Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (29 page)

When Ronnie finally woke up, Feeney took him out for breakfast.

At the diner, Ronnie asked: “How long you been in the Sons?”

“What makes you say that?”

Ronnie laughed. “I knew a guy who pretended he was in the Sons, then they caught up with him—and he still can't walk right. I seen your tats—they wouldn't let anyone get away with those—you're the real thing.”

“So, what are you, a cop?”

Ronnie looked startled, then sheepishly answered. “Actually, I tried to be, but I had some trouble with my record and the written exams. I grew up wanting to be a cop, but it didn't work out.”

“So what do you do now?”

“My real job is as a night desk man at the Shangri-La. Of course, I sell a little weed there and take a few bucks from the whores for looking the other way.”

“Oh, so you're an outlaw, are you?” Feeney laughed. “Who do you work with?”

“A variety of people.”

“I'm getting the feeling you pay retail for weed and sell it for about the same.”

Ronnie hung his head and giggled. “Yeah, and I'd like that to change.”

Feeney put his head in his hands and sighed. He knew he was in deep now. If Ronnie told anyone about their tryst, the results could be harsh, even fatal. Having a prison bitch is one thing, but having a boyfriend outside was another entirely.

That meant he had to get rid of Ronnie—or keep him happy.

Ned was sitting in his office at Buster's watching Daniela work when Liliya, unasked, brought him a beer and a plate of french fries. She smiled shyly and hurried out of the office. Ned had tried to get Liliya off the stage by teaching her how to be a waitress, but Daniela convinced him it would be bad for business.

“She likes you,” Daniela said without looking at him.

“I think she likes everybody.”

“No, she likes almost nobody; but she does like you, really.”

“Wonderful, maybe we can adopt her.”

Daniela laughed. “You should be nice to her; she makes us a lot of money.”

“I'll tell you what would make us a lot of money,” he said. “Putting you up on that stage and letting you shake that thing—every guy who comes in here asks me why you aren't up on stage.”

“It's not going to happen,” she said. She couldn't tell from his face where the conversation was going. So she sighed and told him the story. “I used to dance, but my visa ran out, and I was denied another one,” she told him.

“So you're an illegal immigrant?”

“Yes, I am,” she said. “And that limits what I can do.”

“Officially, you can't do anything.”

“Officially, yes, but when the immigration people come, they check every dancer very carefully, but they don't bother with the employees who have their clothes on,” she said. “I'm just another bartender. I look like American girl, I work for cash, I stay off books, I walk free.”

“And they check Liliya?”

“Every time, but she has papers—they are totally inaccurate, but they are official.”

There were a few moments of awkward silence as Ned contemplated what she had said. “I have a feeling this is a situation you find suits you,” he said. “That maybe you kind of forgot to renew your visa, so that this exact situation might just come around.”

Daniela did her best to look innocent. “I'm not that smart,” she said.

They both laughed.

Realizing that she'd better change the subject, she said; “Your friend, Mr. Mike, you know he just sits in the bar and takes beers from the fridge all day.”

“Good,” he said. “Better he sits here getting drunk all day than he gets busy trying to help run our business.”

Daniela grinned. “We have a saying back in Moldova—today he steals beer, tomorrow he steals money.”

“No you don't.”

“We should.”

Bouchard was extremely happy to see Mike Rose. “What's up, Sloppy? Tough day at the office?”

“A good day, my friend, we got two girls down.”

“Members?”

“One prospect, one hangaround.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, before everything went black, these two decided to talk, you know, negotiate for a better deal.”

“Isn't that nice; what did they say?”

“Pretty much what you said they would: The High Rollers started out with Gannon's Lawbreakers and DeVolo, then added some bar owners, all the unattached girls in the state and a rogue's gallery of other weirdoes and oddballs.”

“So who were these girls?”

“You remember the Black Vipers?”

“Yeah,” Bouchard laughed. “Frank Lotti's gang—used to meet in his mom's basement and specialized in boosting kids' Nintendos from minivans . . . they must be scraping the bottom of the barrel for manpower.”

“Maybe, but it doesn't take much manpower to kill,” Rose reminded him. “Just before it all went down, the hangaround decided to try to make things a little better for himself by telling us a little bit more about the prospect—including the fact that he was the one responsible for the unpleasantness at the baseball game.”

