CHAPTER Three
Saturday
Garland took Win in tow and introduced him to wives. Win was extremely polite.
“Let me guess,” Garland said. “My husband has made territorial noises about club women. Told you not to be too friendly with the wives?”
Garland already knew Win was exceptionally attractive, but his little-boy grin almost made her forget she had a soul mate just across the courtyard.
With a definitely sheepish look, Win said, “In his defense, I might have mentioned something about a sordid history with married women.”
She blinked rapidly a few times to disguise her surprise and then laughed out loud. “You devil, you. Well, now I don’t know whether to continue showing you around or make you sit facing the corner.”
He barked out a laugh that turned into a chuckle as he first looked around to see who was watching and then leaned in closer. “I like a woman who takes charge. If you ever…”
“Stop right there, Prospect.” Garland used the schoolteacher tone that every woman can call on when needed.
Win cocked his head. “What do you take me for? I wouldn’t proposition the president’s old lady.” Then he smiled and leaned a few centimeters closer. “At least not when I just got here. I was going to say that I’m open to being introduced to single women like yourself.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment. I’m not a dating service, but for information’s sake, like me how?”
Piercing her with navy blue eyes that seemed to come with a more intense twinkle, he said, “Blonde. Beautiful. Well bred. Knows her mind.”
“A laundry list of attributes. Well, three of those are fairly easy in Texas. The one about breeding is too vulgar for me to address on any level.”
Win chuckled. “Don’t turn me in. Please.”
“Turn you in to the law?”
“Well, yeah, since your man is the law around here.”
She smiled in acknowledgement of Brant’s authority. “I won’t. But I’m not introducing you to any nice young ladies either. You’re far too dangerous.” Her words were at odds with her tone, which was more conspiracy than reprimand.
“I’m on my own then?” he teased.
“Immediately and irrevocably.”
Brash walked up. “The first lady is needed in the kitchen.”
She glanced at Win quickly, but said nothing more before gliding away toward whatever minor crisis needed management feminine-style.
“You need a beer?” Brash said.
Win shook his head. “I’m in line for food.”
“I don’t see a line.”
“’Cause I’m first in it. The smell of that meat cookin’ is drivin’ me crazy.”
Brash chuckled. “Yeah. If we ever decided to open the gates to the public, we’d get people comin’ all the way from New Braunfels for a taste. Guess you missed it in California.”
“That’s a fact.”
“Well, I hate to tell you this, but you’re gonna have to give up your place in ‘line’, Prospect.” Win knew better than to show disappointment. So he waited stoically for Brash to give him his assignment. “Go give that kid workin’ the gate a piss break. Fifteen minutes. I’ll make sure there’s plenty of food for you.”
Win broke eye contact with Brash long enough to glance at the brunette who was walking behind Brash and trying to get Win’s attention with a cheap-sunglasses kind of sashay and a smile full of promises. “On my way.”
He turned and started walking toward the gate, but tossed the girl an encouraging grin over his shoulder.
Maintaining a ‘Midas touch’ with investing was one part intuition, one part luck, one part fear, and seven parts hard work. He’d been at it for long hours all week, partly because he wanted to make a good impression and partly because he liked investing. It was a groove that hit every aspect of his personality and natural talent.
Other than eating, sleeping, and hitting the gym on the club premises, he’d done nothing but stare at the computer and move the mouse around. Consequently his dick was ripe for the right kind of attention.
He woke up alone, pleased that the coed had taken him seriously about letting herself out. Win liked the kind of female companionship that lasted for half an hour. For the right girl, he might stretch that guideline to two hours, but that was on the occasional side of occurrence.
It was his first weekend in Austin. He’d planned on having a look at the sights, stopping by the custom bootmaker Brand told him about, maybe even taking in a movie. With popcorn.
He was starting to feel settled in. He’d finished his first work week. Knew his way around the clubhouse. Knew most of the members’ names and some of their women, in a purely platonic sense.
