CHAPTER Five
At five before noon Win rolled up to the rural mailbox next to the Marauders’ gate. The property was in a complex of old warehouses near the river, complete with loading docks. It appeared that the Marauders’ warehouse covered an entire block. Three sides were concrete panels with no entrance unless you blasted through with explosives. All access was concentrated on one side with a series of overheads paired with single doors.
It could easily pass for abandoned if no one was around. But there were plenty of people around. Not the sort of people you’d be expecting. Mostly women and children.
An extensive and expensive-looking complement of playground equipment was set up a few yards from the ‘docks’ in the area that had originally been purposed as a truck yard.
Several women were sitting by long tables covered with checkered tablecloths, shaded by big red umbrellas. They were talking, laughing, sometimes yelling at kids. In the center of the pavement was a gigantic grill-smoker, the sort that was usually pulled on the bed of a trailer. Smoke was happily billowing from the stack as it kicked out the beginnings of a heavenly aroma with just enough suggestion of spice to tickle Win’s nose.
Even though the gate was open, he stopped and pushed the intercom button.
“Yeah?” a deep voice said. “You Garrett?”
He hadn’t been expecting that. “Win Garrett,” he said. “In the flesh.”
“Put your bike in the row and come on in here,” the voice commanded.
Win hesitated, thinking this could set a record for shortest suicide mission ever. He gave his heart a mental command to slow down. The last thing a guy hoping for a long life wanted was to look nervous in front of strange bikers.
He took a deep breath and rode slowly toward the line of bikes. The scene looked the opposite of a club worried about tangling with a rival. Gate open. Women and children out in the open. No guards around.
Win’s initial assessment was that club leadership was either stupid, cocky or both.
When he dismounted and began to lazily ascend the steps that would take him up to dock level, the women showed their appreciation by teasing with wolf whistles and cat calls. He gave them a heart-stopping grin and tipped an imaginary hat.
“Oh, baby,” one shouted above the rest. “Bring that cute little ass right over here and have a beer with mama.”
A big burly guy appeared where one of the overhead doors stood open. He hooked a finger into his belt underneath a sizable paunch and shifted his weight to one leg.
“What are you willin’ to do to keep me from tellin’ your old man what you’re sayin’ to the new boy, Shirley?”
“I’m willin’ to refrain from givin’ a kick to your scrawny dick.” The women laughed and hooted at the exchange.
The guy being referred to as ‘Slim’ took that good-naturedly and just shook his head as he watched Win’s approach.
“You been causin’ quite a stir,” he said when Win topped the steps and came within a few feet.
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“I guess some dumb fuck prospect in El Paso snubbed you. Fucker is out on his ear and lickin’ his wounds.” After a brief chuckle at the stranger’s fate, he said, “You won’t be treated like that here.” Win followed when ‘Slim’ turned and started walking deeper into the interior.
“No? Well, I’ll give you a Ben Franklin to keep shut with Shirley’s old man about the chattin’ me up.”
“Deal.” The big guy chuckled. “Must suck to be you.”
“Let’s just say the new guy doesn’t need that kind of attention.”
Win’s first impression of the club’s massive main gathering space was that it was a unique fusion of mountain lodge with industrial accents and urban graffiti. Big square cedar support beams. Brick walls with graffiti-style biker murals. Distressed wood floors. Every wall had an oversized TV monitor. There were pool tables at one end. Seven long picnic tables with benches in the middle. Black leather modular sofa seating at the other end formed four distinct lounge or conversation areas. The focal point of the entire gigantic space was the horseshoe-shaped bar in the middle.
The pièce de résistance was a turntable high above the bar with a classic, collectible, and, no doubt, enormously costly, 1967 Pan-Shovel. Red. Gleaming chrome. Gorgeous. That bike, slowly going round and round, was damned near hypnotic.
Between the way the club was outfitted and the objet d’art in motorcycle form, Win tabulated revenues topping out much higher than he would have guessed. He wouldn’t have thought Waco, Texas would be an especially lucrative area for the kinds of shadow enterprises outlaw clubs pursued.
