Taking The Heat (5 page)

“I tell you what,” I said as I looked up.

I raised my hands and rubbed my temples with my fingertips, “I’ve got a little rental house Otis and I have been working on for a while. It didn’t cost me shit, and I was going to rent it at the end of the summer when we were done painting and making a few cosmetic repairs. Rent’s cheap in Winfield. Probably go for $350 a month. It’s a shitty one bedroom in a shitty part of town, and it doesn’t have a garage. I understand the pride thing, and not wanting a handout. How about this; pay the rent at the
end
of each month instead of the beginning? You can pay me the rent in four weeks. One catch, you’ll be responsible for making the repairs.”

Her face lit up like a Christmas tree, “I don’t know what the repairs are, but I’ll do my best. Seriously?”

I nodded my head as I exchanged glances between her and Otis, “Just minor painting and stuff, and yes, I’m serious.”

“Please tell me it has running water,” she breathed.

“Sure does. I turned on all of the utilities when Otis and I started doing the work. I gave the city a few hundred bucks for the bills. What I’ve paid in advance will probably get you to September if you don’t run the air conditioner too much, but after that the utilities are on you,” I nodded.

“You’ve got a deal,” she smiled, “Holy shit. This is crazy. Oh my God. Are you for real?”

As I nodded my head, Otis and Biscuit both grinned. What satisfaction they received was not from my helping her. They, I imagined, were more concerned with the fact her 1%er brother was doing life in a federal penitentiary for some bullshit charge fabricated by a lying undercover ATF agent. In their minds, helping her was helping him, or as close as they could come to doing so. The legal case she spoke of received a lot of attention by 1%er clubs all over the nation. In fact, the Selected Sinners modified their bylaws as a result. When the ATF agent co-wrote a book about his experiences in infiltrating the club, further lining his pockets with money, it sickened each and every one of us even more.

For me, it was a little different. I wasn’t necessarily
helping
her in my mind, I was
saving
her. And, saving her was something I felt I
had
to do. I didn’t have a choice. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Giving Junior the job at the restaurant was a similar circumstance, at least according to my psychiatrist at the Veteran’s Administration.

A facet of my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was a severe case of Survivor’s Guilt. Until I was diagnosed with PTSD, I believed I should not have lived when so many Marines in my battalion died. I often wondered what I could have done differently, and questioned if I had made other choices, whether or not some of the dead would have survived. In short, I felt guilty - subconsciously - for surviving when so many other Marines did not. The human mind provides its own therapy in receiving satisfaction from
saving
others from a traumatic situation. Saving a life
now
, in a sense, for the ones I couldn’t save in the past.

Impossible for me to totally understand, my PTSD caused me to lack compassion in some areas, and be far more understanding and sympathetic in others. I realized I couldn’t save the world, nor did I wish to. For some reason I had attached myself to
certain
people and their needs, feeling tremendous guilt if I didn’t step forth and extend my hand to pull them from whatever it was they were drowning in.

Sydney, for some reason, was one of those people.

              TOAD

The tone of Axton’s voice didn’t have to change, the look in his eyes told the entire story. We had been arguing about the concept of good versus evil for nearly twenty minutes. He was clearly aggravated and so was I. As he pushed himself away from the table and maintained eye contact, he raised his hands to his face, tilted his chair back on the rear legs, and spoke.

“Stop being so fucking philosophical, Toad. Answer this, would you kill a man if he crossed you? Let’s say if he really, really did you or your family wrong?”

I pushed against the edge of the table, sliding my chair back a few feet, “You know I would.”

Axton gripped the edge of the table in his hands and flexed his forearms, “So let me ask you this, how can you say you stand up for all of what is good if you’d kill a man for simply doing something
you
perceive as wrong?”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest and exhaled. I shifted my gaze to meet Axton’s, inhaled a shallow breath, and responded, “Because it’s in defense of or in support of what’s good. I wouldn’t kill someone for the sake of simply killing them, Slice. I’m not a cold-blooded fucking killer. That’s my point. They’d have to be a really bad person or be doing something pretty fucked up.”

Axton shook his head and stood from his seat, “I think that’s the Marine in you, Toad. You’ve been reprogrammed to think because of your abilities that you’re
required
to stand up against evil. Society might see it as good
or
bad
, but you don’t give two fucks. If
you
see it as bad, you’re going to stand up and speak your mind. If it requires physical intervention, you’ll intervene. If it requires killing a motherfucker, you’ll do it. I guess I’m damned near done arguing about it, but my point is this. Just because
you
believe it to be right doesn’t make it right. You’re a good man, Toad. Make no mistake about it. But you do, you’ve done, and you’ll continue to do what’s evil when you feel it’s necessary.”

