Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (4 page)

“Like fuck you did,” he said. “The rest of us really had to earn it, doing all kinds of hard work for the members—beating up witnesses, setting fires, robbing warehouses—you ever do any of that shit?”

“No.”

“Didn't think so—but we all did; they treated us like slaves, kicking our asses for years until we earned their respect and got to do some pushing around of our own,” he said. “And your waltzing in the way you did hasn't exactly made you that popular with the boys.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I ain't gonna name any names, but some people have raised some suspicions about you,” he said.

“Suspicions? Like what?”

“One guy thought you might be a cop, but that's ridiculous—you're too young and I've seen you smoke weed, and cops can't do that, even undercover.”

“Of course I'm not a . . . ”

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean you're not an informant,” Gagliano pressed on. “Y 'know, maybe you got in a little trouble at school and you thought you could deliver them Steve or one of us to save your ass . . . ”

Ned felt like punching him, after all he'd been through, but he knew it was probably the worst thing he could do at the moment. Instead, he let him trail off, letting the obvious question hang in the air like a cloud.

“Do you believe that?” he finally offered.

“Not after last night,” Gagliano laughed.

There was little Ned could do but grin goofily.

“But I am telling you here and now that there are people in our little group who don't like you, don't trust you, and are keeping their eyes on you,” Gagliano said. “One of them especially does not like you.”

“Who?”

“That will make itself clear in time,” he said. “Now eat your fuckin' eggs before I do.”

When they finished their meal, the waitress placed the bill in front of Ned. “Lesson number . . . actually, I've lost count of how many lessons I've taught you today—anyway, this lesson is that I never pay for fuck all,” Gagliano grinned.

“That's true,” added the waitress. “He never pays.”

“Leave her a big fuckin' tip.”

Back in the car, Ned noticed they were driving back to the city's north end, where the steel factories are. The houses here were mostly small and falling apart, and the air was thick with soot from the giant blast furnaces. “Yeah, Vladimir will totally fuckin' take care of you, but there are some ground rules,” Gagliano said. “First is never disagree with him, and never, ever make fun of him, his house, or anything at all associated with . . . actually, y'know what would work best? Why don't you just keep your mouth shut; maybe say ‘thank you' or something.”

“Sounds like a bit of a psycho.”

“You are paying the man to dispose of a severed head and hands for you—don't expect Mary fuckin' Poppins.”

They stopped in front of a dirty white bungalow with a collapsing roof. Gagliano slammed his flat hand against the ancient wooden screen door. “Vladimir? You in?”

“Yeah, yeah,” a voice rumbled from inside.

The bikers entered. The place smelled of sweat, urine, and food gone bad. Vladimir was sitting on the couch with a video-game controller in his lap. He was wearing faded purple sweatpants, work socks, and no shirt. A huge, but not quite obese man, Vladimir's body was covered in thick gray hair, which stopped where his collar would be. His head was shaved, revealing a fading black tattoo of a two-headed eagle. Although Vladimir was flabby and clearly out of shape, Ned could tell he was immensely strong. Vladimir's one eye stared intently at the TV screen, while the other appeared to be fixated on a spot near the base of a lamp on the opposite side of the room. He nodded at Gagliano, but did not acknowledge Ned.

“You better get ready for work; you have to be there in twenty minutes,” Gagliano said.

“Two seconds to throw on a fuckin' T-shirt, two more for a hat,” Ivan growled, not moving his attention from the video game.

After a long pause, in which the only sounds came from the video game, Gagliano said: “We got a job for ya.”

“I know, I know, your boss . . . ah, fuck, you got me killed! Son of a bitch!” Vladimir glared at Ned. “Gimme the package.”

“Here ya go,” Ned said politely and handed him the knapsack, which was still a little cold from its time in the freezer.

“What did you say?” Vladimir stood up and rushed towards Ned. He was hovering over him, no more than six inches from his face. “What did you say to me?” he shouted.

Before Ned could speak, Vladimir smiled. “I'm just fuckin' with ya . . . Steve said you were a total geek. I just wanted to have a little fun with ya.”

Gagliano laughed before the other two did. Vladimir picked up the bag. He didn't open it, just held it up at about head level, as though he was weighing it. “Eleven hundred,” he said.

Gagliano laughed. “Vladimir, my friend, you are magic,” he said, patting the big man on his naked shoulder. “Pay the man, lover boy.”

Ned peeled off $1,100 from the wad of cash he had with him. Vladimir took it and said: “Okay, you guys get out of here now—you'll never see this again . . . wait, you want the bag back?”

Once he got home, Ned realized he wasn't good for much. Kelli hadn't come back, and there were no messages on the phone. He sat on the couch and turned on the TV. He lit up a joint. Ned flicked through all the channels and decided there was nothing on. He left the news on, but was scared he'd hear about a head and hands being found, so he changed the channel. He switched over to a game show, but found it too annoying, too intrusive for him to sleep through. Finally, he settled on a nature program—something about lions and hyenas fighting it out for supremacy on the Serengeti, while the zebras and wildebeest take it on the chin, as usual. He stubbed out what was left of the joint. After about five minutes, he nodded gently off to sleep.

