Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (77 page)

They distributed pictures of him, claiming he was a missing person who required his medication. They didn't expect a big response, but it was the kind of thing that showed they were still working the case in Arizona, that allowed them to keep investigating Lucas and his ties on both sides of the border.

They interviewed Bryan Latos, who had taken over Lucas's business on behalf of his family. He didn't know much about the bike, just that some bankrupt guy back east had given it to the boss. Latos had pressed Lucas on the provenance of the bike. It was his job to account for every penny the company spent and took in and that the bike, he found out from the Internet, could be worth upwards of $35,000. But Lucas wouldn't budge; he told Latos to take it out of his personal account. Latos didn't push further. It was Lucas's company and he did things his own, stubborn way. He told the agents he would love to give them more information, but just didn't have any.

When they asked him about Lucas's dealings in Mexico, Latos became visibly nervous. “We have a wholly owned subsidiary in Heroica Nogales—on the Mexican side—called Holsamex,” he told them. “It assembles components, taking advantage of favorable labor costs.”

“Any trouble down there?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there's a war going on in Mexico.” Tovar said. “People are dying left, right, and center.”

“Our shipments have not been interrupted.”

Tovar rolled his eyes at Weise, who acknowledged the agent's exasperation with a laugh. They asked Latos if he knew Ned Aiken, Eric Steadman, or Mark Troutman. He didn't seem to know anything about Ned under either name, but correctly identified Troutman as an employee of Lucas's who had died.

* * *

Ned was making a scheduled stop at a Dave's when he noticed Weasel and El Borracho inside. They greeted him warmly and asked him to sit with them. “You have been a very busy man,” Weasel said to Ned. “Very busy indeed.”

Ned was confused. “Busy?”

“I'll say,” said El Borracho. “Business is booming.”

“Booming?”

“Yeah, thanks to you, we have all kinds of new revenue streams,” Weasel said. “This idea from your friend down south of the border is absolute genius.”

“He is a pretty smart guy,” Ned said, assuming they were both talking about Poco Loco. “I'm just glad I can help.”

“Well, let us help you,” Weasel said. “Party, tonight, at the clubhouse. We'll have some real barbecue, not this fast-food shit.”

Ned agreed, and after talking to a few other friends he had at that Dave's location, he left with the Cossacks.

The yard behind the clubhouse had been fixed up with lights, tables, and chairs. There was music—ranging from
narcocorridas
to ZZ Top—food, drinks, and guests. A number of the bikers friends, wives, and girlfriends had showed up, and a few of the girls from the Blue Moon Saloon—a strip joint that Speedy ran as a side business—were there as well. Scruffy appeared to be asleep in a shaded spot beside the doorway, but Stew Bob did not show.

It was a welcoming atmosphere, and Ned began to have a good time. He had a couple of beers (not enough to get drunk and sloppy) and spoke with some of the girls. At least he was having a good time until Speedy arrived, already quite drunk. “So there he is, the big hero,” he said to Ned. “You think you're so hot just because you have friends south of the border. Well, I have friends down there, too, and they have been talking about you.”

Ned stood and faced his accuser. “Oh yeah?” he asked. “And what do your friends have to say about me.”

“Plenty!” he shouted. “That you're a coward, a fag, and maybe even an undercover agent.”

“Really?” Ned snapped back. “I think your sources are just as jealous as you are.”

Speedy took a swing at Ned, missed, and fell to the ground. A couple of guys ran over to help him back up. Weasel put himself between Speed and Ned. “Alright, alright, we'll have a discussion tomorrow morning when everyone has calmed down a little,” he said. “I don't know what your friends have been telling you, but our new friend here has done nothing but good for us, and if the big boss likes him, if Poco Loco himself trusts him, we should respect that.”

“Yeah, okay, I'll wait 'til tomorrow,” Speedy said angrily. “Then you'll hear what El Guason and El Martillo think about this guy.” Then he turned to the girls from his bar. “Any of you girls go home with this asshole and you're fired,” he yelled. “Got me?”

“I thought I was a fag,” Ned quipped, and everyone who heard him laughed, except for Speedy who stormed off.

