Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (9 page)

They both nodded.

“You both have lifetime unlimited memberships,” André said. “Just show up and tell the manager—make sure it's Dave you talk to—that André says you have the run of the place.”

Although neither boy had ever been committed to anything before (unless you count Leo's pot smoking), they enjoyed their weightlifting. They spent about two hours a day at the gym working upper bodies and lower bodies on alternate days. And they saw almost immediate results. Within six weeks, they were already bigger, hairier, and more aggressive. They even saw their tastes in music and movies change.

Ned had returned to work the day after his meeting with André. There were a couple of changes, though.

He no longer went on trips without Leo. It cost him a little—he generally paid Leo in weed and handed him a twenty every once in a while—but it helped ensure that debtors paid in full and on time. The same people who had scoffed at the skinny lad with the shitty car were now ready to work with the two suddenly bold and well-muscled young men who made it clear they meant business.

And he cut Torchy's out of his rotation. It cost him a lot—in fact, almost two-thirds of his own net from collections. Torchy's was still receiving deliveries from André's other guys but not paying for them.

Ned made up for that deficit and more by finding customers of his own. Leo had a wide circle of weed-hungry pals. It wasn't really worthwhile for Ned to visit them all, getting ten bucks here and twenty there, so he set up an André-style distribution center at an independent record store where one of them worked. That, in turn, led to another distribution center at a mens' residence at the Springfield campus of the state university. André got his ten percent plus costs, and also supplied them with steroids to supply their weightlifting buddies at the gym under the usual terms.

Ned was on his way to the gym when he received a call from André. He told Ned to grab Leo and come over to his house. As he was just about to pull into the gym's parking lot, he saw Leo and called him over. “Hop in,” he said. “Big meeting up at André's.” Leo jumped into the passenger seat and held his door closed for the whole trip.

André met them out front and told them to get in the pickup. “And park that piece of shit around the corner,” he said. “Don't want my neighbors to think I hang around with riff-raff.”

They didn't talk much as they got on the Interstate in André's pickup, instead preferring to listen to music. When they did talk, it was mostly about how much weight they were lifting or sharing anecdotes about the stupid or crazy stoners and dealers they had to deal with.

They were twelve miles from the Canadian border when Ned told André he didn't have a passport. André said he wouldn't need one where they were going. Then he drove down an offramp that indicated it led to the road to Millersville and Ondasheeken.

“Where we going?” Ned asked.

“Ondasheeken,” André answered.

“What's there?”

“I'm taking you there to meet the FBI.”

“FBI?”

“Yeah—Fuckin' Big Indian.”

Other than what he saw in a few hokey cowboy movies and a hazy memory of something he heard in history class about maize and long-houses, Ned didn't know much about Native Americans. So, when they drove onto the Indian reservation, he intently studied everything. Ondasheeken looked like all the other little towns he had seen in the county. There were the usual clapboard houses and trailers made into permanent residences. There were clotheslines, above-ground gas tanks, muscle cars, and big angry dogs tied to stakes. But the kids playing by the side of the road were often bronze colored, and many of them had very long, always black hair. The businesses had long, Japanese-y names with lots of consonants. And every sign had an eagle or a turtle or some other dumb animal on it.

André turned onto a dirt road with a few mailboxes on it. He reached one shaped like a largemouth bass with the name “Wilson” on it and turned.

As they approached a fairly large low-slung ranch style, Ned could see that there was a small group of men out front. Most had long black hair (some in ponytails) and all wore some combination of jeans, wife-beaters, and/or plaid shirts. Their skin tones ranged from copper to milky. They were clearly having a good time smoking and drinking. There was a fire with meat cooking over it. And every single one of them (including a boy who appeared to be about ten) was carrying a gun.

One of them—a big guy, maybe six-foot-four, and all muscle—saw André's pickup and let out a piercing shriek. When he was done, he grinned broadly.

André lowered his window, and grabbed the man's left hand in a grip that looked like they were arm wrestling. The big man walked alongside the truck as André slowly guided it into what he determined was an appropriate parking spot on the grass.

“How you doin', man?” the big guy said, obviously happy to see André.

“I am screwed, blued, and tattooed, chief,” André answered.

“I told you not to call me that,” the big guy answered. “That word means something to these guys.” He motioned at the men behind him, many of whom also seemed very happy to see André.

“Fine, fine, fine,” said André. Then he paused. “Chief.”

The big guy laughed. The rest of his crew gathered around. Ned found them menacing despite their smiles, but André clearly had their respect.

“Yes, yes, yes, gentlemen, Santa Claus has arrived,” André said as he came out of his pickup. He dug out and threw clear plastic bags full of weed to the big guy. Then he threw one full of white pills. And then two full of small translucent shards, which Ned (correctly) assumed were methamphetamine.

The big guy looked into the cab of the pickup—where Ned and Leo were still buckled into their seats—and said, “Boo!” He laughed when they both flinched. He turned to André and asked, “Who's the ballast?”

“Oh, these are friends of mine; good friends of mine in great need,” he said. “They need some . . . uh . . . cantaloupes.”

The big guy smiled broadly. “That's good,” he said. “I just got a load of fresh ‘cantaloupes.' Come inside.”

André followed the big guy inside, and Ned and Leo came after. Ned overheard him ask André why he never wore his colors anymore but couldn't make out André's response.