Perhaps the most surprising thing was the light. Win had expected the windowless space to be dark except for artificial light by fluorescent panels, maybe LCDs. But each of the four sections had a large expanse of divided skylights above. Overhead windows.
There was no arguing that it was supremely functional and well-suited to its purpose. It was also something that Win had never been tempted to call an MC clubhouse… beautiful. Like someone had invented a new style. Biker chic.
“Name’s Cue. Prez said to bring you back if any of us saw you.”
“Okay.”
“You met him before?”
“Your prez? No. I’ve been in California for a long time.”
Cue nodded. “Huns. That’s what we heard. Boss is all right. Fair. Ya know?” He turned to look at Win as he was stopping in front of a closed door. He knocked twice. Win heard a loud, “Yeah?”
Cue opened the door a crack. “Got the traveler, Boss.”
A waft of cigar smoke snaked out through the tiny space between the door and the jamb. It was still almost enough to make Win cough reflexively.
“Let me see him.” It was clear, sight unseen, that the Waco Marauders’ president possessed the gravelly, grumpy demeanor that seemed to be a universal trait of bikers who rise to that office.
Cue pushed the door open wider to reveal a large executive mahogany desk that would normally dominate any office. But when it came to vying for attention, the desk didn’t stand a chance. Behind it sat a guy with a presence so commanding he didn’t need to say a word to establish that he was master of the premises.
Bolivar Greer glanced up at Win. “Sit yourself down right there.” His chin indicated one of the chairs that sat in front of his desk.
Win turned his head back toward the hallway to take one last breath of merely partially contaminated oxygen before he stepped into the smoke-filled room so desperately in need of its own ventilation system. He sat down in the designated chair and waited, trying to will his eyes not to water. To no avail. Mind over body wasn’t working. Neither was blinking rapidly.
Win heard the door close behind him and thought it sounded as loud as a vault being closed with heavy hydraulics.
When the prez looked up, his mouth twitched. “I see there’s no point in offering you a cigar.”
“Used to smoke. Uh, cigarettes. Now my body treats smoke like an ex with a bad break up.”
Chuckling softly, the prez stubbed out his cigar. “The El Paso chapter sends their regrets that you weren’t welcomed.”
Win nodded. “Everybody was asleep except for a prospect who didn’t know what to do.”
“You makin’ excuses for him?”
Win held the man’s steady gaze as best he could with runny eyes. “No.” He shook his head. “I might be inclined to give him a pass if he’d been polite about it.”
With a knowing smirk of approval, the prez said, “I’m Bolivar Greer. Everybody calls me Boss.”
“Ah. Boss is your road name. I wasn’t sure.”
“Not really a road name. Got a sister who’s fourteen months older. She started callin’ me bossy as soon as she could talk. It stuck. Sometime around puberty the y got dropped.”
Win looked around the office. “So it’s a case of people becomin’ what they’re named.”
Boss raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. “That the fact with you?”
It took Win a second to understand the question. When he got it, he smiled. “Sometimes.” He shrugged. “Maybe more than average.”
“Just so happens that’s what we’re needin’ around here. You could call your arrival extraordinarily opportune.”
“Why’s that?”
“Got some potential trouble brewin’.” Win remained expressionless. “What?” Boss demanded.
Win blinked. “I don’t know what you’re askin’.”
“I said trouble brewin’. You got a look. I want to know what you were thinkin’.”
Win knew for a fact that he had schooled his features into submission, which could only mean that Boss was phenomenally gifted at reading people. Maybe even telepathic. That fleeting thought had Win wishing he could take back his agreement to pay off the SSMC’s marker.
After weighing his options at lightning speed, he decided the truth was the best choice.
“It’s been a long time since I was a prospect, but the way I remember it, prospects aren’t usually asked what they think.”
