Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (25 page)

His greatest threat at this point was actually boredom. He called Steve. “You need something to do?” He laughed. “You're a full member now; you have people to do things for you.”

“Yeah, so I just get money for sitting on my ass?”

“Essentially, although it's likely the club will have some duties for you. Of course, there are always ways to make more money. . . . What you should do is set up a legitimate business so that you can pay taxes, maybe get a mortgage, or whatever—keep you out of jail.”

“Makes sense, but I only know one business.”

Steve laughed again. “You can do anything. You don't even have to be involved, just hire some kid with skills. But stay away from escorts and strippers—they are mine and mine alone.”

“I could do something connected to that, something that helps us both—what about Internet porn?”

“You could, I suppose, but nobody's making any money on it anymore, too many people giving it away for free—besides, the feds are all over that shit. One wrong step and it's just too much liability.”

“Yeah.”

“I know what you could do, though. You could start a dating website.”

“I don't know anything about the Internet.”

“You don't have to. One of Joel's friends is a web designer; he knows all that shit. I can give him to you.”

“Sounds cool.”

“Yeah, and we could put a couple of my girls up there looking for ‘dates' . . . that should get the ball rolling; come by the clubhouse and we'll set you up.”

Ray “Toots” Vandersloot walked into Mehelnechuk's office. The boss was inside talking with Bouchard. Normally, he knew better than to disturb them, but this was a time of war and he thought they would welcome any news. “You hear they burned down Matt 's?” he asked.

Matt's was actually Madd Dogg's Tattoos and Body Piercing, a downtown shop owned by Sons of Satan associate Matt Ireson, and frequented by many bikers.

“Anybody hurt?” asked Mehelnechuk.

“No, but the place is totally gone, and I'm not sure what kind of insurance he had.”

“Shit, y'know what? I'm getting pretty fuckin' sick of this. It's only a matter of time until somebody important gets killed.”

“So what's your plan?” asked Bouchard.

“Stay in here for this, man,” Mehelnechuk said to Vandersloot. “I want you and everyone else to know that I am putting Bouchard in charge of rooting out these
girls
—these so-called High Rollers—from our midst, and if a few innocent drug dealers get hurt along the way, that's just too fuckin' bad.”

“I thought you were all about bringing other clubs into our organization.”

“This is no ordinary club,” Mehelnechuk told him. “These guys were put together to go to war with us; so we have no choice but to go to war with them.”

It was Ned's first time alone with Lessard, and he didn't like it at all. Of all the Death Dealers he knew, Lessard was the only one who actually scared him. Ned intellectually acknowledged that any of them could be violent if provoked, but only Lessard seemed like he could go off at anyone at any time. And he had a reputation for being hard on prospects. Ned wanted to leave, but couldn't. He had a meeting with Steve, and knew better than to miss it. It was supposed to have happened by now, but Steve's door remained closed. Ned could feel his hands and arms get light, just on the verge of trembling when he heard Lessard bellow.

“Prospect!” he shouted. “Get me another god-damned beer!”

Ned got up from his seat at the bar, went into the fridge, and grabbed a bottle for Lessard. He opened it, and brought it to his table. Lessard stared at him in the eyes unblinkingly, but his mood seemed to soften a little. He laughed without mirth. “I guess I shouldn't call you ‘prospect' any more, now you're a member,” he said. “What should I call you?”

“Well, my name is Ned, and Steve calls me ‘Crash' for some reason.”

“Why don't I call you what you really are . . . cop?”

“What?”

Lessard stood up. “I know you're a fuckin' cop,” he said. “Look at you, you walk in here all clean . . . no tats until Steve forced you to get one, no piercings . . . nobody knows you but André, nobody deals with you but André . . . then we find out André's been talking to the cops to save his own worthless ass.”

By this time he had backed Ned up against the bar.

“I'm not a cop, I swear it,” Ned said. He could hear his voice shake.

“How do I know that? You never buy meth from me. Everyone buys meth from me. Only a cop wouldn't buy meth from me—I got the best meth.”

“I buy from Steve; he'd get pissed off if I bought from you too.”

“Steve doesn't have to know.”

Ned regained some courage and slipped out from between Lessard and the bar. “Is that what this is about?” He said. “You're calling me a cop so I'll buy from you? Pretty fuckin' lame sales pitch.”

“What? Are you doubting me?” Lessard's eyes were totally out of focus now. Ned could tell he was losing control, and he genuinely feared for his life.

Lessard backed him up again, this time against a wall. Then he put his beefy forearm under his chin and pressed against his throat. “If you want to leave this room alive, you'll prove to me you're no cop,” he shouted inches away from Ned's face, showering it in saliva. “Sit down.”

