Blood in the Water (Kairos) (7 page)

PART TWO

Chapter One:  Present Day

As Samuel parked his bike outside The Priest’s clubhouse, he was reminded of the day twenty years ago when he’d returned home from his previous, and so far last, stint in prison.  He wasn’t sure what it was that had triggered the memory of that crowd of people waiting outside for him.  It might have been the weather.  The anniversary, when he thought about it, was more than a month away.  Maybe it was the spring freshness to the air beginning to reclaim ground from the humidity of the day as evening closed in.  He’d never forgotten the taste of freedom on the air that day.

The clubhouse had changed some since that day.  The limestone gravel spread over the drive in front of the clubhouse building that had been relatively new on that day was showing its age now.  The window on the gable end that faced the road had been bricked up after an unfortunate incident involving some semi-automatic fire some years previously.  It had been Dean’s suggestion to replace the small club sign at the apex with a mural that covered the entire wall as a statement that they were unbowed.  The result was a mix of styles something between graffiti and realism in white silver and black.  It was very modern by Samuel’s tastes, but it worked, and it certainly made an impression as you pulled up through the avenue of wood and scrub.

The garage building had been extended further.  Originally it had been a convenient place for the members to build and repair their own bikes, and then it had attracted some interest from townsfolk which had turned it into a viable business.  Now they were surfing the wave of MC hype.  In the wake of televisions shows about bikers, both ‘real’ and scripted, they were now taking on a lot more work producing customized motorcycles of all origins rather than concentrating on Harleys.

From the neat line of bikes resting on their kickstands outside the building, and the Dodge Ram parked at an odd angle on the opposite side of the open end of the driveway, Samuel guessed that he was the last to arrive for Friday Church.  His wife was going to be the death of him.  He wasn’t quite late, not yet, but Moira grabbing him on his way out of the door had seriously tested his time-keeping ability.  Her reasoning was that he’d get drunk later and end up sleeping at the clubhouse so she was getting hers while she could.

His later than usual entrance raised a few eyebrows in the main room.  Samuel was mildly irritated that he didn’t have time for a drink beforehand, but he intended to make up for it later, so he walked straight through the room without stopping until he reached the double doors at the end that led to the Chapel, their private meeting room.  He paused to drop both his personal mobile phone and the unregistered club phone into the wooden box that had been hung on the wall next to the doors solely for such a purpose, before proceeding through the doors and taking his seat at the head of the table.

The plain slab of golden pine shone with polish despite the scars of hundreds of cigarette burns and bottle rings.  Gouges from be-ringed fists emphasizing opinions and scratches from many, many other actions throughout the decades mingled with the grain and knots of the wood.  There was a lot of history in this table, fifty years worth.  Samuel felt the reassuring weight of that history every time he ran his hands over the smooth wood.  Even as President, at thirty-five Samuel had been considered among the club’s new blood.  With Kong and Fletch still remaining from the original band of his father’s friends that had formed the club, he wasn’t an old-timer yet by any stretch of the imagination, but he certainly wasn’t a young blood anymore. 

He could see a small portion of the main room beyond the open double doors.  They had refurbished the clubhouse after the incident that had resulted in the bricking up of the gable window.  Now the club room at least didn’t look like a throwback to a ‘70s dive bar, which ironically enough was when it had last been decorated in any shape or form before it had been torn up by bullets.  The bar had been refitted; the original wooden flooring had been re-sanded and re-varnished.  New tables, chairs and couches had been bought in. 

It was nothing fancy. Given the good-natured fights, and sometimes ill-natured ones, that broke out occasionally and all the physical activities that took place here as well as the heavy drinking and smoking, it wouldn’t do to have surfaces or fabrics that were high maintenance or that anyone was fussy about cleaning.  Samuel had become so used to the smell of the place that he barely even noticed it anymore, but Moira regularly assured him that even starting from fresh plaster hadn’t eradicated the ingrained aroma of years of alcohol, smoke, men and sex.  Two stripper poles rising from a small stage had been installed in one corner of the room.  There was a pool table to one side that Samuel could not see but he noticed the snick of pool balls ceased as the game was abandoned.  One of the garage bays had been given over as a gym when that part of the building had been expanded and now contained an array of weight lifting equipment in addition to a boxing ring.