“Well, first, and I was gettin’ to this, because of the special circumstances and your stellar record with the Huns, we’re goin’ to dispense with the usual formalities.” He slammed his big palm down on the desk for punctuation. “We’re votin’ you in tonight.”
“That’s…” Truthfully, Win didn’t know how to react. He’d never heard of such a thing. Bikers handing full patch to a total stranger? Even one with a resume from a sister club. Just not done. And for good reason. Win searched for the right word. “Unheard of. Far as I know. I’m not griping.”
“Right. Now, what was that look for?”
“Since you’ve invited me to speak freely, you said somethin’ about potential trouble, and I want to hear about that. The place just doesn’t give the appearance that you’re worried. Gates open. Women and children outside in the open. And the skylights…”
Boss laughed and shook his head. “Fuckin’ skylights. Cost us a fortune and keeps on costin’ in heavenly a/c bills, but it makes the place look good in the daytime, don’t it?”
“Yeah,” Win readily agreed. “Really good.”
Nodding with a smile, Boss said, “My daughter. Got a degree in interior design from the University of Texas. The one at Austin. You know?” Win nodded. “That painting?” Win turned to look at the wall behind him where Boss was pointing. It featured a painting of a cowboy coiling a rope. It was five feet high and, though Win was no art expert, he thought it was good, partly because the frame looked so expensive. “It’s a Kelly Pruitt original. Cost me two month’s take.” As Win turned back, Boss was shaking his head. “My little girl is a good saleswoman.”
“I’m no art expert.”
“Me either. She says it’s an investment. Anyway, about the skylights. That caused what you’d call a kerfuffle around here. I had to pay to rectify that situation out of my own fucking money.”
Win cocked his head. “How do you ‘rectify’ skylights?”
“Oh we have these inch-and-a-quarter titanium shields that automatically slide into place and lock in case of emergency.” Boss leaned forward a little. “That titanium. It’s lightweight, but a direct hit from a bazooka wouldn’t leave a scratch on it.”
Win stared straight ahead as he was imagining the tab for that. “Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.” Boss leaned back in his tall tufted leather chair. “Far as the easy access and the families bein’ exposed. We’ve got eyes posted for blocks all around. Every one of them has remotes that would set off alarms and close those gates so fast it would take off your hand.”
He responded with a wan smile.
“What’s that about?” Boss pointed to Win’s face.
“Please don’t take offense at this, but I wasn’t expectin’ state-of-the-art high tech in Waco is all.”
“Why? We have internet, trains, trucks, and planes like anyplace else. You’re from here, right?”
“Texas, yeah. But I’m south Texas. Beaumont.”
“Well, then, you should know.”
Win nodded. “Looks like you’re doin’ alright for yourself.”
“Can’t complain. But like Joe Walsh said, sometimes I still do.” He chuckled.
“You were sayin’ somethin’ about potential trouble?”
“Well, it’s Saturday night. We got a celebration goin’ on tonight. Everybody’ll want to meet you.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Is it Saturday?”
Boss chuckled. “Yeah. A long haul will do that to ya. Get a shower and some sleep. Things’ll be lively ‘round here tonight.”
“Okay.”
“My pride and joy’ll be here. And about my daughter.”
“I know. Stay away from her.”
“I was gonna give you a courtesy heads up, but not ‘cause of what you’re thinkin’. I was gonna tell you that if you meet her and reach out to shake with your right hand, you’d better be clutchin’ your ball sack with your left. Girl don’t like bikers. At. All. She’s determined to marry a stockbroker or some such nonsense and wants nothin’ to do with our kind. She’ll tear you a new face. So, forgettin’ I’m her daddy, man to man, watch out. Consider yourself warned.”
That was a new one. Some woman’s father was tryin’ to protect Win from his daughter.
Huh.
“Her mama ran off when she was little. I think maybe she believes it was ‘cause of me. The life. Ya know? My little girl. She’s smart as a whip. Beautiful. Likes things her own way.” He seemed to snap out of a reverie. Standing he came round the desk to walk Win partway to the door. “Come out to the thing tonight. I’ll see you there. Introduce you around. Meantime, go on and tell Cue I said to get you set up proper.”
