Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (8 page)

From that point forward, the right side of his face showed his real emotions while his left side displayed an insane grin—not unlike the Joker from
Batman
—no matter what the situation.

A few months earlier, nobody would have given Mehelnechuk a snowball's chance to be president. Not only did Bouchard look more like the man in charge, he was well liked and widely respected. Mehelnechuk had many members' respect, but it was a grudging respect, and few would call him a friend.

Things changed pretty quickly in his favor. Bouchard was arrested again, just two months before the meeting. A pair of Martinsville's finest were tailing him when he forgot to signal a lane change. A quick flash of lights, a brief conversation, and a couple of frisks later, Bouchard and his lieutenant Mickey “Wino” Godel were behind bars for possession of unregistered handguns.

Though they were bailed out quickly, Bouchard came home to find a pair of men in cheap suits sitting on his porch. They were from immigration. Bouchard had lived in the United States since he was nine, but he'd never bothered to file for citizenship. Because he had never attended college, gotten a job, filed a tax return, or crossed the border, he had fallen through the cracks—until now, as the annual meeting drew near.

With Bouchard fallen on hard times, his old buddy Mehelnechuk came to the rescue. Not only was he the one that came up with the bail money—he also let it be known that he would find a way to get Bouchard a Green Card. Bouchard, grateful, had no objection to Mehelnechuk's plan to host the annual meeting.

It was an elaborate affair. Mehelnechuk was originally from Springfield and still owned a bar there, even though it was a Lawbreakers' town and the Sons of Satan didn't hold much sway there. Well, he didn't actually own the bar—it was registered under the names of two old friends with legit businesses—but everyone in town whose job it was to enforce or break laws knew it was his.

Johnny Reb's was a Confederate-themed bar in a northern town. On weekends, it drew huge crowds. Many came to dance to the live country or rock acts—usually cover bands. Mehelnechuk had a fondness for the music of his youth—but far more came to blow off steam or get shitfaced. And a few came to make deals in Mehelnechuk's back-room office. He didn't have a huge amount of business in Springfield—the Lawbreakers saw to that—but it was worthwhile. Besides, he came home pretty well every weekend to escort his elderly mother to the Eastern Orthodox church where they attended mass in Ukrainian.

When he let it be known that this year's annual meeting would be held at Johnny Reb's, many members were surprised that Mehelnechuk would risk having it in what most considered to be enemy territory. But, as the idea circulated, more and more members realized what a powerful statement it was. There were maybe two dozen Lawbreakers in Springfield. At the annual meeting, Mehelnechuk could muster several hundred Sons of Satan and associates. He could have more firepower on the door than the Springfield Lawbreakers could put together in the whole town.

And it was a hell of a party. Bikers and their associates were greeted at the door by bikini-clad hostesses—most of them hired from Steve Schultz's dancer and escort agencies—who offered them drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Buddy Boy and the BJs—a country-punk outfit who flirted with national fame until Buddy Boy's alcohol and cocaine problems derailed them—played all their well-known songs and a few old covers Mehelnechuk had specified.

The bikers, the drug dealers, the enforcers, their wives, girlfriends, and other hangers-on were having a great time when Mehelnechuk made his entrance. Two burly, leather-clad bikers flung open the front doors. Buddy Boy and the BJs fell silent, as they had been instructed earlier. Immediately, the stage lights lit up the door and Richard Strauss's “Also Sprach Zarathustra” boomed through the speakers.

In strode Mehelnechuk—all five-foot-five of him. Despite his odd appearance and his scarred face, he had something of a regal bearing that night. He wore a floor-length wolf- fur coat, a white silk shirt unbuttoned enough to show his many gold chains, soft leather pants, and ostrich-skin cowboy boots. It wasn't subtle, but it was a profound show of wealth and success to a very impressionable crowd.

As he entered, an assistant took his coat and the music stopped. He announced: “I trust everyone is having a good time.” The crowd roared its approval. “Well then, let's make this a party.” He clapped his hands twice, and all of the hostesses removed their bikini tops and let them drop to the floor. The crowd went wild and Buddy Boy and the BJs cranked up a powerful version of ZZ Top's “Sharp-Dressed Man.”