After a shower and clean clothes, he made his way to the kitchen. The house mother, May, was standing at the sink. Win couldn’t tell if most of the members had eaten and left or if they weren’t up yet.
May swiveled her head and gave him a warm smile. “Hotcakes or eggs or bacon?” she asked.
“Yes.” He smiled.
She laughed. “Comin’ up, hon. Sit yourself down.” She slid a mug his way and poured coffee from a carafe with an orange lid.
“You make good coffee, May,” he said.
She scowled. “I make good everything, fucker.”
“Well, sure, I wasn’t sayin’ that…”
Red chuckled at Win’s dilemma. “Got caught in the tender trap. Rookie mistake where women are concerned.” Win shook his head to indicate that he had no idea what Red was talking about. “That’s what women do. ‘That’s a nice dress,’ you say. Then instead of bein’ pleased, she says, ‘What’s wrong with the other dress?’”
“That’s bullshit. Do not listen to that old douchebag,” May told Win.
“Christ. I miss Bud,” said Car Lot into his over easy eggs.
She wheeled on Car Lot looking like a demon wielding a spatula. “You did not just say that to me!”
Car Lot looked up. “I didn’t say anything to you, woman. Matter of fact I didn’t say nothin’ to nobody. I was talkin’ to myself. And I got a right to it.”
“Humph,” she said, turning back to Win’s pancakes. “If you idiots knew anything about women, you wouldn’t be sittin’ around a kitchen table with a bunch of guys and a hired girl servin’ you food.”
Car Lot looked up at her. “So I guess your situation makes clear what you know about men, then.”
She gaped at Car Lot, tears springing to her eyes, and rushed from the room, leaving food cooking on a Vulcan ten burner gas range.
Win quietly got up, walked to the stove, picked up the spatula, turned the pancakes and bacon that were destined for his consumption, then cracked three eggs open into an omelet pan.
“Say,” Car Lot said, “You look mighty handy there. And you’re every bit as good looking as May.”
Arnold heard the tail end of that exchange. He gave Red a cool and measured look that stopped his laughter. To Car Lot, he said, “Maybe we should put you in charge of personnel since you seem to be so particular. You want to find a replacement for May?”
Car Lot looked up at Arnold. “No. But we need somebody who’s not so damn sensitive.”
“Not so damn sensitive?”
“Well, yeah.”
“So you want somebody who’ll plan the meals, get up early and cook breakfast, do the cleanup, do laundry, keep the kitchen and bar inventory stocked, direct the cleaning crew, cook dinner, then mind bar until ten? Pretty much seven days a week. And you want that somebody to be good-looking and have a great personality, too.”
“Bud was all that.”
“Well, she was one in a million for all I know. And I guarantee you this; if somebody like Bud waltzed in here and took this damn job, some biker would ride in saying, ‘Call me Prince Charmin’, sugar. I’m takin’ you away from this.’ Think back about what happened to the last three women.” Car Lot had to admit that was true. He shoved his plate away like it was offensive. “You need to stop punishin’ May for not bein’ Bud.” Arnold waited for Car Lot to say something. “Do we have an understandin’?”
Car Lot nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”
“No, you don’t guess. You’re sure or I’m not leavin’.”
“Christ, Arnold. I get it. I’ll be a good boy.”
Win slid his plate of perfectly cooked breakfast onto the table, took a seat and reached for the syrup.
Arnold nodded at Car Lot then looked at Win. “Brant wants to see you in his office when you’re done.” Win looked quizzical. “No. He’s not usually here on a Sunday morning. Came in special just to see you.”
Win didn’t know why, but he got a flutter in his stomach. He nodded at Arnold, but started rethinking everything he’d done since he’d arrived at the SSMC. He’d just been feeling good about the way things were turning out.
That brunette didn’t belong to anybody. He’d checked that out just to be sure. Unless Scrape had been punking him.