Samuel observed his brothers as they filed in.  Yes, the deal with the Rojas was profitable, but it had not been without its expenses.  They’d lost ten brothers in the last twenty years.  Double that number had spent long stints in the ICU at St Raphael’s Hospital.  Gerry Palmer was serving a serious sentence in the state penitentiary for manslaughter.  It was testament to Samuel’s planning, bribery and cautiousness that so few of the club members had served any time at all considering the drugs, guns and people they were muling across state lines.

Terry Adams took his seat first.  He’d been the Vice President since Samuel had been voted as keeper of the gavel when his father had died prematurely from cancer at the age of forty one.  Louis ‘Snaps’ Pinet had been his father’s original Vice President.  Samuel didn’t have anything against the man and he knew he’d served his father well, but he’d been keen to make his own appointment in such a supportive role.  Snaps had died in the shootout that had torn up the clubhouse.  Terry had been a natural choice for Samuel; his shrewd green eyes missed nothing.  His brain never seemed to stop working, evaluating angles and options, but his demeanor was deceptively calm.  Most people didn’t notice him noticing them until it was too late.

When he’d taken the helm, Samuel had retained two of the roles his father had appointed, Russell ‘Fletch’ Fletcher and Derek ‘Kong’ Monk.  Fletch had been the club’s Sergeant at Arms, and Kong still held the role of Treasurer.  Fletch had stepped down just over a decade after Samuel had taken the gavel, and Samuel had replaced him with the then thirty-year-old Steve ‘Dizzy’ Disraeli.  Dizzy had not earned his nickname due to his manner or way of thinking.  He was steady, and his louche frame and gait belied a cold brutality that could be employed readily when it was needed. Dizzy, one of two Texas natives at the table, permanently had a Stetson jammed over his scruffy blonde hair when he wasn’t wearing a helmet. There had been jokes about whether he ever took it off to fuck and sleep for as long as he’d been in the club.  The sweetbutts, seeing the humor in that since the first day that Dizzy’d set foot in the clubhouse, steadfastly refused to be drawn on the subject and kept up an impressively united silence.

The older members were usually first through the doors, and true to form they were in their seats before Dean, Tag and Crash had passed the doors.  The last person to enter the room was Charlie ‘Chiz’ Davis, the second Texan, club enforcer and Dizzy’s right hand.  Chiz was also about to be the main topic of their regular weekly meeting.  Chiz was a sturdier, stockier, altogether more beaten up version of Dizzy and he didn’t wear a Stetson, instead preferring to keep his scalp shaved smooth, but there was an equal amount of debate as to whether it was an image thing or whether he was hiding a bald spot.  He was a few inches shorter than the SAA, but that didn’t mean he was a dwarf.  At six foot five Dizzy had a height advantage over every man at the table.  He was rivaled only by Fletch, but age had stooped the old man’s shoulders some.

Once everyone was seated and had mostly finished fidgeting as they got comfortable and lit cigarettes, or a cigar in Kong’s case, Samuel banged the gavel three times and called the meeting to order.

“Right boys.  Let’s get the boring stuff outta the way first ‘fore y’all nod off.  Kong, what ya got for us?”

There were as many twitters of laughter as there were groans as Kong began to read through the treasury notes that outlined the dues paid and outstanding and the state of the club’s legitimate and illegitimate earnings.  Everything was still steady so far.  He handed over to Dean, who outlined the state of play regarding the town itself.  Dean was a charmer, cocky and flirty with the ladies and amiable and assertive with the men.  Samuel had given him the task of being the everyday point of contact for the townsfolk, particularly when collecting the protection fees.  It was a role that Dean excelled in.  Samuel swore the boy could sell ice to Eskimos.