One of the first to greet Mehelnechuk once he was seated was Bouchard. He whispered something into the host's ear, then shook his hand and left with a smile on his face. One by one, the other players in the Sons of Satan—some from as far away as California and even England—approached Mehelnechuk to wish him well.

About an hour later, a couple of prospects were sent to tell all of the collected Sons of Satan members that it was time to vote. One by one, they filed into the back office to write a name down on a piece of paper and stuff it in a box.

About fifteen minutes after the last one was finished, a prospect was sent to tell Buddy Boy to cut the music. Paul Potter, a 420-pound monster with a beard down to his belly button and a tattoo of a rattlesnake on his shaven head, strode to center stage. Potter was a much-respected member of the Sons of Satan. He was a good earner and a feared enforcer who would have been a viable candidate for president himself if only he hadn't been a similarly powerful member of the Lawbreakers only a year earlier.

Potter cleared his throat at the microphone and simply said, “It's Ivan.” As if on cue, Buddy Boy and the BJs thundered into their rendition of “Street Fightin' Man.”

Mehelnechuk did little but grin. Bouchard, sitting next to him, clapped loudly and cheered. He shook Mehelnechuk's hand, and the smaller man whispered something in his ear. Bouchard nodded and beamed.

Steve Schultz approached Mehelnechuk. The new national president laughed. “Don't look so sad, Hollywood,” he said. “There's lots of room for a guy like you.”

Ned was sweating as he drove over the sun-bleached asphalt on his way to work. André had delivered on his promise to get him some wheels, but the car Ned was driving offered precious little more than basic transport. Made from a mix of parts cannibalized from a derelict Dodge Omni and a mechanically identical Plymouth Horizon, André had dubbed it a “Hor-ni,” bought it from a mechanic friend for four hundred dollars, and given it to Ned.

It was a horrible little car: one headlight shone up at an angle of forty-five degrees; the skinny, bald tires made driving in rain, snow, or even moderate winds a death-defying adventure; the speedometer didn't work, but since the car began to shudder violently at forty-eight miles per hour, speeding wasn't really an issue.André explained that, if he drove a more expensive-looking vehicle, his mother would realize he had quit school. In fact, Ned's mom had long ago come to that conclusion, but in the interest of avoiding a conflict, played along.

Today, Ned was driving to Torchy's, a hillbilly bar located in an ageing strip mall in suburban Springfield. It was across the bay, but since Ned didn't trust the Hor-ni to cross the high and windswept Bay Bridge, he had to go around, adding an extra forty minutes to his trip.

Torchy's was part of his route. Ned had accepted André's job, and was collecting cash for him from bar managers and bartenders around the city. But it wasn't working out as well as he'd hoped.

To a man, the dealers absolutely hated to pay. They'd whine and make excuses or argue. They'd short him or not be around when they said they would be. There was not a single week in which he received as much money as he was promised and he would occasionally have to dip into his own pocket to get the package up to the level André expected. Instead of eight hundred dollars a week, he was averaging around three hundred and fifty.

And he absolutely hated going to Torchy's. Not only was it far away, but the only day the manager would meet him was on Tuesdays. None of the other guys were available Tuesdays, so it meant he had to blow a whole day on just one call. Worse than the distance was the manager. Pat Wells was a total dick. A big, ugly guy who smelled bad, Wells was the worst of the bad lot Ned had to deal with. He argued about every nickel and dime and always, always, always shorted his package. Experience had led Ned to count the money in the envelope before leaving the bar, which always prompted loud complaints from Wells about what an asshole Ned was for not trusting him.

Today's trip was tolerable, though, because Ned had brought a friend along. Leo Babineau had been a pal of Ned's since fourth grade. He quit school about the same time Ned did, but didn't have any plans beyond getting stoned and playing video games.

Leo was totally out of weed, was bored with his games and was being harassed by his mom and stepdad to get a job, so he was delighted to hear Ned wanted him to tag along. It was something to do, a great relief from the nagging, and a great opportunity to score some free weed.