With that news breakfast fell way short of expectation. His appetite was compromised by the uncertainty of not knowing what Brant might make a special trip on a Sunday morning to talk to him about. He more or less wolfed down the food without tasting it. Set the dishes in the sink and headed back to Brant’s clubhouse office. The door was standing open.
He knocked lightly as a formality. “You wanted to see me.”
Brant looked up over his glasses. “Come on in here and shut the door behind you.” Win did exactly that. “Have a seat.”
There was no mistaking the fact that Brant did not look or sound happy. Win sat slowly and waited. “Just gonna get right to it. Here’s the thing. The club owes a marker to a longtime acquaintance of mine who just happens to be in law enforcement. Texas Ranger to be exact.” Win couldn’t imagine where things were headed, but the conversation certainly wasn’t starting out in any way he could have anticipated. “He’s givin’ the club a chance to clear our debt in exchange for a service. Happens to be a service that you could provide should you be of such mind.
“Upside is that it would fast track you right into full patch. Downside is that it would put you right back in the middle of the kind of risk you wanted to leave behind.”
Win was too surprised to respond immediately. When he got his thoughts together, he said, “What are we talking about?”
“Before I lay out the details, I want you to know up front that this is your decision. No one will fault you or hold it against you in any way if you decline.”
“Okay.” Win sounded cautious and Brant didn't blame him.
“Marauders up in Waco. I think they’re a sister club to your old bunch.” Win nodded. “Well, somethin’s brewin’. Rival club tryin’ to move in. Stars and Bars.”
“Jesus.” Win slid down on his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Rangers would be mighty grateful if you decided to throw in with Marauders for a bit.”
“And spy.”
Brant nodded. “Wait for a certain event and give a warning signal. You’d have the same kind of immunity cops have. Meanin’, no matter what you do, you’re not guilty and not subject to squat.”
Win dragged a hand through his hair and leaned his elbows on his knees. As if he couldn't get comfortable, he abruptly sat up straight. With his right thigh bouncing up and down of its own accord he said, “How long are we talkin’?”
“I told him one month. No more. Also told him that, if you start feelin’ antsy for any reason, you’re out before and the debt’s paid. He agreed.”
After scraping a hand over his mouth, Win reviewed the terms. “Full patch and privilege.”
“That’s right.”
“I could be marked by the Marauders. Clubs have a way of figurin’ things out.”
“That’s why it’s gotta be up to you. Full patch comes with full backin’. Of course.” Win looked out the window, seemingly working through all the pros and cons. “You left your old club in good standing. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“So they’d speak for you if asked.”
“I suppose. The leadership had become kind of… unpredictable.”
“That happens. If you were asked, just explain it like that.”
“You sound like you think I’m sayin’ yes.”
“Got a feelin’ you’re leanin’ that way. Am I wrong?”
Win shook his head. “No. You’re not wrong. Kinda wish you were. I was just gettin’ the accounts set up and…”
“When you get back you’ll have that plus a lot more. You do this for us, you got our trust with our backs and our money.” Brant took a sip of coffee and then said, “But not our women.”
Realizing that his anxiety and indecision was creating tension in the room, Win consciously decided to lighten the mood. He grinned. “Your wife is…”
Brant said, “Stop right there, Prospect. You got no call to say a word about the mother of my sons. No matter how beautiful and smart and shiny and rich she is.” Brant grinned, but in a way that was more menacing than teasing.
“Shiny?”
“Done talkin’ about Garland. Go with my drift. This other thing. You need some time to think on it?”
Win shook his head. “Thinkin’s not gonna change a thing. So no point. I guess I’m in. But for the record, I’d like to have it known that I’m not into reckless or suicidal. Got your word that my loyalty won’t be questioned? I mean if I survive?”
“I got a strong feelin’ you’re gonna be back as a full patch member. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t have even brought this up. But I’ve been doin’ this long enough to say that when my gut speaks, I listen up.”
Win gave a nod that was both slight and unconvincing, more an acknowledgement than an agreement. “And I have your word that my loyalty won’t be questioned again. Ever.”