“Casey?” Bouchard was referring to Casey Setterstrom, who ran a very successful independent drug distribution center from his comic book shop, and had been killed at a baseball game only three weeks after forming an alliance with the Sons. Setterstrom had just finished watching his son play a little league game and was headed for the rest-room a few steps from the field, when a gunman shot him twice and ran into a van which promptly sped away from the scene.

“Yep,” said Rose.

“Did they say anything else?”

“Nah, mostly just crying.”

Bouchard laughed as he went to the safe to get Rose's money. “How many people are you sharing this with?”

“One member and two prospects, who will be paid accordingly.”

After dismissing Rose, Bouchard called Feeney into his office. “I have an assignment befitting someone of your talents,” he said. “You heard of Freddie McAfee?”

“Sure,” Feeney responded, “isn't he with the Springfield Lawbreakers? Big dude, maybe three hundred pounds, dangerous.”

“That's the man, but he's not in Springfield right now. A friend of ours told me he's gone to Webster's Falls to recruit the local bikers there to come over to the High Rollers.”

“Webster's Falls? That's at least six hundred miles away,” Feeney said. “Don't we have some kind of presence there?”

“We did, and all six of them are inside because they leaned on one of their whores too hard.”

“What?”

“Yeah, one of them told her his cut of her gross went from twenty percent to forty percent, so she went to the cops,” Bouchard said. “After she finished talking, they all wound up inside—we sent some guys down there, but we can't spare 'em anymore because of the current unpleasantness, so now we just have a few prospects trying to keep it alive.”

“So McAfee's down there stirring up shit?”

“Uh-huh. The local girls—they call themselves the Devil's Own—have been on the fence for a while,” Bouchard said. “Ivan's been there a couple of times to wine and dine their president, but he got sent up, so we're not even sure who's in charge there anymore.”

“So why doesn't Ivan go back down?”

Bouchard glared at him. “You don't question what Ivan does,” he snapped. “Besides, with God knows who in charge of the Devil's Own, we thought it would better to get rid of the High Rollers option than to compete with them.”

“So that's where I come in . . .”

“Yep, do it whatever way you want—it should be easy, nobody knows you down there—but you better get started right away, before McAfee convinces them to join.”

“Can I fly?”

“Better to drive.”

“Can I bring a friend?”

“None of my guys, we need them all.”

“No, no.”

“Don't bring a woman.”

“No, just a friend.”

The little guy had been sitting in the back of the bar since noon. He was on his second beer four hours later, and the waitress was getting more than a little frustrated with him. Her mood changed when she saw the bikers come in.

There were two distinct rules of thought about bikers at Chauncey's. Two of the older waitresses refused to serve them because they were lousy, ass-pinching outlaws; the rest of them loved them because they ordered big and they tipped big. In the worst end of a town that had almost no money, the bikers were a much-desired source of income.

Maura Swiminer was one of them. She didn't mind a few slaps on the butt in exchange for what the bikers gave her. Besides, it was dead that night. The only other customers were the old couple who sipped coffee, read newspapers, and always left a few quarters for a tip, and the little weird guy who had taken a couple of hours to finish two draft beers. Even at an outrageous-for-Springfield twenty percent, his tip would be less than two bucks.

So she rushed to the bikers. She took their order. One of them smacked her ass—business as usual. She returned to their table with a mess of wings and fries and beer. Just as they were digging in, the little guy in the back stood up. At first, it looked like he was getting ready to go. But then he approached the bikers' table, as though he had something to say. They looked at him, confused. The stranger pulled a sawed-off pump-action shotgun from his coat and killed two of the three of them. The other one, the only full patch, grabbed Maura by the neck and by the thighs and held her in front of him like a shield.

Carter kept shooting. He tried to miss Maura, but knew he couldn't. He didn't have any reason to hurt her, but he had a job to do. He pumped three shells into the pair of them. He killed the full-patch High Roller. Maura lay on top of the corpse screaming in pain from the pellets in her face and thigh.

After the kills, Carter went to Steve's office. “There is a war here in Springfield and I have done my part: I have killed eleven people, and the rest of you have killed none.”

“That 's true,” said Steve. “But this is a Martinsville war, not a Springfield war, and you were sent here by Bouchard or Rose or one of them—we didn't even want you here—so if you want something, you should get it from them.”

Carter laughed. “Nope, I am cleaning up Springfield and you are the boss of Springfield. You know it, I know it,” he said. “The Martinsville boys pay me, but now you must pay me, or I will go home.”

“Okay, okay, okay, I will admit that having you here has been good for business,” Steve grinned. “But I'm kinda short on cash right now, can I pay you in product?”