“Thanks, uh, Boss.”
He laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”
Win turned and reached for the doorknob just as the door came crashing in and collided with his face. That was the first blow.
“Jesus, Daddy! It smells like zombies have been in here havin’ a cigar party. What is the matter with you? Even if you don’t give a damn about your health, this smoke…” She waved her hand in the air like that would make a difference before continuing the shouting. “And the smell is disgustin’, is hard on this museum quality work of art you have hangin’ in this beautiful office. Pearls before swine, I tell you.”
“Do not give me that pearls before swine shit. I’m your father, missy.” Boss matched her volume decibel for decibel.
“You may be my father, but if it wasn’t your birthday I’d kick your ass for this. I told that cocksucker, Cue, not to allow any cigars into this building.”
“You think you’re gonna interest some Wall Street dandy with a mouth like that, little girl?”
“You need to be more worried about what you’re puttin’ in your mouth than what I’m sayin’ with mine. You know damn well you’re not supposed to be smokin’ those fucking cigars.”
“It’s my birthday. I got a box of Havanas.”
She stopped still. When she spoke again, she spoke quietly, sounding every bit as dangerous as the biggest bad ass biker Win had ever encountered. “Where is it?”
“None. Of. Your. Business. You know what is your business?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“The man whose nose you just broke stormin’ in here without permission like I’m your little bitch.”
“Do not use that word around me, you toxic, smelly, fucking old biker.” She went still again as if she was replaying the last few sentences. “What?!?”
The second blow was when she turned around.
Win was holding his nose with both hands, blood running down his face and dripping off his jaw onto his shirt. For a couple of seconds he forgot the pain. It was all he could do to process the totality of the woman standing in front of him, pissed like a wild cat, hands on her hips, death rays shooting from her bayou green eyes. She was tan. Long dirty-blonde hair that was natural except for the almost-white streaks on top. She was almost as tall as his six feet with the kind of athletic build that looked good in clothes, great out of clothes.
“Christ,” she said, just before stepping to the door. “Cue, get somebody in here who knows how to set a broken nose. And bring somethin’ to clean up blood for cryin’ out loud.”
Win heard somebody yell. “R.C. What did you do now?”
Boss looked at Win. “Win Garrett, meet my only child. The apple of my eye. R.C.”
Win let go of his nose long enough to wave one bloody hand.
She rolled her eyes. “Jesus,” she said, flopping into a seat, resting one leg on the arm of the chardonnay-colored Chesterfield chair.
She looked polished, pampered, and posh. More like a debutante than an MC princess. Of course, she didn’t talk or act like a debutante. At least not when she was confronting her dad.
Win’s eyes were immediately drawn to the tan leg he could see at the end of her pink pedal-pushers. He followed it down to the perfect foot in flip flops, toes accented by pink polish the same color as the pants. Again, he forgot the pain of his nose long enough to decide that perhaps he didn’t hate pink as much as he’d previously thought.
A woman came through the doorway with a first aid kit. She pulled Win’s hands away from his nose and said, “Ouch. What happened? The Boss punch ya?”
“R.C. happened,” Boss said.
Without looking away from Win, the woman nodded and said, “Oh,” as if that explained everything. “I’m Carla. You feel like walking to my little infirmary?” she asked. Win nodded. “Good. I think you want it to just be you and me when I put this nose back where it belongs.”
He followed behind, not really paying attention to anything except keeping her in sight. The pain was almost blinding.
When they reached the infirmary, she shut the door and told him to sit on the gray vinyl exam table that was identical to what you’d find in any doctor’s office.
He climbed up.
“Take these.” Carla handed him two pills and a bottled water.
He put them in his mouth and swallowed them down with water.
Carla ran the tap in the deep farmhouse sink until it was warm then got a clean rag wet.
“I’m just gonna clean you up,” she said.
She made a couple of painful swipes, though she was trying to be gentle, and then expertly set his nose back in place with no warning.
