younger Knowles brother laughed and said, “Maybe you should worry more about us than the Sons.” Then he kicked Don's makeshift seat into shreds until Don was sitting on the floor. The Knowles kid was laughing like a maniac. Don tried to laugh along. He noticed that all of them had matching rings. On each of them were a pair of dice and the name “High Rollers.”

On his first full day in jail, Ned was sitting in the exercise yard when he was approached by a handsome young man with glasses. He introduced himself as Sean Feeney. “Ivan wants you to know that he's very impressed with what you did at the restaurant, and wants you to know that you'll be taken care of both inside and after you get out,” he said.

“Thanks,” Ned replied, thinking the guy looked more like a car salesman than a biker. “I appreciate that.”

“No, seriously—drugs, booze, smokes, porn, whatever—you just come to me.”

“Well, a little weed wouldn't kill me.”

“I heard that.”