I looked up at Axton for a moment, and eventually stood. Having him stand over me made me nervous. The conversation began over discussing the bank robbery, and my interview with the news media. After the editing of the interview, several of my long responses were cut down into a few short remarks. One of the longer statements ended up edited to nothing, with my stating,
I stand up against evil
. The original question was regarding the MC, and my statement in whole was,
although I’m in an Outlaw Motorcycle Club, I’m not a criminal. A common misconception is that men in Outlaw clubs are criminals, and we are not. I’ve always made an effort to stand up against evil.
The woman interviewing me said,
so you stand up against evil?
And I responded, yes
I stand up against evil.
The changes they made to the interview took what I said out of context, and the entire thing, including Axton’s questioning me, was beginning to irritate me. Now somewhat frustrated and standing across the table from Axton, I crossed my arms, mimicking how he was standing.

“A man’s
abilities
do not define who he is. His choices, and the application of those abilities, however, do. Life is not only about the choices we make, but
why
we make them. If a man commits an act and it is perceived by the masses as evil, but it is done to support all of what is good, or it was administered with good intention, the man
and the act
are good,” I uncrossed my arms and rubbed my palms together, convinced I’d made my point.

“All evil acts aren’t preceded by a conscious thought of evil, Toad,” Axton sighed.

“What are you saying?” I shrugged.

Axton turned his palms up and shook his head, “I just fucking said it, Socrates.”

I stood silently and continued to glare Axton’s direction.

Axton exhaled loudly and rolled his eyes, “Some people commit acts of evil without
thinking
the act is evil. Or, they don’t consciously believe they’re preparing to commit evil before they act. That doesn’t necessarily make the act just or right.”

“I’m done arguing about this,” I said as I turned away.

“I was done a long fucking time ago,” I heard Axton chuckle.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he asked.

“Out to the shop,” I said over my shoulder.

“Don’t get all butt hurt, Toad. I wasn’t attacking
you
,” Axton said.

I continued to walk toward the door, opened it, and hesitated.

“So let me ask
you
a question, Slice. If a man crossed you, or let’s say really, really did Avery wrong, would
you
kill him?” I asked under my breath.

“Without even thinking about it,” he replied.

I released the door handle and turned to face him, “So why are you crawling all over me for having the same reaction?”

Axton reached behind his head with both hands, placed his fingers against the base of his skull, took a deep breath, flexed his biceps, and exhaled.

“Because I
know
I’m evil, Toad. I’m pretty fucking certain if there’s a heaven and a hell when we’re all done here, I’m going to the place with the warm climate. And I’m not the man stopping bank robberies, being interviewed by the news, and saying I stand up against evil. Hell, you walk around this motherfucker all the God damned time making reference to the Bible. And unless I’m going completely crazy, that night you got your patch - when we killed the child molester - you cited the Bible chapter and verse to that prick before you killed him.”

I stood staring his direction blankly as I considered what he said. In actuality, he wasn’t worried about me being who I was or believing what I believed, but he damned sure wasn’t pleased about my news interview while wearing my Sinner’s cut. To be honest, I wasn’t either.

“You pissed off about the news segment?” I asked.

“Can’t say I’m real happy about it, Toad,” he sighed.

I stared down at my boots and thought about what had happened and how it may have an affect on the club. Before I had a chance to speak, Axton began to walk my direction. Without turning and facing the bylaws, he began to speak from memory.

“The Sergeant at Arms is responsible for the safety and security of the club, as well as
the protection and defense of all club Members and Prospects. Upon becoming aware of any real or perceived threat to the club, its Members, Prospects, or events, he shall immediately notify the Executive Committee of that information,” he paused and smiled his shitty little smile.

I smiled in return.

“Toad, you’re on the Executive Committee now. Be as nice or as fucking evil as you feel you need to be. Personally, I wish it was me who would have taken the gun from that shithead in the bank. Hell, I’d have probably shot the prick just to save taxpayers a little money. More than likely would have taken the homeless girl home too. But what I wouldn’t have done was agree to do that
fucking interview
. They never put them on the news the way they’re recorded. Always think of the best interest of the club,” he said as he extended his hand.

As I reached for his hand, he pulled me through the doorway and slapped me on the back, “You’re a good man, Toad. I’m proud to have you as my Sergeant at Arms, I really am. Consider the club first in all you do.”