Brant stilled and looked the younger man squarely in the face so that he could absorb the seriousness and sincerity of the answer. “Yes. You do. I’m gonna call the Ranger right now, with you sittin’ there. So stay put.” Brant punctuated that order by pointing to the chair underneath Win’s firmly muscled behind.
“Call me back,” Brant said into the phone. “While we’re waitin’, why don’t you tell me if there’s somethin’ I need to look after regardin’ the accounts you’ve been messin’ with.”
Win took exception to the phrase ‘messin’ with’, but chose not to challenge the club president about his word choice. He opened his mouth to reply, but Brant’s phone rang. Brant looked at the face of the phone and accepted the call.
“He’ll do it. But if anythin’ goes wrong, you’re gonna answer to me personally.” Win could hear the muted sound of a vocal response, but couldn’t make out the words. “Stipulation. He’ll have full immunity. No. Matter. What. And he will not testify to anything later. He’ll give you a one-on-one confidential debriefing. In secret. Just the two of you. This is a deal breaker. Take it or leave it.” Brant paused to let the other man respond. “Just to reiterate. We’re talkin’ about a month maximum. And, if anything, I mean anything, goes south before that, I don’t care if it’s an hour after arrival, he’s outta there.”
As Win sat and listened to the one-sided conversation his respect for Brant blossomed. The prez negotiated like a lawyer and seemed to really give a damn about Win’s future.
Brant hung up and looked at Win. “Gotta protect our golden goose.” Brant opened a drawer and pulled out a new burner phone.
CHAPTER Four
Win spotted the white bobtail truck pulled off on the side of a farm to market west of town that was little used during the day and never saw traffic in the dead of night. The driver lowered the ramp and helped secure the bike inside the truck.
“Am I droppin’ you someplace?” Win asked.
The man shook his head. “Somebody’ll be by before long.”
“Okay then.”
“There’s a big thermos of coffee inside. Sandwiches, too.”
“Huh. Wasn’t expecting that. Nice though. I can sure use the coffee.”
“Yep. You got a hike ahead.”
Win nodded. “Better get to it.” He climbed behind the wheel, turned the ignition and the truck roared to life along with bluegrass music blaring from speakers that sounded like they must have been manufactured in the fifties.
He reached for the volume, gave it a sharp turn, and sighed. There’d be no satellite radio with up-to-the-minute market reports. There were places between Austin and El Paso where he’d be lucky to even pick up the usual musical menu. Old style country. New style country. Tejano. Revival style Bible thumping, fire and brimstone preaching. Or rockabilly.
He could have plugged into a device of his own, but didn’t like the idea of not being aware of sounds. Like, oh, sirens for instance.
When he’d left California, he saw himself spending his days in a high tech command center office, in front of four screens, monitoring activity in the marketplace. He’d expected nights on his bike with a stomach full of Tex Mex and soft warm Texas wind rushing past when he wasn’t nestled between the legs of a UT coed out for a bad boy thrill. To his way of thinking, those things meant good life.
When imagining his future, the last picture that would’ve come to mind would have been wrestling a damn bobtail truck around country roads in the middle of the night, headed west… the same way he’d come.
He’d taken a nap in preparation for a long night’s haul. If he kept driving, he’d be there by early afternoon. He’d catch I-10 at Kerrville and take it all the way past the University of Texas El Paso campus on the western side before leaving the truck and doubling back to Agua Dulce, home of the El Paso chapter of the Marauders.
He was determined to not be lulled into a trance state by the monotony of a four, sometimes six, lane divided interstate highway. The bounce and squeak of a near-empty truck would help with that. So would the carefully cadenced radio voice selling salvation while promising eternal suffering for sinners refusing to heed the call.
Twenty minutes off the interstate, Win spotted the Desert Wind Ranch sign and turned onto the road. It seemed the SSMC, under the name of Brandish Inc., was a substantial investor in the burgeoning wind and solar enterprise. The first building appeared to be housing for the business. There were several vehicles parked there, but no one about. At some distance to the rear were buildings that appeared to be a residence, barn, and worker or guest houses.