He yelled out. “No motherfucking warning?!?”
She shrugged. “I find it works out better when guys aren’t all tensed up in anticipation.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“That’s why I thought you’d like for it to just be you and me. You get to preserve the illusion of macho dignity.”
“My dignity is not an illusion,” he said. “And neither is my manhood.”
She chuckled. “Whatever you say,” she said as she went back to cleaning him up. “So. R.C. punched you?”
Gaping at Carla, he said, “Is that her name? R.C.?”
“Hmmm. Not really. It’s an abbreviation of a nickname. So I guess it can’t get much more complicated than that.”
“No. She did not punch me. We were both of a mind to open a door at the same time. She did it more forcefully.”
Carla’s eyebrows went up. “You mean it was an accident? She didn’t mean to do it?”
“Yes. That’s what I mean. Are you saying she goes around punching people regularly?”
“Well, I’d say ‘regularly’ is probably too regular a word. But it happens.”
“It happens,” he repeated drily, prodding for more information.
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
Carla laughed. “I’m not a shrink, darlin’.”
“What are you?”
“Today it’s Saturday at the biker boy club and it’s Boss’s birthday. So today I’m Zipper’s old lady, but four days a week you can find me over at the VA hospital. I’m an RN.”
“No shit?”
“None at all. Now lay back there.” As she placed a little pillow with a clean paper cover at the head end of the table, she pushed on his chest gently. When he reclined, she pulled the lever that lifted the foot section of the table. When he relaxed she said, “I’m gonna ice that nose so you don’t bruise too bad. I gave you some sleepy pills and they’re gonna be makin’ you drowsy any minute. Just go with it. Take a little nap right here.” She retrieved a blanket from one of the metal cabinets lining the walls and pulled it from the sealed plastic bag it had been in. Covering Win, she said, “This’ll keep you warm. Don’t you worry. Nobody’ll bother you in here. I’m gonna keep the pack fresh while you sleep for a few hours. When you wake up, you may not be good as new, but you’ll be better than you’d be without the ice.”
Win stared at the insulation panels in the lowered ceiling and listened to the sound of Carla’s voice.
“Her nickname is Roman Candle. That’s where the R.C. comes from. You just learned firsthand why her daddy started calling her that. I guess it was him. Coulda been somebody else. I don’t know. Reminded her dad of one of the really hot-tempered fireworks.
“I actually know her pretty well. She grew up with my girl, Robin. If it’d been up to me I woulda called her T.D. after that Tasmanian Devil thing that was in Looney Tunes. But ‘course nobody asked me.
“One time at my house, when the girls were about ten, she and Robin filled pillow cases with flour and had a pillow fight. That was fifteen years ago and I’m still findin’ little bits of old flour hiding in cracks and crevices when I deep clean. ‘Course it was R.C.’s idea.
“She’s a handful. Pretty though. You probably didn’t notice that, what with your nose tryin’ to marry your cheek and all.”
As the pain subsided, his lids grew heavy and his muscles relaxed underneath the warmth of the blanket. As his eyes closed he was thinking that he had, in fact, noticed that and kind of wished he hadn’t. She was a dreamy Nordic blonde distraction and the last thing he needed when laser sharp focus was required.
The next time he opened his eyes he didn’t feel the weight of an ice pack on his face. Turning his head slightly he saw Carla sitting in a chair, swinging one crossed leg slightly while swiping pages on an iPad.
She noticed he was awake when he tried to sit up, and rushed over to the table.
“Here. Here. Here.” She caught hold of him and helped him sit up with a grip that was deceptively strong. “Go easy. I gave you some pretty serious sleepy time meds.”
“How long have I been asleep?” His voice sounded hoarse, like he’d been asleep for days.
She cracked open a bottle of water and handed it to him. “Six hours.”
“Six hours?” He sounded incredulous. He was supposed to be working for the SSMC and, by extension, the Texas Rangers. Not sleeping for hours on end.
