Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (33 page)

A police bug caught the hijacking on tape to just after Cain blurted out, “What the fuck, Petey, why are you . . .” The last sounds on the tape were four gunshots, some laughing, and the squeal of tires.

Feeney was there and he had heard the story a number of times. Not only did the guys involved like to tell the story, but the ranking members encouraged its retelling to remind the prospects what happens to snitches.

Of course, Feeney thought to himself that this was all Ronnie's fault. Asshole wannabe-cop-turned-wannabe-gangster proved too stupid to do either job. It infuriated Feeney that Ronnie gave him up to the cops so easily. And that he was too stupid to even get himself off for it. They wouldn't have even known about the McAfee job unless he blabbed. The cops thought it was hilarious. They brought the fat fuck in for a misdemeanor and, with no urging, he admits to a murder and sells out a full-patch Son of Satan who, the cops are delighted to learn, is also his homo boyfriend.

The problem was that Ronnie wanted to be a big shot. He'd tell anyone what they wanted to hear, even if it meant prison time. He just wanted the cops to like him, to listen to him; he didn't think about the consequences.

If only he had been a few minutes earlier, Feeney thought to himself. The cops would be investigating an armed robbery gone wrong. Ronnie would have been silenced forever.

But it didn't go down that way. And now the cops owned him. They wanted him to record conversations with Bouchard, Rose, Vandersloot, or any other big guy. It wouldn't be too hard. Guys talked about deals with him all the time. They trusted him. He'd done his time in the club—and in prison. They knew he'd never be a rat.

Feeney thought about how much Ronnie'd say before they finally killed him—there was no way he'd last very long in prison. And Feeney thought about his daughters Sydney and Britny, whom he'd had with his high school girlfriend Josie before he became a biker. He slowed his car down and eventually stopped at the beach. There was nobody there because it was too cold, and the waves were big because of the wind. He walked out onto the sand, then onto an old concrete pier. He unbuttoned his shirt, took off the recorder, and threw it as far as he could into the water. He laughed. Then he sat down on the pier, pulled his gun out, put the barrel in his mouth, and gently pulled the trigger.

An off-duty cop passed Carter on the highway. The cop wondered what a high-end car with dealer plates was doing on a road miles from a dealership, the sale price still scrawled across the windscreen, it's passenger window open on a chilly day like this. Instinctively, he reached for his cellphone.

Five miles down the road, Carter saw the flashing lights in his rearview mirror. He put on his right turn signal and slowed down by the side of the road. The cops followed him. Just as the Audi was almost stopped, he floored it. The troopers turned on their siren and pursued him. They called for help.

Carter kept accelerating, but misjudged the distance between him and a semi. The right front bumper of the Audi just touched the back of the trailer, but it was enough to send the car spinning. It came to rest in a low part of the median strip.

Carter managed to get out of the car and run a few steps before one of the troopers tackled him.

Bouchard always felt self-conscious about eating with Mehelnechuk. He just seemed so critical of his eating and drinking habits, and it made Bouchard feel uncouth, like some kind of barbarian compared to the genteel boss. Mehelnechuk never really said anything, but Bouchard could tell from his face and actions. The worst part was that he tended to finish his meal long before Mehelnechuk had even made a dent in his. It made Bouchard feel awkward.

But this was business. It was a victory dinner of sorts. Ever since Bouchard's men had bombed the Lawbreakers' Springfield headquarters, they had been absolutely silent. No shootings, no fires, no threats, no nothing. Mehelnechuk could tell things were working from the little signs as well. More and more often, Sons of Satan were wearing their colors in public, and Bouchard had even stopped wearing his body armor when he was out in public. And at least two recalcitrant dealers that he knew of had returned to the fold on a no-questions-asked basis.

Mehelnechuk was just getting into his veal chop and Bouchard was starting on his first post-dinner beer when a prospect who had been waiting outside approached the table. He spoke to Bouchard. “There's a fellow outside who says he needs to talk with you.”

Bouchard laughed. “Do you know him?”

“No, little guy, looks like a nobody,” said the prospect. “But he says he has a message for you from Mr. Wentworth and that you would know what that means.”

Bouchard looked at Mehelnechuk. Mehelnechuk nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Okay, pat him down and bring him to the table,” Bouchard said. “And make sure he knows you are beside him at all times.”