* * *

The next day, Big Red got up early. It was a habit that his neighbors hated—his pipes woke people for blocks—but none of them had the courage to do anything about it. He revved his big Harley at every stop, delighting in letting everyone know about his presence, not caring what they thought, just being glad they knew he was there. He never wore a helmet—in Arizona, helmets are required only for riders under the age of eighteen—and when a cop noticed him go through a stop sign, he just grinned at him. Big Red felt like he owned the world. His undercover status gave him a get-out-of-jail-free card. His word was all he needed to get out of trouble.

He drove over to where he had heard the Cossacks had a clubhouse. The cinderblock building was painted black. The gun shop up front looked seedy enough, and the rest of the windowless building was dominated by a huge mural of the Cossacks' logo—a cartoon version of a Central Asian warrior, complete with scimitar, shield, and crazed look.

Circling around the building on foot, Big Red examined the remains of the party, which included Scruffy, still sound asleep in his wheelchair. “Hey! Homeless guy!” he shouted, shaking Scruffy's chair. “Wake up, wake up.”

“I am awake,” he said. “And I'm not homeless, I live in the shop. Who the hell are you?”

“For the next few minutes, you can consider me God,” he said, calmly twisting Scruffy's left hand until he could hear the wrist bones getting close to breaking. “Because I have the power of life and death.”

Scruffy screamed, and tried to kick his tormentor, but his old legs just wouldn't cooperate. “What do you want?”

“Tell me everything you know about the Cossacks and this will all end.”

Scruffy sputtered. “The Cossacks are my friends!”

“Where are your friends now?” Big Red asked, twisting just a touch more. “It's just you and me here now, and I need answers. Who runs the Cossacks?”

“Weasel, Weasel is the top guy here, but he gets his orders from south of the border,” Scruffy was screaming in pain, but his weak, ash-coated lungs could produce just muffled cries. “The Jaliscos, the Clown! The Clown!”

Big Red made a mental note to check out Jalisco and clowns on Google when he got back to his own clubhouse. “And why did you have a party last night?” he asked. “Something to celebrate?”

“It was for the new guy, Crash, Colin!”

“Colin? That doesn't sound like a Mexican name.”

“It's not, he's not!” Scruffy couldn't scream anymore, it was all he could do to pant out his answers. “A white guy, from back East.”

“White guy? What's he doing here?” Cars whizzed by, their drivers and passengers on their way to legitimate work. They either didn't notice what was going on or pretended they didn't.

“Selling coke and meth,” Scruffy told him, hating himself for doing it. “Doing great, making huge money.”

“Really?” Big Red twisted far enough to break Scruffy's radius bone with a snap. The old man screamed and wept. “Big money? I like the sound of that. Now tell me something that I will love and you will never, ever see me again.”

“I heard Weasel talking about a massive deal, on the twenty-first,” Scruffy gasped between screams. “The Cossacks have scraped together $18 million to buy enough coke from the Jaliscos to flood Arizona and New Mexico for months.”

“Eighteen large? Wow,” Big Red asked. “Where's the drop?”

“Crash, he's gonna bring it to the tub in the Coronado. The Mexicans trust him.”

“The tub?”

“The bathtub, there's an old bathtub at a spring in the Coronado. It's there to collect drinking water for hikers,” Scruffy choked out. “The Cossacks use it to do business with the Mexicans.”

Big Red released his grip. “There, that wasn't so bad, now was it?”

Scruffy rubbed his injured hand with his good one and looked at Big Red with utter contempt. “Now leave!” he cried. “You promised!”

“No, I said you'd never see me again.” Big Red smiled as he pushed Scruffy into the laneway behind the building then slid a hunting knife through his ribs. Big Red grinned at the thought that his plan was going to make him a lot richer than he had previously hoped.

* * *

Ned was surprised not to see Scruffy as he walked through Stew Bob's shop to the clubhouse. He would have asked Stew Bob, but didn't want to get in a conversation with him. Instead he just nodded hello and entered the Cossacks' lair. Weasel was already in there with Speedy.

“If you're armed, you gotta leave it at the door,” Weasel said solemnly.

Ned assured him he wasn't and sat on the couch opposite him, alongside Speedy.

Weasel cleared his throat. “This is a closed meeting to get to the bottom of Speedy's accusations,” he said. “You'll both get a chance to speak, and I will have final say. If you have a problem with that, we can take it to Cossacks headquarters in San Diego or down to the boys in Jalisco. Agreed?” Both men nodded. “Speedy, make your claim.”