He slid forward on the table until his feet found the ground. Carla was there to steady him. “Let’s just make sure you’re nice and steady before you go chargin’ off.”
She let go of him, but stayed close while he took a few steps, drinking water.
“How do you feel?”
He gave that question serious consideration. “Having trouble breathing through my nose? I sound like…”
“Darth Vader.”
“Yeah. Him.”
When he reached up to touch his face, she grabbed his wrist and stopped him.
Pointing to the rectangular mirror over the sink, she said, “Take a look.”
He hesitated, but shuffled over to the mirror. He looked like something out of a horror movie. His nose was swollen so that he could be justifiably reclassified as disfigured. Worse. It was black with dark red streaks running through the bruise. His eyes were almost swollen shut. Also bruised underneath like he’d been in a boxing ring and taken way too much punishment.
“Jesus Fucking Christ.”
“That would be hard. Although I’ve heard…”
“People are gonna think I’ve taken a beat down.”
She laughed. “Darlin’. There’s not a soul here who’s gonna think that. Bikers are more gossipy than old women at a bake sale. Everybody here already knows you’ve been a victim of Boss’s baby girl. Nobody’s gonna think less of you because they all know.”
He gave Carla a pained look.
“I can put a bandage on top of that, but it won’t help the healin’ and, let’s face it, a bandage on your face is not gonna make you more handsome.”
Turning his face from side to side, he said, “How long am I gonna look like this?”
“Good news or bad news first?”
“Good.”
“Because you had an expert on the scene, you’re probably gonna be beautiful again. Though not right away.”
“Bad.”
“Swelling’s gonna last at least three days. After that you should be able to breathe easier, but the bruises…” She shook her head. “That takes time. You’re gonna look like a mess for a couple of weeks. Could take a month for you to look exactly like you did yesterday.”
He took one more look in the mirror and indulged in a deep sigh. “Always wanted to find out what it’s like to not have to fight the ladies away.”
Carla laughed again. “Don’t know what you looked like before, but I’ll tell you this. I’m not havin’ any trouble controlling my lustful impulses. Now I’m gonna give you some pills that’ll help with pain for the next three days. But no drinkin’. Got it?” He nodded. “Repeat after me. No drinking.”
“No drinking.”
“Good man. I’ll be keepin’ an eye on you. At least for the rest of this evenin’. Party’s revvin’ up. You feel like goin’?”
He tried to smile. “Lookin’ forward to trottin’ out my new face.”
Music was playing somewhere in the building. When Carla opened the infirmary door, he got a hint of just how loud it was. Apparently the infirmary door made the room practically soundproof.
“Follow me, chickadee,” she said.
Win followed Carla through a couple of turns before the hallway opened into the communal space. Aside from the fact that the gathering area was crowded with people, the first thing he noticed was that it looked a lot different after dark. The rotating platform the Panhead bike sat on was lined with neon and the giant mirror behind the bar was framed with Hollywood lights. There were about five female bartenders dressed in costumes that were essentially black strings sewed together, putting on flashy Coyote Ugly performances.
The second thing he noticed was the giant screen monitors sitting high up on the walls. Instead of boxing, or MMA, or porn, or even greatest hit clips of action or gangster movies, each of the screens was divided into grids of thirty-two security camera angles, some of the immediate perimeter of the complex, some of the streets surrounding the warehouse.
Win’s first reaction was appreciation of the fact that the club had invested its profits in high tech security. Every one of the two hundred or so people at the party was a line of defense since every direction you faced was a wall of security monitors. In other words, somebody would notice something amiss.
The third thing he noticed was R.C. doing tequila shots at the bar, laughing with a woman standing to her left wearing a halter top and cutoff jeans.
His feet didn’t ask his permission. They just started moving that direction. He moved to the left of the brunette in the cutoffs and got an eyeful of strings that seemed to keep bartender nipples hidden no matter how wildly tits swung back and forth.
One of the bartenders sashayed her thonged ass toward him with a smile. “What you want, sugar pie?” she said.
