Slick
I sit in silence, hands folded in my lap, waiting as Grizzly and Clint decide if I should be killed, unpatched, or given a second chance. I don’t look at Clint, or at Grizzly. Instead, I watch the wall, staring at varmint rifle and wondering if that old Chekhov’s gun theory is correct. I read about that in Seattle, on one of those long, cold nights of winter, tied to my metal-framed thin-mattress bed with a length of chain, in a warehouse with no heating, hunched over some book reading about some theory which I never would’ve thought to check out before I was captured. That was my cell: a cold hovel warmed only by books. But the problem is, I know for a fact that the rifle is decommissioned. When I was a kid I tried loading it and discovered that the ammo slots had been messed with. So much for Chekhov and his gun—
“He’s not even listening!” Clint cries, flapping his arms in a bird-like way.
“I am,” I say, turning to them. “I was just waiting for you to choose between noose and guillotine.”
“Funny, funny man.” Clint sneers. He is wearing a tight-fitting pale blue suit which makes him look more like a door-to-door salesman that a patched Rager. I guess that’s why Grizzly likes him. He can take care of the business end of shit. Well, so can I, and I can do it without dressing like a goddamn fool.
“Judging from what I’ve observed,” I say, “the weekly turnover of this place is about thirty-five grand, taking into account the gun runs, the courier deals, the protection contracts. I figure that’s about ten grand shy of what this operation could really be putting out.”
“We’re not discussing that! What are you talking about?” Clint demands.
But Grizzly, the man who matters, watches calmly. And, if I’m not mistaken, with a look of interest in his eyes.
“I’m talking about making the operation more efficient. I haven’t been idle this past week; I’ve taken a look around. There are a lot of areas where things would run along much more smoothly. For example,” I go on, raising my voice because Clint keeps trying to cut in, “I took a trip up to the mountains to take a look at the warehouses there. The efficiency of that place is shit, Boss, sorry to be so blunt about it. The workers you’ve hired don’t know what the fuck they’re doing and half the time they’re not even working. Half the time when stuff goes in, it takes ’em a day to find it again when it’s needed.”
“How is that going to raise ten grand a week?” Clint snaps, looking to Grizzly for support.
But Grizzly waves his hand for me to go on. I’m aware that I’m talking for my life, or at the very least for my place in the club. Tooling up three fellow club members without sufficient cause isn’t acceptable in a proper club. We’re meant to be brothers, here. Brothers . . . that’s a load of shit. All Grizzly cares about—all any President cares about, when you get down to it—is the money. Within reason, money rules all.
“It won’t,” I admit. “But I’m just talking about one aspect. Another example is the protection deals.” The Ragers have a variety of business contacts, rich folks in the city and the like, who they routinely offer out their services to at parties and meeting and nasty underworld business. “I went along to one of the meets with one of Clint’s boys. A man called Ralph, if I remember right. He didn’t even fuckin’ press the man, just took what he was given. These are a big source of revenue, ain’t they? Surely—”
“Okay,” Grizzly says. “You’ve made your point. I’ll start you on the warehouse, Slick. Get things sorted down there and we’ll talk about further advancement.”
“Wait a second,” Clint says, blinking between us in disbelief. “You’re going to reward him for beating up three of my men?”
“Your men?” Grizzly turns to him. Even sat down and looking up, he still somehow towers over Clint, making him look small. “The last time I checked, I’m the President, not you, Clint. The last time I checked your title had a fuckin’ V in front of it, or am I wrong?”
“No, you’re not wrong,” Clint mutters, averting his gaze. “But it’s just . . . the men won’t like it.”
“They’ll like it if their shares get bigger, won’t they? Anyway, this wasn’t a random assault. I don’t think this can even be considered an assault of any kind, truth be told, nowhere near eligible for unpatching or—or worse.” Grizzly shakes his head. “Slick went up against three guys and won. From what I’ve heard, it was a fair fight, so shut your fuckin’ whining. We don’t punish men for fair fights.”
Clint takes a step back, nodding.
“Maybe tell your men to spend more time earning and less time drooling over my goddamn daughter,” Grizzly says, teeth clenched.
I don’t say anything to this, and neither does Clint. We both know better than to talk to Grizzly about Brat. Even if I still want to be with her, and even if I can’t get the thought of her out of my head. Or her kid . . . Her kid could be mine; her kid could be one of those fuck’s from the bar last night. Not knowing is the worst part about it all.
Grizzly faces me. “Get up to the warehouse. Start working. We’ll check back in a week. If things are better, we’ll talk more.”
I do exactly that. Leave the office and walk across the sun-dappled parking lot to my bike, and ride out to the mountains.