“Aye aye, sir,” I said, using the Marine acknowledgement that an order had been received, was understood, and would be carried out.

“Carry on,” Axton said as he released my hand.

“Sorry boss,” I sighed.

“No apology needed,” Axton replied.

I turned and walked into the shop as Axton quietly followed. Unlike many of the other Sinners who continuously spoke until interrupted, Axton was a master of knowing when to speak, what to say, and when to be silent. I stopped a few feet from my bike, placed my hands on my hips, and stared. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, I looked over my left shoulder toward Axton.

“I’m thinking the interview with the news was me being a little selfish. You know, wanting the recognition and such. I’m not using this as an excuse, but I’m thinking it might be part of my PTSD; the Survivor’s Guilt. I think I thought if the entire city believed I saved those people at the bank from harm, then maybe that would have made up for all the Marines my battalion lost in Afghanistan. Either way, it doesn’t matter now. I’ll talk to my shrink at the VA on Friday when I go to mental health,” I said.

After a short pause, Axton pushed his hands into his front pockets, nodded his head slowly, and spoke.

“I’ve never been in the military or fought in a war, nor am I trained medical professional,” he paused as he chuckled slightly.

“But in my opinion, and it’s only that, an opinion…” he slowly walked over to his bike and leaned against the seat.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed them along the thighs of his jeans, “You’re a good man, a damned fine one to be honest. Part of the problem is you’re too damned good, raised by good Italian parents in the Catholic church. You grew up believing your understanding of God’s will. You went to war, just like your father, grandfather, and your great-grandfather. And now you struggle with what happened and the lives of your Marine brothers that were lost. You wonder why you didn’t die instead. You wonder what you could have done differently.  Now you live your life trying to make up for what happened as if it was your fault, or you had some control over it. I’ve got news for you, it wasn’t and you don’t. Let me ask you something. You don’t have to answer, and I know this is a sensitive subject, but tell me this if you can; were any of the Marines in your battalion who died on your immediate left or immediate right? You know, within an arm’s reach?”

I didn’t really have to think for very long to answer. It seemed odd talking to Axton about this type of thing, but I felt strangely comfortable, “No. Not so much. They were close, but not
that
close.”

“So moving one way or another you couldn’t have made a difference by taking a bullet for them or anything like that?”

I crossed my arms and I shook my head.

“Well then, what happened to them was
God’s
will. Not yours, God’s. And for you to think you had or have some control over what happened is to think you’re God. I got news for you Toad. You’re one solid motherfucker, but you’re not God,” he said as he stood.

He took the few steps which separated us and slid his hands back into the pockets of his jeans, “I think your struggle is with God. In the civilian world, you continue to do what most perceive as evil. It allows you to think the atrocities of war weren’t so evil. It puts things into a different perspective, so to speak; making this life and that life seem similar. If your civilian world was full of butterflies and rainbow barfin’ unicorns, you’d clearly see the complete contrast between life and war. But, if your life resembles war, there is no contrast. Not much anyway. So, considering your upbringing and your relationship with God, you struggle. You
know
the difference between right and wrong. Do you regret being a Marine?”

“Fuck no,” I snapped.

“Marines kill, Toad. And Marines die. It’s what they do. Stop trying to make peace with God for something he’s already accepted as being part of his master plan. He’s moved on to hurricanes, earthquakes, that crazy prick in North Korea, and making sure those flowers Avery planted at my house don’t die. He’s over it. Now it’s your turn,” he pulled his hands from his pockets and stretched his arms wide.

One thing I never expected from another man until I was in the MC was to be hugged. I learned in my introduction to the club as a
Hang Around
, and later as a
Prospect
that all of the members hugged each other. It seemed strange seeing it at the time, but now it was common practice for me. It was part of the brotherhood, the bond, and a means of expressing our closeness to each other. As he slapped me on the back, he exhaled and spoke in a low tone.

“God, Country, Corps, Family, and Self. In that order,” he breathed.

I broke the embrace and stared, “Where’d you hear that?”

“Read it on the internet, along with all the other shit we just discussed. I want you to get better, so I’ve been researching. You’re the Sergeant at Arms for this club Toad, I want you at your absolute best,” he responded.

As I studied Axton in an odd admiration, I realized in spite of his attitude, rough exterior, and harsh way of making himself clear, he did almost everything for one reason and one reason only.

The betterment of the club.

And it was time I do the same.