“Root beer.”
“The kids have all gone home.”
“Well, maybe I’m a kid at heart.”
Her smile fell almost as far as a gape. “You’re seriously askin’ for a root beer for yourself? ‘Scuse me for sayin’ so, but you look like you could use some amber comfort.”
“That your name? Amber?”
She laughed. “No. I’m Chalice.”
“Of course. Just the root beer.”
She pressed her lips together. “I’ll look around. Maybe we have somethin’ in back for the kiddos.”
He watched her smooth tush as she walked away then angled his body toward the woman next to him on his right. It gave him a perfect view of the blonde on the other side laughing around a quarter lime slice in her mouth. He could barely hear her laughter over the music and the crowd, but he liked it.
When she noticed him staring, her laughter came to an abrupt halt.
Following the direction of R.C.’s gaze the brunette turned to face him and immediately drew back. Seeing that much damage up that close had to be shocking.
“Whoa,” was all she said.
Win smirked. “Robin, I presume?”
Her eyes widened at what was apparently the correct mention of her name. Just then Chalice set a cold IBC long neck down on the bar in front of him.
“Here’s your root beer, sugar,” she said.
Robin’s eyes went to the root beer. “So you’re a Tim Burton movie escapee who’s also psychic and drinks root beer.”
His smirk grew bigger. “Nah. Your mom told me your name. She also told me not to drink on top of pain pills. So far as my face goes, I didn’t look like a monster before your friend slammed a door in my face.”
Win looked over at R.C. when he said ‘your friend slammed a door in my face’. She responded by narrowing her eyes like he had a lot of nerve to accuse her.
“Wow,” Robin said. Without looking over her shoulder, she said, “What’d he do, hon? You really nailed him. We’re talkin’ deviated septum.”
He returned his attention to Robin. “I’ll tell you what I did. I was standin’ in the Boss’s office when the tornado blew through.”
“If you’re expecting an apology, you can forget it. You shouldn’t ‘ve been givin’ my dad cigars,” R.C. said.
“I was the one with eyes waterin’ because I can’t stand smoke. Before I got there, the smoke was so thick I couldn’t find my own dick,” he protested.
“Tell the poor baby you’re sorry, R.C., so we can get back to serious drinkin’.”
“Sorry.” R.C.’s apology could not possibly have sounded less sincere. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re busy.”
“I think that’s the best you’re gonna get, nightmare,” Robin said halfway sympathetically.
“Huh,” Win said as he took a pull on his root beer. “Have you heard this one? A nightmare and a terror walk into a bar…”
“We’re done talkin’. Get it?” R.C. interrupted. “Now if you’ll excuse us, my friend and I are busy gettin’ drunk to celebrate her hard won and well-deserved freedom.”
“You just out of jail?” he asked Robin, who turned and gaped.
“No. I’m not just out of jail. I’ve just broken up with the cocksucker who used to be my good-for-nothing boyfriend.”
“Congratulations,” Win said to Robin before his eyes found their way back to R.C.
“Do not look at me,” she said.
“Don’t look at you?” he chuckled.
“That’s right. Don’t look at me.”
“No harm in lookin, Arcy.”
He spoke her initials like they were a two syllable name. The sound of it gave her a visible shiver, which he caught before she tried to cover it. When she realized he’d seen her reaction, she narrowed her eyes again.
Win told himself he didn’t have time for diversions. Certainly not the kind that had been described as hot-tempered handfuls. While he was thinking about turning and walking the other way, a cheer went up.
He turned to see an enormous five-tiered cake being wheeled into the middle of the room. With lit sparklers from top to bottom, it was a sight to see. People started stomping on the wood floor, which created an enormous din and, just when the sparklers went out, a stripper burst through the top of the cake.
Everybody cheered.
Win turned toward R.C. just in time to catch her roll her eyes and hear her say, “How original,” to Robin.