Samuel had to bang the gavel to restore order to the table when joking about the rack belonging to a new waitress at the diner got rowdy.  “Now for the serious stuff.  Pay attention.  Terry, floor’s yours.”

Terry leant forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped, and looked at each of his brothers before speaking.  “We’ve got a date to make a pickup in two weeks.  The pipeline’s been moved again a few miles up the border, but that don’t change anythin’ for our arrangement.  It’s just a pre-emptive strike ‘fore the authorities found the old crossing.  The Rabids’ll catch the package, nothin’ breathin’ in this one.  They’ll meet us at the usual place.  Since this one can be contained without a truck, we’re going under the cover of a toy drive.  Our friends will have a van full of stuffed animals destined for a hospice in Florida.”

Terry turned to Dizzy, who continued.  “We’re travelin’ light on this one, keep our profile down.  We’ll pick up a couple of other charters on the way as cover.  The line up is Samuel, me, Dean and Tag since Chiz is out of commission.”

Samuel took up from Dizzy’s pause.  “And that, boys, brings us to our next item on the agenda.”  Samuel looked pointedly at Chiz who shuffled in his chair and then grimaced in pain.  His right leg was currently stuck out at an awkward angle, encased in plaster from his foot to his thigh.  His jeans had been shredded to accommodate the cast.

Dean chipped in next with a good-natured grin.  “Call yourself a fuckin’ outlaw.  Everythin’ we’ve been through, all the people you have personally pissed off; and you’re laid up because you fell off a fuckin’ ladder hangin’ fuckin’ curtains!”

Everyone had known the circumstances of his injury, but Chiz still had to wait for the laughter and ribbing to die down before he could get a word in.  “Yeah, yeah, I was helpin’ Dolly out and there were two flights of stairs involved.”

“Hey!  Leave my old lady out of this.”  Terry called across the table with mock offence.

“Bet that’ll be the next biker show, ‘Extreme Makeover Outlaw Edition’.  Bet I could sell that shit to the networks.”  Dean’s comment had the table in uproar again and had Chiz struggling to grab his crutches and push himself out of his seat.

Samuel banged the gavel, once, hard.  “Now, now boys.  You can sort it out in the ring... when you’re able.”  He added with a wink in Chiz’s direction, receiving a silent scowl in return.  “We need a full strength crew and I’m not just talkin’ ‘bout coverin’ the runs.  I’m sure you’ve all seen in the news about that nice set of heads that got left in Reynosa.  We can expect shit to get hot again soon, I think.  The Rojas will be protectin’ their pipeline from the Mexicans; that could well mean blowback on those of us on this side of the border.  There’re too many empty seats at this table, we need to add to our number.  The Prospects are extra hands, but we need experience.”

“You thinkin’ we need to patch over a charter, boss?”  Tag asked.  Despite being a member of an outlaw motorcycle club, Kelvin ‘Tag’ Blanchard had a naiveté that would not be educated, and a talent for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.  Samuel considered him to be a liability and so kept him away from the serious side of club business as much as he could, since there was no valid reason to take the boy’s patch.

“Not my style, brother.”  Samuel replied patiently.  “I want people at this table who want to be here.  I’m askin’ you all to keep your ears open for anyone lookin’ to make a move.  Put the word out that there’s a home here for anyone who likes a bit of excitement with their cereal.”

“I got someone in mind I’d like to speak to, boss.”  Chiz offered.

Samuel raised an eyebrow, giving permission to continue.

“The Rabids have a full table at the moment, too full.  They got no room to bring Prospects through and it’s causin’ them some issues.  One of their guys, Shark Reardon, I know him from back when we were kids.  He’s solid, just what we’re lookin’ for.”

Samuel nodded.  “Okay, you think he’s it, you speak to him.  If he’s open to a jump or a loan I’ll talk with Jimmy, see if we can set some wheels in motion.”  Samuel also suspected that Fletch and Kong didn’t have too many outlaw years left in them, either.  It was time to bring the Prospects on and time to recruit.