“Well, the first thing is that he's a fag, and we all know that's not allowed,” he said. “My guys in Mexico tell me it was a well-known fact and that they called him
tia
—and we all know what that means.”

“Crash?”

“I know some of the guys down there thought I was gay because I didn't take advantage of the house girls,” he said. “But I had just been kidnapped and was afraid for my life. Besides, they were young enough to be these guys' daughters and were basically forced to do whatever they said. I'm straight, but I'm not a rapist.”

Weasel paused, making it clear he was considering both sides. “Okay, I heard you both,” he finally said. “Those guys down there are like animals when it comes to women—they have no respect for them at all. I can't say that I wouldn't indulge a little myself if I was in his place, but I can also understand Crash's point of view. And I saw him at the party with your girls, Speedy, and if he's a queer, he's also a pretty damn good actor. I'm gonna let this one pass unless you have any real evidence.”

Speedy blinked back his anger. “Okay, fine. My friends also told me he was a coward and an informant,” he said bitterly. “Remember that big shipment that was disrupted? Not only did he cause that, but he ran the second the shooting started.”

“Crash?”

“Okay, the first part is just ridiculous—if I was an informant, how come nobody got arrested? The Mexican media might not want to talk about body dumps, but they make damn sure that every fuckin' arrest is on the front page.”

“He's got a point,” Weasel said. “It wasn't the DEA or the Federales or anything like that, it was Los Zetas or the Sinaloans or some other group who were after the product or the cash. They were not there to make arrests, but to steal and kill our guys. And to accuse Crash of being with another cartel is, I think, kind of stretching things.”

“As far as running, where did I run to? I took a truck with more than $6 million in cash back to the ranch house!” Ned was angry now. “And saved a man's life. Poco Loco thanked me himself. That's why I'm even up here.”

Weasel quieted him down. “It's true, Speedy,” he said. “I spoke to the Clown himself, and he told me that Crash was something special, that he should be taken care of. I gotta trust the Clown, man; certainly more than I would those two drunken
pendejos
you call friends.”

Speedy looked angry, but eerily calm. “Okay, fine,” he said. “We'll just wait and see. Just remember I warned you.”

“Look, Speedy, normally these kinds of accusations lead to expulsion if they are proven unfounded,” Weasel said. “But in light of your years of outstanding work . . .”

“Save your breath,” Speedy said. “It was him or me, and you chose him, so I'm gone. Just ask yourself, who was he
before
he landed in Mexico.”

* * *

Big Red and Nickels were at the door of the Blue Moon Saloon arguing with the club's bouncers when Speedy arrived. “You can't come in here with colors on, man!” Alphonso, the bouncer shouted. “This is a Cossacks joint.”

“It's not anymore,” Speedy said. “Come on in, boys, your money is good here.”

“You heard the man,” Big Red said to the bouncers who towered over him. “Now get outta my fuckin' way.” The bouncers angrily made room. He followed Speedy. “What did you mean this isn't a Cossacks joint anymore?” he asked.

“The Cossacks can jump off a fuckin' bridge for all I care,” he answered.

Big Red smiled. “Then you won't mind a couple of Tortured Souls in here then?”

“Knock yourselves out.”

Big Red and Nickels sat at a table near the stage. Two of the dancers approached them immediately. Big Red bought them drinks, but spoke only to Nickels. About an hour passed before Speedy finally approached. Big Red dismissed the girls. “Want to have a word in the back?” Speedy asked.

The two Tortured Souls agreed and followed him into the office. It looked like what you'd expect of a strip joint owned by a small-town biker—cheap furniture with posters of cars and women taped to the walls. Big Red and his lieutenant sat on the couch facing Speedy's desk. “So who are you guys supposed to be anyway?”

“Haven't you heard of us?”

“I guess I haven't.”

“Let me fill you in. We're an established but not very large club from Colorado; we like Harleys, fights, women, and beer and not always in that order,” Big Red told him. “But there's only so much open road in Colorado if you know what I mean. Mountains get in the way. We thought there would be some opportunities to ride the open road down here in Arizona, especially now that the Hells Angels are a less imposing part of the landscape.”