He opened the truck door, but before he could climb down, a man came out of the small building donning a cowboy hat.
“You Win?”
Win had to smile at the question. He wanted to say something like, “Always”, but said, “Yes,” instead.
“I’m Zach. Been lookin’ for you.” He pointed toward the barn. “Pull this piece of shit into the barn over there. Somebody’ll close the doors so it can’t be seen. Come on over to the house and get somethin’ to eat. I’ll meet you there.”
Win nodded and restarted the truck.
A smiling Hispanic guy with a proudly beat up hat appeared when Win reached the barn, and showed him where to park. As Zach had said, the guy closed the doors as soon as Win cut the engine.
It took less than five minutes to walk to the main house. It was exactly what had originally been meant by ‘ranch style’. One story with six thousand or so square feet sitting low and wide. The exterior was tan stucco that matched the environment.
Win had never cared for desert landscapes, but he could see that it was a well-kept place with an impressive stand of windmills in the distance where the land rose and an even more impressive field of solar panels near the compound.
He raised his hand to knock on the outer screen door, but the inner door opened before he made contact. A middle-aged Hispanic woman grinned as she stepped back and gestured for him to enter.
He heard Zach’s voice from somewhere in the rear of the house.
He left the entry and turned down a narrower hall that ended in an open concept kitchen den that was enormous, new, and adorned in a tasteful combination of chic southwest and antique western artifacts and collectibles suitable for an Architectural Digest photo spread.
Zach, the picture of a weather-beaten cowboy, was busy chopping something in the kitchen. He looked to be in his early fifties, but it was hard to tell. He’d spent a lot of time out in the sun. He had deep laugh lines, a trim figure, and a voice gruff enough to be a bridge troll. It would have been off putting if not for a semi-permanent amused look in the pale blue eyes of a Scot descendant.
“You do this yourself?” Win waved at the air as shorthand for, “Did you do the decorating?”
Zach stopped chopping long enough to turn that amusement Win’s way. “In the sense that I collected most of that old shit. Makin’ it look good? That’s all Jen. My wife. She’s not here. Gone to book club or some such nonsense.”
The back of the house featured large solar windows that looked out onto a pool. The sparkling reflection of sunlight on water was a curious juxtaposition given the surroundings. A smaller house in the same style backed up to one end of the pool, presumably so that guests had access.
“You got a well?” Win asked.
“Yep. Artesian. You could drink that water if we didn’t put so much chlorine in it.” He chuckled. “Sit down there.” He motioned to the bar stool at the end of a long island counter with a long neck beer bottle. “Beer.”
“Sure.”
Zach handed him a beer. “Hope you like chicken salad ‘cause that’s what’s on the menu today. Not a short order kitchen.”
Win smiled. “Uh, yeah.”
“What’s so funny?”
“No offense. I just don’t get an offer of chicken salad very often.”
Zach harrumphed. “You should. Gotta watch your girlish figure,” he said as he set a plate in front of Win. Two large scoops of chicken salad, with pecans, and quarters of roma tomatoes on a spring mix of leafy greens. It was pretty enough to be the pièce de résistance at a woman’s club luncheon.
“Thank you,” Win said. “This is beautiful.”
Zach sat down across from Win and took a pull on his beer. “Much as I’d like to spend the afternoon shootin’ the breeze, I gotta go back to work after lunch. You can stay in the guest house. It’s got a fully stocked kitchen and a big screen TV. We get investors occasionally. Gotta put on our best face.
“Tomorrow mornin’ the truck will be gone. Your bike will be in the barn, ready to go. I suggest that you be headed east by sunrise.”
Win nodded. “Yeah. It’s a good plan. Thanks for puttin’ me up.”
Zach barked out a laugh. “Not much I wouldn’t do for Brant Fornight. We go back a long way.”