The prospect brought the young man to the table and stood beside him as he sat next to Bouchard. Bouchard recognized him from the wedding of DeVolo's niece. He nodded at Mehelnechuk.

“What can I do for you, young man?”

“My boss, he wants to meet you.”

“Mr. Wentworth?”

“Yeah, at the usual spot.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night, about seven—there will be dinner.”

“Well, you better make a lot of spaghetti and meatballs because I'm coming with a lot of my friends.”

“That was expected.”

“Tell him we'll be there. Now let me eat my dinner in peace.”

After the prospect escorted the little man out, Mehelnechuk couldn't help but smile. Bouchard laughed out loud.

Clegg wasn't the sort of cop who'd play hunches very often, but he thought he'd try a little something out on the prisoner that the uniforms had brought in. He'd been in the interrogation room with Carter for about forty-five minutes, and was getting nowhere. Clegg could tell the little guy was still tweaking. He was heavily addicted to cocaine or methamphetamine and had been away from it for the three days he was in jail. He shook and twitched and yammered on and on. But still he kept a cap on his mouth when it came to anything valuable, telling Clegg next to nothing.

So Clegg took out his wild card. He showed Carter Lara's newspaper article that quoted the unidentified biker about the war. Carter's lips moved as he read it, then he started laughing mirthlessly about half way through. He looked Clegg in the eye and said: “How do you like that? After everything I've done for them, they're going to kill me.”

Clegg tried very hard not to look astonished. “Yeah, that's how it goes sometimes,” he said. “Tough bunch of boys in a rough business.”

“Tell me about it,” Carter said. “And if that 's how they want to play it, they can go fuck themselves—what kind of deal will you give me?”

“Depends on what you have, and what you've done.”

“I've got it all, and I've done it all,” Carter grinned broadly but without any detectable emotion. “I got people you never heard of doing shit you don't know about.”

“Lemme get the prosecutor on the phone,” Clegg told him. “I think we can work something out.”

Ned was driving back to Hamner when his phone rang. It was Mehelnechuk. “Is this a fresh phone?” he asked. Ned assured him it was. “Okay, then pull over. We need to talk.”

Ned did as he was told.

“How do you like it there in Hamner?”

Ned told him he liked it a lot, especially since Stockton had shown up.

“Good,” he answered. “How would you like to stay there?”

“Of course,” he said. “But I don't know what Steve needs from me.” He could hear Mehelnechuk laugh. “Steve? Remember, he works for me . . . actually, he works for somebody who works for somebody who works for me. I'll take care of him.”

Ned laughed. “So what did you have in mind?”

“Well, I'm thinking about setting up another club up there in Hamner, just clean-cut guys like you—short hair, no beards, no jackets, no patches, no tats, just a bunch of normal-looking guys,” Mehelnechuk said. “You'd do the same sort of thing that you're doing now, just attract a whole lot less attention to yourselves—hell, you could even give up the Harley—and you'd be my top guy.”

Now Ned was smiling. “That sounds exactly like something I'd really like.”

“Yeah, I thought so,” said Mehelnechuk. “Let's get together later this week and we'll talk—I come in to Springfield most Sundays to take my folks to church. Maybe we can hook up afterwards?”

“I'll be there.”

After he hung up, Ned raced back to Hamner. When he arrived, he hugged and kissed Daniela. Liliya giggled. Daniela found herself laughing. She said something in their native language and Liliya nodded and left the room.

“What's gotten into you?” she asked Ned. “This is not how you usually greet employees.”

He smiled broadly. “Well, everything has changed,” he said. “I don't work for Steve anymore and I'm about to get very rich. How does that sound?”

“It sounds great.” Daniela was still confused.

“It's better than great. Look, why don't you and I go out to dinner tonight to celebrate?” he said.

She turned her head but kept looking at him. “Sure.”

At dinner that night, Ned explained to her about Kelli, about how Mehelnechuk wanted him to be president of a new kind of club. They talked, they ate, they drank, and they flirted. He brought up her vacation again and suggested they go to North Beach for a few days. By the time she woke up in Ned's house, they had already decided she'd move in. It was, she thought to herself, perhaps the happiest she had ever been.