The stripper, wearing a g string with letters spelling Happy Birthday strung between pasties, tried to sing the familiar song in breathy Marilyn Monroe style as bikers pushed Boss forward. The girl couldn’t sing, but really, that wasn’t why she’d been hired. When she was finished, Boss picked her up out of the remains of the cake and pulled a pastie off one of her nipples with his teeth to squeals from the stripper and cheers from a crowd growing rowdier by the minute.
R.C. shook her head, but didn’t look as scandalized as most girls would be if they witnessed their fathers performing public acts of a sexual nature. “Let’s get out of here before they forget who we are and decide we’re part of the entertainment,” R.C. said to Robin.
Robin snorted. “Nobody’s stupid enough to look at you that way. But there’s a club downtown that has opened since the last time you were here. You want to check it out?”
Nodding, R.C. said, “We need a driver.”
“Let’s make it simple and call Uber.”
He watched them move toward the exit and felt a little tendril of pleasure when R.C. turned back and caught his eye just before she went through the door.
“Hey, little brother,” Cue said, almost knocking Win over when he banged him on the shoulder in a macho interpretation of good-natured fun. Normally Win would think nothing of it, but the physical shock that would normally be absorbed by his body without a second thought traveled straight to the damage to his face. Nerve endings screamed.
Cue was half plastered, but not so drunk he didn’t notice the wince followed by a grimace. “Oh, sorry, man. I didn’t think.”
“That’s okay,” Win said. “You know, if you’ll just point me to where I’m bunkin’ in, I think I’ll call it a day.”
“Bunkin’? We need to show you around.”
“How about tomorrow? I think people are more interested in celebratin’ than gettin’ to know me. Right?”
“Yeah. I see that. You got some stuff?”
“Stuff?”
Cue laughed. “Silk pajamas or whatever?”
“Saddlebags. I’ll just crash tonight. Get my stuff in the mornin’.”
“Up to you. You’re down this way. We call it the West Wing.” Cue moved his chin to indicate the general direction of Win’s new home, for a month or less.
He followed Cue through a big door into a wide hallway. The noise level was cut by half as soon as they closed the door behind them. At the end of the hall they turned left into another hallway that looked more like a hotel than anything. Cue stopped at number twenty-seven.
“This is you,” he said, opening the door and switching on the light. He pointed to a key hanging by the door. “This is the only key. You lose it, you pay the locksmith to replace it.” Win nodded. “Bed’s clean. Mini-fridge is stocked. We got people who’ll clean and do your laundry, but you’ll have to leave your door open on Tuesday mornings for that. WIFI password is Mhouse. Got cable. All the channels. You get hungry for real food, go back the way we came. Kitchen’s on the other side of the club house.
“You gonna remember any o’ this?”
“I think so.”
“Boss’ll talk to you tomorrow about club biz, how you fit in, ya know?”
Win nodded again. “Think so,” he repeated.
“All righty then. You’re on your own. I’ve got some partyin’ to finish.”
“Better get to it.”
“I will.” With that Cue left the room.
Win closed the door. He was alone, and it was remarkably quiet considering the Bacchanalia going on under the same roof. He stared at the door for a few seconds then took the key off its hook and locked it.
The room was spacious by biker standards. It was also luxurious by biker standards. It seemed the Marauders didn’t do things halfway. In addition to the nice furnishings and mini-fridge, he had his own big screen TV. When he got back to Austin, he was going to have some stories to tell about some clubs really knowing how to live. He took a little grim pleasure in anticipating how that was going to get Brant’s goat.
The biggest drawback, so far as he could see, was the paradox of living in a concrete building without windows. On the one hand, the walls were impenetrable. On the other, it was a scary way to live from the standpoint of fire hazard. If there was a fire near the exit doors on the loading docks, the entire building would be a death trap with no way out.
He made a mental note to talk to Boss about that, if the opportunity ever arose.
Meanwhile, he pulled off his boots, stretched out to test the compatibility between his body and the mattress and found it agreeable. Within minutes he was asleep, but the last image on his mind was the sight of R.C. turning back to get another look at him.