“I don’t know him well. Yet. I’m new to his, um, organization.”
Zach smiled while chewing. “Club.”
“Yeah. Club. You ride?”
“Not anymore. At some point the risk of road rash starts a man thinkin’, what was I thinkin’? ‘Specially if he has somethin’ to live for.”
Win nodded thoughtfully. “So business is good.”
“It’s better than good. It’s promisin’.”
“Can’t argue with that. Wind and solar is the new gold. So far as a safe bet for money.”
Zach cocked his head and looked at Win with new interest. “That’s right. Gotta admit I wouldn’t have expected one of Brant’s boys to know that.”
Win chuckled. “Investing is a hobby.”
“Huh. Well, we’re not publicly traded, but we’re always lookin’ for VC. How much you got?”
Win almost choked at that question. He swallowed around laughter. “If you’ve got club money, I’m already invested ‘cause I’ll share in the dividends once I’m full patch.”
When lunch was over, Zach opened the back door and said, “Door’s open to the guest house. Make yourself at home.”
Win walked over to the barn and pulled overnight stuff out of the bike saddlebags, which wasn’t easy because it was dark in the barn and even darker inside the back of the truck. The barn was relatively clean since it wasn’t used for livestock or any kind of traditional agriculture. The crops Zach grew were energy supplements and replacements.
Back in the guest house, he turned to market reports. He hadn’t been able to travel with a laptop because you never knew who else might be attracted to an MC like Marauders. Sometimes people who could hack with the best of them showed up looking for a place to belong.
He would have to keep his instincts to keep an hourly track on market activity, but it would be hard. There was no attraction that held as much interest for Win Garrett. There was no pleasure that was as lasting or meaningful. In short, staying away from trading would be every bit as hard as cold turkey sober. But there was no choice. He couldn’t take a chance on being linked back to the SSMC. The simple discovery of a single seemingly innocuous detail could bring down the whole ‘favor’ turned undercover operation.
The trip to El Paso was a pain in the ass, but it was extra insurance that Win’s story would be believed without question. On the off chance that he’d be seen, he’d be approaching the west Texas home of the Marauders from the west.
Shortly before sunrise Win opened the barn doors. There was no one in sight on the property when he walked over. Too early. He supposed everybody was sleeping, which was what he would have been doing at that ungodly hour if there wasn’t a club favor being cashed in at his expense.
The truck was gone as Zach had said it would be. He stuffed his dopp kit and dirty clothes into the bike’s saddlebags. It was gassed up and turned facing the right direction. In this case, the right direction meant ‘gone’.
Perhaps he should have been grateful for the gestures that may have seemed like courtesies in other circumstances, but having strangers mess with his bike didn’t sit right. It gave him an unsettled feeling in his gut. He was sure it was simply an overstep on the part of a guy who was a friend of Brant’s, a one-time rider who probably never got in deep enough to understand biker culture or what it meant to handle another man’s ride without his knowledge or permission.
He straddled the bike and reached for the choke, a slight smile forming when he realized that the touch of ignition was going to wake everybody up good and proper. He didn’t need to rev the powerful, and powerfully loud, engine for quite so long, but the image of Zach sitting up in bed cursing Win’s name helped to balance out the disturbing image of strange hands on his bike.
When he reached the interstate, he pulled off to wait for better light because riding amongst suburbans and their vehicles was potential suicide in the best of circumstances. He’d just made a choice for a longer-than-average life and wasn’t going to risk it for something as stupid as riding alone before good daylight.
Agua Dulce means sweet water. Texas could get away with having two towns named Sweetwater only because it was expressed in two different languages.
Sitting within spitting distance of the Mexican border, Agua Dulce was an east side poor relation suburb of El Paso, the sort of place that depended, partially, on the revenue and good will of a club like the Marauders. Townsfolk tolerated the blinders worn by city officials because they benefitted from the patronage economically and sometimes personally. Under the right circumstances, the presence of a powerful outlaw club could be a boon to a small struggling town in a harsh environment, close to the Mexican border with all that entailed, with no tax base and no industry.
