Smokey

I started riding a motorcycle when I was 18 years old, and never looked back. I found it satisfying for many reasons, the main one being the sense of freedom I felt when I had the wind in my face. Having been charged with the task of mentoring a prospect changed everything. In one afternoon, riding went from an escape to being a pain in my ass.

We rolled into the shop and came to a stop, with Tank parking twenty feet ahead of me. I pulled off my helmet and hopped off the bike in fluid motion.

Tank pulled off his helmet, and turned to face me. “I don’t understand--”

I took a few steps in his direction. “That’s the problem, prospect. You don’t fucking understand. You’re a prospect. You want to be an outlaw biker, but you’re not one. I am. You listen to me. Like it or fucking not, I’m in charge of this clusterfuck, and you’re along for the God damned ride.”

He lifted his leg over the tank, brushed his hands against the thighs of his jeans, and looked at me. He did a pretty poor job of hiding his regret, but I didn’t give a fuck. I wasn’t going to let up on him one bit.

Not now, not ever.

If it was my job to train him how to be a Filthy Fucker, he was going to be the best the club had to offer when he went from prospect to patch.

“I’ll quit fucking around. I’m sorry.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Crip approaching. He stopped behind my bike, crossed his arms, and waited. After taking a few more steps toward Tank, I paused. I took a long hit off my vape, stared blankly at him while I savored the taste, and then blew the cloud to the side.

“When you were in the Corps, did you march like a fucking slob, going wherever you wanted, while the rest of the Marines marched in formation?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, Sir.”

“What would have happened if you did?”

“I’d have been written up.”

“Called on the carpet, and then punished, right?”

He nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“When there were two of you going somewhere, did you have a procedure, or did you just nonchalantly walk?”

I knew the answers to the questions I asked, I was the son of a Marine. Knowing allowed me to ask the right questions, make valid points, and not sound like an idiot in the process.

“If there were two of us, we walked everywhere in step.”

“You walked side by side. His left foot went forward, your left foot went forward. His right, your right, correct?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“In the army, they walk around with their hands in their pockets. One soldier walking at one speed, and the other just slobbing along at another speed. Did you know that?”

He nodded. “I’ve seen them.”

“Which looks better?”

“The Marines.”

“They look organized, right? Side by side, going everywhere at the same pace. They look like they’re marching, even if they’re walking to the store.”

He nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“We do the same fucking thing here, prospect. It makes us look organized. When there’s two of us, we ride two abreast. Always. Any more of that hotdogging shit will get your ass written up. Believe me, I’m keeping track.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“Did Meat let you do that shit?”

He didn’t respond. Hell, he didn’t need to. I could tell by the look on his face that Meat didn’t give a shit. At least Tank wasn’t the type to snitch Meat out.

“You’re not riding with him anymore,” I said, my tone stern. “I won’t put up with an ounce of your shit, understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I shook my head. “How long you been out of the Marines?”

“A little over a year.”

“How long was your basic training? The amount of time it took you to go from civilian to Marine?”

“Thirteen weeks, Sir.”

“Thirteen weeks?” I nodded as if he’d revealed something I was unaware of. “Well, guess what? Your training here is 52 fucking weeks. That ought to give you an idea of how cautious we are of letting the wrong motherfucker wear our patch. Our training is longer than the Marines, and we spend most of that extra time weeding out the fucktards, understand?”

He gave a sharp nod. “Yes, Sir.”

“That’s another thing. Call me sir again, and I’ll put a bullet in your thigh. We’ll change your name from Tank to Gimp. Got it?”

“Yes, S--” His eyes fell to the floor. He let out a sigh, and then he looked up. “What do I call you?”

“Smoke. Smokey. Or, Boss.” I grinned at the thought of him calling me Boss. “Yeah, let’s go with Boss. I like that. Forget the other two. Call me Boss.”

“Yes, Boss.”

I liked the sound of it.

“I thought I was the boss,” Crip said from behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder. “You’re the boss of all patched members. He’s a fucking prospect, and damned poor one at that. I’m Boss, as far as he’s concerned, until I say otherwise.”

Crip gave a nod. “Fair enough.”

“Got a minute?” Crip asked.

I lifted my chin slightly, and made eye contact with Tank. “Go count the fence posts out in the parking lot, prospect. Twice.”

“Yes, Boss.”

As Tank walked toward the parking lot, Crip turned toward me and chuckled. “See? All that shit you were asking him? It’s shit he can relate to.”

“Gotta speak a subordinate’s language,” I said. “Just like talking to a child. You gotta speak to ‘em in a language they can understand.”

He watched Tank saunter toward the fence, and then looked at me. “Why were you riding his ass? What was he doing?”

“We were coming up the 5 from Encinitas, and the dipshit kept riding out ahead of me. Hell, I was going 90, who fucking knows how fast he was going. Lost sight of him a few times.”

“What the fuck?” His eyes thinned. “You need to put a stop to that shit.”

I shot him a sideways look. “Motherfucker, did you just listen to our conversation? I did put a stop to that shit.”

“I’m not pissed off at you, I’m just pissed.” He swung the toe of his boot against a pebble, and kicked it across the shop floor. “Just got off the phone. They indicted Meathead.”

“Bad?”

“Felon in possession. Firearm in furtherance of a crime. Gave him the RICO act with the last charge, which was some bullshit about the guy being black. Said it was a hate crime.”

“That’s bullshit,” I said. “White, black, brown, or yellow. Meat hated all motherfuckers equal.”

“Agreed. The ATF brought charges against him. Impossible to fight those pricks.”

“Motherfucker.” I took a hit off my vape and shook my head. “And, I thought my day was going bad.”

He pointed toward my bike. “Phone’s ringing.”

I turned away. “Probably Cholo. Got three jobs coming up.”

Surprised to see it was Sandy calling, I considered not answering, then swiped my thumb across the screen and raised the phone to my ear. “This is Smokey.”

“Smokey, this is Sandy. We need to uhhm. We need to talk.”

The tone of her voice alone made my asshole pucker. Visions of her telling me I needed to go get a Z-Pak to cure something came to mind.

“Whatever it is, you can say it over the phone.”

“No. We need to talk in person.”

“Anything you need to say can be said over the phone.”

“We need to meet in person, really.”

I hated to be a prick, but I had to. I enjoyed her company too much. If I met her in person, it’d be a matter of minutes and I’d be fucking her – or wanting to, anyway. I knew me well enough to know if I started again, stopping would be impossible.

“Not gonna happen. You can either say what it is you have to say, or I’m going to hang up.”

She sighed into the receiver. “Fine. I hope you’re on stable ground.”

Prepared to learn what strain of disease I needed to prepare to rid myself of, I cocked my head to the side, made eye contact with Crip, and waited.

“I’m pregnant. And, I know what you’re going to ask, so I’ll answer it first. Yes, it’s yours.”

“Hello?”

“Hello?”

“Smoke? Are you there?”