Ned sat in the chair Lessard indicated. Lessard pulled out his gun and placed it on a chair beside his own. Then he pulled out a bag full of methamphetamine crystals and a hunting knife with a blade as long as his hand. He dumped a few of the transparent shards onto the table and started grinding them down into a white powder with his knife.

“An undercover cop can do a lot of things, a lot of illegal things even,” Lessard, much calmer since he sat down, said to Ned. “But he can't take meth—not only are they forbidden by their bosses to take meth because they say it's so damn addictive, but any testimony they give after they have taken meth ain't worth shit . . .”

Ned watched as Lessard expertly ground the meth.

“. . . so if you are a cop, you won't take the meth and I'll have to kill you, or you could be a cop, you take the meth and then your word ain't worth shit in court; or you aren't a cop and you just take the fuckin' hit and we are square—no matter what happens, I win.”

“I suppose I have no choice.”

“You have no choice,” Lessard said as he arranged the meth in a tidy line on Ned's side of the table. He also handed Ned a straw.

Ned took a deep breath and leaned over the table. He was putting the straw into his right nostril when Steve's door opened. Everyone paused.

Steve got an angry look on his face, and shouted: “Fuck, Ned! I told you to stay off the shit!”

Gagliano, who had been in the office with Steve, started laughing.

“But, but, but . . .” Ned stammered.

“But-but-but, you sound like a fuckin' motorboat, just get that fuckin' straw outta your nose and get in my office,” he ordered. “And if I catch you playing around with that shit again, I will personally see to it that you will work as a jizzmopper at the skankiest strip joint in the whole fuckin' Midwest for the rest of your useless life.”

Ned smiled and got up from the table. His eyes caught Lessard's. “This is not over,” the big man told him.

“Yes it is, you stupid fuck,” Steve yelled. “Put your gun away, put your knife away, put your drugs away, and do your fuckin' job.”

Lessard sullenly packed up his stuff.

“Hey,” Gagliano piped in. “How come the Lizard can do meth, and me and Crash can't?”

“Because he was a total fuck-up even before I inherited him,” Schultz shot back. “You two have futures.”

Lessard angrily kicked a chair over as Gagliano grabbed himself a beer, and Ned followed Steve into his office.

Once the door was closed, Steve told Ned: “Don't worry about him; he's all noise.”

“I'm not so sure,” Ned said with an involuntary shudder. “He thought I was a cop.”

“Well, he is nuts, but who can blame him?” Steve said. “You don't look like a biker and nobody knew fuck all about you before I grabbed you.”

“And he said something about André going to the cops.”

“Meth makes people paranoid,” Steve assured him. “That was his paranoia talking—he sees a cop behind every tree and Lawbreakers under his bed when he isn't seeing imaginary bugs crawling on his skin.”

“So André wasn't killed for being a rat?”

Steve laughed derisively. “No way. André had no reason to go to the cops. His business—as you now know first hand—was booming,” he said. “André was killed by the Lawbreakers, our enemies, the ones who want to take over our territory, our business.”

Ned sighed.

“Now that's out of the way, we can get to business,” Steve said. “Now that you're a full-patch member, you're going to have to be introduced around to prevent people from thinking the wrong things about you—think of it as a coming-out party.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Well, you have to dress like a biker for a change; fly the colors, wear your Death Dealers jacket and try to look the part,” he said. “Then get on the Harley I gave you and ride with us up to Burgessville.”

“Then what?”

“You're so suspicious you sound like that gorilla outside. Jesus, Ned, calm down,” Steve said. “It's a party—all you do is have fun, meet a few people—it'll be great, a chance to blow off some steam.”

“What about Lessard? Will he be there?”

Steve laughed.

“Don't you worry about him,” he said with a smile. “He's getting a new assignment; he might not be able to make the party.”

When he saw Steve stand up, Ned followed suit. When Steve opened the door, Ned walked out and over to where Gagliano was sitting at the bar. He tried not to look at Lessard.

“Lessard, get your sorry ass in here!” Steve shouted.

As Lessard got up and started walking to the office, Ned stared at him. He marveled at how malevolent he looked even while just walking away.

“Boo!” Gagliano shouted, and Ned jumped, dropping his beer bottle. Gagliano laughed like a teenager.

Dave “Apache” Carter arrived at the Death Dealers' clubhouse and presented himself to Steve. “Hi,” he said. “Mike Rose sent me down from Martinsville to take care of your little problem.”

“So you're the exterminator?”

“Yup.”

“Sloppy told me all about you,” Steve smiled. “Welcome to Springfield. I'll set you up.”