According to the wisdom of the popular adage about not shitting where one eats, members conducted themselves as near ideal citizens when out and about in Agua Dulce. Locals greeted them with smiles and hellos that would have been appropriate for members of the Rotary or Lions’ Club in other communities.
It was too early to pull up to the MC compound gates requesting entrance. So he stopped at the Denny’s five miles away and ordered a double cheeseburger. One thing he liked about Denny’s was that you could get what you wanted at any time of day and Win wasn’t the sort who understood the point of having bacon and eggs if you wanted a cheeseburger. It might not be gourmet, but it was always an easy in-out with fast, attitude-free service.
He camped in a booth until eight thirty before traveling the final distance to Agua Dulce.
The Marauders’ compound looked suspiciously like abandoned army barracks. The buildings were out in the open on flat ground, but set back into a large property surrounded by chain link and barbed wire. It wouldn’t be easily defensible, but from the looks of it, had probably been cheap to acquire. Nobody was at the gate, but as soon as he pulled up and stopped, three Rottweilers and a pit bull came rushing out of wherever they’d been hiding and set up a ruckus that would wake the dead.
Win sat waiting as calmly as possible when looking into four threatening faces with unbelievably loud snarls backed by teeth that might give some guys nightmares. Win tried to relax, but let his hand drift to open the saddlebag that held a handgun, loaded for occasions such as this.
He noticed a camera arm shift in his direction followed by the hint of a human voice speaking. Someone might be asking a question, but it was impossible to tell. Win made a motion to his ears and shrugged, the movement causing a surge in the already deafening canine volume.
All four dogs abruptly ceased barking and turned toward one of the buildings, listening. When they heard a single whistle, they took off running toward the sound, Win and whatever threat they believed he represented completely forgotten.
Over a less than state-of-the-art sound system, a voice said, “Who are you and what do you want?”
“Win Garrett. Ex SoCal Hun. On my way to throw in with the Waco Marauders. Thought maybe I could stop over tonight.”
“Hold on.”
Win didn’t know if they were trying to verify his good standing with the Huns, but knew their call wouldn’t be welcome since it was early in Texas and two hours earlier in California.
Just to be sure all loose ends were sealed tight, he’d called a friend from his old club, conveyed his intentions, and asked for a call ahead so the El Paso chapter would be expecting him.
“It’s too early to check you out. Come back at noon.”
“You didn’t get a courtesy call from Huns Santa Clarita?”
Huns were officially an LA county club that claimed the Santa Clarita region. Oddly enough the actual club home was located in Agua Dulce, California.
“Might have. Nobody’s up for me to confirm. Sorry, but they don’t share communications with me unless it’s need to know. Guess you don’t qualify as need to know.”
“Okay then. Think I’ll just go further on down the road. Not really interested in sittin’ around for hours countin’ lizards. Be sure to give the prez regards from me and the Huns.”
“Suit yourself.” That offhand dismissal was punctuated by the release of four beasts intent on proving more ferocious for their encore appearance.
Win grinned at them when he ignited the Harley engine, revving enough to completely drown out the dogs’ voices. They didn’t stop barking, but did have slightly confused looks on their faces, disturbed by not being able to hear the sounds they were making.
He took his time riding east, turning off the interstate at Iraan, because the stark landscape held its own kind of beauty and fascination. These days stretches of road with sparse population are hard to find. Stretches of time without meeting another vehicle are even more rare.
At San Saba, he got a steak dinner at the downtown café, then pulled into the sort of outskirts motel that wouldn’t object too much to having a biker share his room with a bike for the night.
He watched a rerun of Pulp Fiction, used bath towels to clean up his bike and got a good night’s sleep. When he woke, he was just an hour away from Waco, but knew there was probably no point in showing up at the Marauders’ clubhouse before noon.