He slept for five hours—weed always made him sleepy—finally waking when the phone rang. He struggled to get it.

“Get down to the Strip by seven.” It was a voice he recognized, but couldn't quite identify. “And bring money, lots of money.”

Cash was never a big problem for Ned. He'd been selling drugs for years now and had developed a nice little network. He always had at least $20,000 in the house at any given time. But he knew when one of these guys said “a lot” of money, he didn't have to bring more than $10,000.

When he got to the Strip, Ned was greeted in the parking lot by Lessard and Johansson. “Boss wants to see you,” Johansson said. “Wants to see you now.”

Ned wasn't great at judging people's motives, but he could tell Johansson and Lessard were deadly serious. He nodded, took the knapsack with the money in it, and followed them. He was so caught up with what was going on, he forgot to lock his car.

When they got to the purple, windowless metal front door, Ned noticed Dave Peters and “Little” John Rautins standing on each side of it. Both men were in full Death Dealers regalia and had their arms crossed in front of them. Neither acknowledged Ned, but both nodded at Johansson when he approached. Just at the edge of his peripheral vision, Ned could see Buddy standing on a corner a block away, playing with his hands and pretending not to watch what was going on.

Although the Strip was ostensibly open at 7:30 on a Sunday night, the door was locked. Rautins banged on it—three hits, then a pause, then two more. The door opened. The DJ, who had been setting up, slunk away as soon as he saw who was coming through. Ned was surrounded by a phalanx of silent and angry-looking bikers. Only Peters—who had a reputation as a ruthless psycho and had a look in his eyes to match—wasn't significantly larger than him.

Wordlessly, they paraded him into Steve's office. Steve was behind his desk, sitting next to a large, Hispanic-looking man in an expensive suit and lots of gold jewelry. The chair in front of the desk was open. Ned sat in it.

Steve didn't acknowledge his presence at first, instead shuffling papers and shaking his head. Finally, without looking up, he sighed and said: “You know, you really, really, really fucked up last night.”

Lessard laughed. Just about then, Gagliano entered the room and apologized for being late. Steve rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Ned. “You put us all in danger; you freaked out and you showed weakness,” he said, still shaking his head and still not looking at Ned. “And you did it for a woman.” He paused. “Well,” he finally looked him in the eye. “What have you got to say for yourself ?”

Ned ran his hands through his hair nervously and exhaled loudly. “Nothing.”

“Good, that's what I hoped you would say,” Steve said. “Because there is no excuse for what you did—what you displayed last night was weakness, and by trying to defend it, you would be piling weakness upon weakness . . . but today, right now, you showed me strength, real strength.”

Ned was silent.

“The fact is . . . what is done is done,” Steve continued. “One more useless fuck—taking up space, breathing my oxygen, probably not recycling . . . ” Lessard laughed again and Steve grinned an acknowledgement of his henchman's appreciation. “. . . is no longer with us; that's not a problem.” Steve paused. He came around and sat on the edge of the desk, just a few inches away from Ned's face. “What bothers me is why,” he said, and paused. “You know why they won't let fags into combat?”

It wasn't a rhetorical question; he expected an answer. “No, I don't know.”

“Because the generals are afraid that fags will form close personal attachments to their squadmates and that their subsequent emotions would prevent them from doing their duty,” he said. “What you did last night was the act of a fag—you freaked out and acted out because of your close, personal attachment to that woman, didn't you?”

“I guess so.”

“There's nothing to guess, you did or you didn't—choose.”

“Okay, I did.”

“Did you make a prudent, well-thought-out decision when you hit that worthless fuck in the head with a beer bottle?”

“No.”

“And why did you put such an imprudent, poorly-thought-out plan into action?”

“Because he was abusing Kelli?”

“Because he was abusing Kelli,” Steve mocked him in an annoying falsetto. “And that made you feel how?”

“I don't follow you.”

“Your problem is that you let your little faggot emotions get in the way of your better judgment,” Steve said. “You saw her up there on stage and that lowly bastard telling her what to do and you snapped.”

“My friend, she's chosen one path and it's about time you chose another,” Steve said. “There's lots and lots and lots and lots of pussy out there. I can get you anything you want from pretty well anyone you want; you do not need to link your future to hers.”

“You're right.”

“Say it again.”

“You're right.”

“Perhaps you'd like to elaborate.”

Ned caught on. “It was wrong of me to act stupid when confronted with that situation,” he said. “Kelli is a stripper, she took on a career choice that has certain drawbacks, and I have to live with that and move on with my own career.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Steve said. The assembled bikers laughed.

“Now we come to the small matter of how you are going to make up for your indiscretions of last night.” He said something in what Ned took to be Spanish to the man beside him, who nodded but did not otherwise change the expression on his face.

“The first matter on the agenda is the custodial work done by young Mr. Peters and young Mr. Rautins,” he said. “How long did you two work?”