Joey

He took a bite of his enchilada, swallowed it, and then lowered his fork. His lips parted slightly and I hoped he’d say something. While I sat, suspended in wait, his eyes fell to his plate. Our discussions had been sparse throughout dinner. I could tell something was troubling him, but I got the same response every time I asked.

He’d gone to see his mother in the morning, and although he’d planned on giving a bid on a baseball card later, he never made it back in time to do so.

He poked his fork at his food and then looked up. “What are your thoughts on cops?”

“In general?”

“Sure.”

I considered my response. I had very little respect for police. Most of my contempt came from my mother, who I suspected obtained it from my father.

“I think they’re creepy, especially if they have mustaches.”

He chuckled and then set his fork aside. “Do you trust them?”

“No.”

“Do you hate them?”

“I try not to hate anyone. I hate what they do, sometimes.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Like what?”

“Lying. Doing x, and then claiming they did y. They get by with it nine out of ten times, and it makes me sick. Then, someone comes out with a video and says, ‘hey wait, you actually did this’.”

“So, you think they can’t be trusted?”

“I’d say that’s accurate, why?”

“Just making conversation.”

I was glad we were talking about something, even if it was cops. I offered a cheery smile. “Okay.”

“What about feds?”

“What do you mean?”

“FBI, ATF, DEA. Those guys.”

I’d heard far too many stories about the ATF and their lies from my mother. She told me of their infiltration into what they described as OMGs, or Outlaw Motorcycle Groups. They arrested, killed, and set up more club members than any other government faction.

“If the ATF said the sky was blue, I wouldn’t believe them,” I said.

His eyes slowly widened. “Why?”

“They’ve proven over and over that they’re willing to lie. They murdered hundreds in Waco, Texas when all they had to do was back off and wait. I’ve heard far too many stories. I just don’t trust them, sorry.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“Your answers.”

“Why’s that?”

He pushed his plate to the side. “Club business is club business. I won’t discuss club business.”

“I wouldn’t ever expect you to.”

He crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, and let out a long breath. “I’ve got some business of my own, though.”

“Okay.”

“I need some advice,” he said. “And I don’t have anyone to get it from but you and Smoke. I know Smoke’s opinion, and I’m thinking I might want yours.”

“Well, when you’re ready, let me know. I’ll give it.”

I acted interested in my enchiladas, even though I wasn’t. I’d lost my appetite, but didn’t really want to get up from the table. I wanted him to continue with our discussion, but doubted he would.

“I’ve got a guy in a box up by mom’s place.”

I looked up. “Excuse me?”

“One of the big metal things that they keep construction materials in.”

I blinked a few times. “You’ve got a guy in one?”

“Yep. Remember when I told you that I do bad things but--”

“But you have great intentions?” I said.

He nodded. “This is one of those times.”

I took a drink of water and then shook my head. “I just want to make sure I heard you right. You have a guy in a metal box up by your mother’s house? Did I hear you right?”

“Yep. Between Fallbrook and Highway 15.”

“Okay. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess this guy’s a cop.”

He pulled a dollar bill from his pocket, folded it, and began to pick his teeth. “Yep.”

“A fed?”

“Yep.”

“Is he alive?”

He nodded. “For now.”

“Why?”

He stopped picking his teeth. “Why what?”

“Why’s he alive?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you have him in a metal container, and he’s alive, there’s a reason for it. You would have killed him yesterday or the day before or whatever. But, if you’ve kept him alive for a few days, there’s a reason.”

“Few months.”

“Wait. What? A few months?”

“Yep.”

“You’ve had this guy in a metal box in the desert for a few months?”

“That’s what Smokey said. I give the fucker food and water. I’m not a damned fool.”

“I know you’re not. But having a federal agent in a metal box for a few months, regardless of where you’re keeping him, isn’t a great idea. It’s a tremendous risk. It’s quiet out there at night. There’s the noise, the smell, you’ve got to be coming and going, what, daily?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“And, you’re not worried about getting caught?”

“Not really.”

I knew being with a 1%er would eventually expose me to some craziness, but I had no idea a federal agent in a box in the desert would be the first thing I would be forced to deal with. Nonetheless, I was committed to the cause.

“Okay.” I shook my head. “So, what’s your question?”

“What should I do with him?”

It wasn’t an easy question to answer. I picked at my cold food for a moment and thought of what our options might be. I had no idea what brought about the series of events that led up to him being in the box. Knowing that would be crucial to developing an accurate response.

“What event or events brought him to you?”

“Club business, can’t say.”

“But you having him isn’t club business?”

“Club don’t know about it.”

“They have no idea?”

“None.”

“Not even Crip?”

“Nobody. Just Smoke, but that was off the record. He knows as a friend, not as a brother. Brother half of him is dumb to the fact.”

“Okay. So, the federal agent did something to the club or one of its members. In an effort to protect your brothers, you kidnapped him, and kept it to yourself. Probably because you didn’t want to ask permission – or you didn’t want to be denied permission. Now, you’ve got him in a box in the desert. Oh, and you can’t decide what to do with him. Is that close?”

“You’re pretty damned good, except for the desert part. He’s by the desert, not in it.”

I grinned. It wasn’t planned, and I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. I was in love with a modern-day version of my father. Percy was doing whatever he must to protect his brethren, and he wanted no recognition for doing so.

“We have two options. Kill him, or let him go. That’s it.”

“Kind of what I figured. I can’t keep him forever.”

“Yeah. He’s not a kitten.”

“Smoke said the same thing. Except he said puppy.”

“Does Smokey want to kill him?”

He seemed to consider my question for a while before responding. He shoved the dollar bill into his pocket and met my gaze. “Yep.”

“And, you don’t.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to. If you agreed with Smokey, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I want to talk to him.”

His nose wrinkled. “Smokey?”

“No. The guy in the box.”

“No can do.”

“Why?”

“You’d be an accomplice or whatever.”

I rolled my eyes. “I already am.”

His eyes fell to the table. Slowly, his eyebrows raised. “Good point.”

“So, can I talk to him?”

“What good’s that going to do?”

“Do you trust me?” I asked.

“Sure as fuck do.”

“Then I need to talk to him before I give an answer.”

“Let’s get this shit washed, then. If we haul ass, we can get there before dark.”

Talking to an ATF agent who was being held captive and was undoubtedly angry, dehydrated, and close to death wasn’t how I planned on spending my evening.

Being the Ol’ Lady of a 1%er was going to be interesting, that was for sure.