For the next week, I wake up at six in the morning and get to the warehouses before any of the workers to make sure everything was left in a decent way the night before. I read about efficiency and streamlining and workflow and all that shit in Seattle, on some cold depressing night. I read about it all not knowing if it would ever come in useful. But now, I am glad I spent the time hunched over that book by candlelight. On the first day when I get there, the place is an absolute mess. I come to understand that the guys out here have been allowed to run wild, seeing this as an easy post, a job they can relax on. On the first day, many of them bring board games and cards and portable DVD players and laptops. I warn them not to do it again, and on the second day I smash anything they bring. These are tough men, mostly immigrants and convicts, men who couldn’t find work elsewhere, so a couple of ’em get brave and fight me. After I’ve beaten four of ’em bloody, the place begins to hum along.
By the time the week is through, I have the warehouses organized and running smoothly. There’s a kid in the club, recently patched, called Spike who I take along with me. He’s bald-headed, stocky, and mean-looking with face tattoos of spikes under his eyes like malformed teardrops. But as far as I can tell, he’s the only bastard in the club who is willing to listen and learn. The rest don’t bother me—the fight at the bar has shown them what I’m made of—but they won’t work with me, either. But Spike will, ’cause once upon a time Spike was Michael Smithson, business student, before his little sister and his mom were killed in a car crash and he joined the club; still has a love of business in him, leftover from his old life.
When I have to leave the warehouses for whatever reason, I leave Spike behind. When I return, if anything they’re even more efficient.
It was Sunday when I first walked into Grizzly’s office, expecting punishment. Now it is Sunday again and Spike and I walk across the moonlit parking lot toward the club. “What do you reckon the increase is?” I ask, as we take a seat in the bar. We sit away from the other men, who play pool and drink. But I notice something as I walk across the bar. A few of the men—old-timers from my dad’s time, Jones and Hicks and Fist and Kane—nod to me with respect. A few of the youngsters nod, too, though I can’t tell if that’s fear or respect. Either is good, though; either will strengthen my bid for VP, when I finally make it. “A large increase, or a small—or what?”
“Minimal,” Spike says. “But noticeable. A few hundred a month. You can’t make real money by organizing a warehouse more efficiently, but you can make some.”
“Enough to prove a point,” I mutter.
We drink for a while, listening to the rock music on the jukebox, the breaking of pool balls and the clatter of glasses and ice, and then I stand up and go to the toilet. Maybe it’s a strange time, when I’m standing over a urinal with my cock in my hand, to be thinking of Brat. But the truth is I’ve been so damn busy this past week I haven’t had a chance to see her, and I want to, badly. I dream of her every night: that is, every night I’m not being terrorized with memories of Seattle. I dream of her tight ass, her tight pussy, her bouncy breasts, her perfect fuckin’ face, all screwed up in pleasure like it was that perfect night. And then I think about how close we once were, and her daughter . . . her daughter. There’s so much to juggle when you’re trying to climb. So much more than a courier has to deal with, the open road and the wind and the ride.
When I’m done, I turn around, and come face to face with Clint and two of his lackeys. Both of them are wearing balaclavas, so I can’t see their faces, only their eyes. But it doesn’t matter who they are; they could be anyone. Clint, though pissy and salesman-like, is tough in his core. Growing up, I saw him do all kinds of violent shit, once wrenching a sink from the wall and smashing it over some poor fucker’s head. So I know that he won’t hesitate setting these men on me . . . but here, in the clubhouse bathroom, with dozens of men in the bar next door?
“You have something you want to say.” I move around him casually, wash my hands in the sink calmly, move as though there are not three blood-hungry men watching me closely. I dry my hands, and then look Clint in the eye. All the time they’ve just been watching me. “Say it, then.”
Clint swallows. I can tell I’ve taken some of the sting out of his performance. But he pushes on. “You need to listen,” he says, “and listen closely. Do you really think I’m so stupid that I don’t know what you’re trying to do? Is that it?” The masked men behind him snigger. Images of the Masked Man enter my mind: machetes and whips and smoking flesh and blood. I push them far down, where they belong. Clint goes on: “You think you’d make a good fuckin’ VP ’cause your daddy did?” he snarls, his foppish speech gone in his anger. “That’s not how it works—”
“Realistically,” I interject, “you’re not going to set those dogs on me here, now. So you came in here thinking I might be scared. I’m not scared. What’s the next move? Rant about how you’ll never let me have your job until somebody interrupts us?” I shrug, and then laugh. “Go on, then. Make your speech.”
Clint opens his mouth to shout and then clenches his teeth. “This isn’t over, you little fuckin’ shit.”
He turns and leaves, his lackeys following him.
A couple of minutes later, Spike and I are back in the bar, Clint across the room surrounded by his men. Any one of them could have been the masked men, I reflect; I am surrounded by friends and enemies both. When I happen to catch Clint’s eye, he winks at me.
“How easy do you think it is to crush an eyeball?” I ask.
Spike laughs grimly. “Damn easy, I reckon.”