As they pulled into Torchy's parking lot, Ned said: “Be prepared, this guy is a total asshole.”

“Can't be worse than Conrad,” Leo said, referring to his stepfather. “Won't bother me, I'm just here to watch—but I got your back, buddy.”

As soon as they opened the door, Wells snorted: “Aw shit, look who it is.” He was alone in the empty bar except for his equally robust pal Pete Mulligan. They looked very much the same—big men with even bigger bellies. Both had mustaches, buzz cuts, thick necks, and powerful tattooed arms. Mulligan laughed.

“Hey, Pat,” said Ned with a forced jocularity. “You know what I'm here for.”

“No, what?”

“André's money,” Ned said, hoping that the mention of who was actually getting paid would help make Wells comply.

“André's money? I don't know any André. You know any Andrés, Pete?”

Mulligan shook his head.

“C'mon, Pat, why do you have to put me through this song and dance every week?” Ned whined. “You get your product on time, don't ya?”

“Listen to this little fuck coming into my place and telling me what I can and can not do,” Wells was yelling so loud and so fast that gob-bets of saliva orbited his head. “That's not a very wise move on your part, you little shit.”

“No it ain't,” piped in Mulligan.

“All I know is that André expects his cash.”

“All you know? You don't know shit.”

They stood there, all four of them, staring at each other. Ned was at a loss. There was no logic to what Wells was saying, nothing Ned could work on. It was pure macho bullshit. Worse than that—it was psychopathic. The man wanted product and didn't see any reason why he had to pay for it. That made negotiations difficult.

Wells broke the silence. “Listen, you little bag of shit, I'll tell you what I'll do,” he said while piling up a stack of bills which, to Ned's eye, appeared short of what he owed. “I'll stand beside you over there, and if you can grab the money before I do, it's yours.”

Mulligan laughed stupidly.

“What are you talking about? The money is André's.”

“André ain't here—but you and I are.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Do you want your money or not?”

“I want André's money.”

“Then come and get it, you little shit.”

Out of options, Ned lunged at the stack. As he leapt, Wells thrust both fists into his ribs. Ned toppled over a barstool and fell to the ground. Wells then ran over and kicked him in the gut. Then he grabbed the collar of Ned's shirt and his belt, dragged him over to the door, and threw him into the parking lot.

He came back and stood in Leo's face. “What do you have to say, faggot?” Leo said nothing, just ran out the door. Wells and Mulligan laughed.

Once outside, Leo helped his friend to the Hor-ni's passenger seat and got into the driver's seat. He asked Ned for the keys.

“You gonna be okay?” Leo asked his friend as he started the car. “Do you need to go to a hospital or something?”

“No, no, no, I'll be okay,” he said.

They both laughed. Ned instructed Leo to drive him to André's. Leo, still pining for a little free weed, grinned.

André sighed after they told him the story. “I know I told you not to come to me with this type of problem, but I'm actually glad you did,” he said. “If this sort of thing gets out, nobody will ever feel like they have to pay you and that would reflect very badly on me.”

He lit a joint and Leo sighed contentedly. “I just can't allow this to happen,” he continued. “And, luckily, I have a solution.”

He led them down into the basement, passing Leo the joint. André instructed the boys to move the couch about a foot back. Then he lifted up the rug. Underneath it was a trapdoor that opened to reveal a small, deep storage space. In it, Ned could see some little glass vials with maroon rubber tops and red buckets full of yellow and white tablets. Ned hadn't passed either chemistry or biology, but he knew what they were when he saw the prefix “testo-” on some of the vials.

“Now, the liquid works faster, but I don't want you two idiots playing around with needles.” André said as he groped around the storage space for two white plastic bottles. He counted sixty pills into each and handed them to the boys.

“Okay, Dr. Dré says to take one of these beauties every morning with breakfast—and you will start eating breakfast or they won't work as well; I suggest eggs, they're full of protein and collagen,” André instructed them. “And y'know Kennedy's Gym downtown?”