Inside, the house looked very much like any of their own, but with more animal body parts used as decoration. There was a tiny old lady on the couch who stared off into space and tore cardboard into increasingly smaller pieces. An ancient and obviously arthritic dog of undetectable lineage cuddled up against her.

The big guy, whose name was Willie Wilson, sat with his three guests at a Formica and stainless steel dining room table. A heavy-set young woman—possibly stoned—walked out of one of the bedrooms to see what was going on.

Willie shouted to her. “Debbie, get these guys something to drink—and get Mom outta here.” She walked over to the fridge and bent down to see what was inside. Ned instinctively looked to check out her ass, but instead found himself focusing on the tattoo on the small of her back. It said “Roberto” in Gothic letters.

She straightened up, turned, and threw Ned and Leo each a Budweiser. She handed a Miller to André. He kissed her on the cheek.

“That 'll be enough of that,” Willie chuckled. “I don't want her getting the jungle fever.”

“Keep yer feathers on, Pocahontas,” André shot back.

“You are so lucky you have drugs,” Willie said. His jocularity hadn't waned a bit. He seemed to enjoy being insulted by André. “What can I do for you, my French fried friend?”

“It's not me, I'm fine, I'm totally self-sufficient, all I need is cash—oh, and you, Debs,” André said as he turned to acknowledge the stout girl who was now fighting the old dog for room on the couch. “It's the boys. I don't know what to do with them.”

It was at that point that Ned realized he hadn't spoken since he had arrived at Wilson's compound. He didn't want to appear afraid, so he spoke without really thinking. “ We just came along for the ride.”

After a beat, both of the older men laughed. Willie smacked André on the back. “They're not with me,” André deadpanned as he shot a disappointed look at Ned.

Willie stiffened up. “Look guys, I know why you're here,” he said. “I can take care of you.”

The problem was that they didn't know why they were there.

Willie then asked André: “What are you looking for?”

“Something small and clean,” he replied.

There was a knock on the door. Willie snickered at the sight of Ned and Leo stiffening, then yelled, “Come in!”

It was one of the guys from outside. He was tall and thin with black hair down to his waist. He was carrying a rifle with a scope. “Fuckin' Winston just called,” the young man told Willie. “He wants to know if you can get him something this weekend.”

André laughed. “Not Winston from Canada?”

“Yeah,” Willie said. “And that makes him a priority customer.”

“What? That fat Jamaican asshole? I've known you longer and bought you more product—and he gets priority?”

“Yup, he gets priority because he lives on the other side of
your
border,” Willie said. “See, on this side of
your
border, guns are easy to get—and on
his
side, they are much, much harder to get.”

“And since the reserve is on both sides of
our
border—which you don't recognize . . .”

“Well, let's put it this way,” Willie said. “What would you give me for a ten-year-old Makarov that may or may not have been used in an incident in West Palm Beach?”

“I'd kick your ass for such an insult.”

“Really? Because that fat Jamaican fuck in Toronto will give me eight hundred bucks.”

“And the cops don't get on you?”

“Not really,” Willie said, smiling. “ The cops on this side are happy to see the guns go and the Canadian cops know they won't be staying in their neighborhood; they're going to Montreal or Toronto or Vancouver. They're all like ‘fuck it, let those guys deal with 'em.' ”

“Well, never let it be said that I stood in the way of free enterprise,” André said. “And say ‘hi' to Winston.”

Willie snickered and shook his head. Then he told the kid with the rifle, “Look, call Winston back and tell him I'll be free in an hour . . . and tell him Dré says ‘hi.'”

As the younger man left, Willie turned back to André, and said, “Okay, you have my undivided attention.”

“Good,” André said. “They will need good products, something that will work when asked to do so and not fail,” he said. “And, since they live on the sugar-coated side of the border, they will have to be clean.”

That meant that the guns André was hoping to buy for the boys could not have been linked with any crime in the U.S. That cut the choices down considerably and jacked up the price accordingly.

Willie didn't take time to think. “I have two you'll like,” he told André. “They fit your description—and they are nice products.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, one of them is el Glocko and the other has been provided by my good friends—Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson,” he said. “You will like them—really, really like them.”

“Careful what you say,” André shot a look at Ned and Leo, then sighed. “And you're sure they're clean?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Aggressively and repeatedly . . .” André paused. “. . . but never about product. You honest injun.”

“Jesus, Dré, knock off all that Indian stuff,” Willie sighed.

“Okay, okay, okay, can we get back to business?” André asked. “Are you absolutely sure we can talk here?”

“We are in the middle of a fuckin' Indian reservation!” Willie said. “It would be an act of war to bug my house.” He walked over to the door, opened it, and shouted: “My name is Willie Wilson and I sell drugs!” It was immediately followed by hoots of approval and a few shots in the air by the young men outside. He grinned and returned to the table. “I got a Glock 17 and a very nice Smith & Wesson SW1911; I like the Smith. The Glock looks a bit coppish to me,” he said. “They are both slightly used, but in pristine condition.”

“Sounds awesome, can we see 'em?” André asked.

Willie mumbled something in a language none of the guests understood. Debbie groaned a mild protest, but got up from the couch, walked into a bedroom, and brought back a hockey bag with a Boston Bruins logo on it. She put it on the floor between Willie and André. Ned and Leo got up from their chairs.