Fink
I sit at The Mermaid, drinking whisky, watching the room idly. Mostly I just think about what I’ll say to Nancy when I see her. How will I even start to apologize? Maybe she doesn’t know why I walked out on her, but I’ve been thinking on that and I’m not sure how cold I was when I stowed the test. Maybe I made it obvious. I can’t remember. My world was shattering in half and I had no damn clue what to do.
I’m five drinks deep when I start to picture that man, sitting on the toilet seat and then storming out. He looks like a bastard, I decide. He looks no different to how I picture Dad. I drink up and go to take a piss, closing my eyes and thinking of Nancy, thinking of being with her in her apartment instead of here, standing in a reeking toilet with nothing but whisky to warm me up.
I return to the bar to find Snake and the Old Man, as well as about ten other club men, sitting around my booth. Snake nods to me, and then nods to the bottle of whisky. “I fuckin’ told them,” he says, grinning. “As soon as we walked in and I saw that whisky, I knew it. I just knew that it’d be you. I said to them: who’d be drinking a whole bottle of whisky on his own?”
I grin as best as I can, though I’d prefer if I was left on my own. It’s been a whole damn day since I learned where Nancy is, a whole damn day of doing jack shit except for thinking about what I’ll say to her when I see her. I guess it’s been a day and a half now, I reflect as I sit down. The sun must’ve set if these hounds are here and not at the clubhouse.
“You haven’t been by the club,” the Old Man says. “Is something wrong?”
“Is something wrong?” I shrug. “What’d be wrong, except that lately I’m starting to wonder if this is the life for me, or if I didn’t just fall into it because it was easier than staying in high school or dealing with my mother’s death? Maybe that’s what’s wrong, Joseph.”
“You don’t mean that,” Snake says. “Do you?”
“I reckon I do. I reckon I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it. I’m tired of living a life I’m not even sure of. I’m tired of living a life when I don’t know if I’ll be able to look at myself in the mirror in ten years. Hell, if I’ll even be alive to look in the mirror in ten years.”
The men around me lean in, listening.
“Are you sure?” the Old Man says. “You need to think about what you’re saying. Once we unpatch you, Fink, there’s no coming back. You’ve earned the courtesy of not being shot in the back of the head, but that’s all. You can’t say a thing like this and then change your mind later. Are you just blowing off steam here, or is this real?”
“I think it might be real,” I say. “I entered this life when I was a boy. I was a fuckin’ kid full of rage and fight and spit, and I’ll always be grateful for you folks for letting me in. But I don’t know if it’s the place for me anymore. In fact, I’m almost sure it’s not.”
“Well, shit,” Snake says.
“Shit is right,” the boss mutters. “This puts us in a bad spot, Fink. We don’t normally let patched members just up and leave. That’s why we patch ’em, you see.”
“Then kill me.” I look around at the men. “Kill me or let me go. Those are your choices.”
“Kill you.” Snake laughs. “We’re not going to kill you.”
“The Old Man’s right,” the boss says. “You’ve earned the right to leave if you wanna leave, but you can’t stay live in Salem no more, and you can’t come to the clubhouse or our bars, and we’re not responsible for anything that happens to you. Those are the terms. You can take them, if you want.”
I’m going to say yes when he swaggers in, Michaels with the scar down his face, with five, six, seven . . . thirteen men swagger in behind him, all of them dressed in civilian clothes but walking with the gait of cops, that walk that proclaims to the world that they’re too big and bad to have to give a shit about little insects like us. Michaels swaggers right up to the boss and smiles.
“How you doin’, Markus? Having a good time.”
“We’re fine, officer,” the boss says, barely keeping the anger from his voice. “There’s plenty of room here for everyone. How about some drinks on the house?”
“You think we’re here for drinks?” Michaels walks past the boss and stops at my table, looking down at me with his thumbs hooked through his waistband. “Howdy, Fink. How’s your evening going?”
“It was going fine until twenty seconds ago.”
A few men snigger.
“Oh, that’s funny.” Michaels smiles and raises his eyebrows, causing his scar to shrivel up. “What a funny fuckin’ man you are, Fink. I wonder how funny you’ll be with lead in your belly.”
“Now wait a second.” Snake sits up. “I won’t listen to this—”
“Stop,” I tell Snake, waving a hand at him. “I’m not a Son of a Wolf anymore, remember? I’ve given up my right to protection. You don’t need to speak on my account.” I stand up, watching Michaels the whole time. “You must have bloody work on your mind to bring so many men, pig. But let me tell you somethin’. If word gets out—and word will get out—that you admitted you were too scared to fight me, it’ll make you look pretty damn cowardly.”
“Too scared?” Michaels makes a guffawing sound. “What do you mean, too scared? Me, scared of you? Do I look scared?”
“So you’re not scared to fight me?” I ask.
“No!” he roars.
I step back and spread my arms. “Then let’s have it, me and you. My friends won’t get involved and your friends won’t get involved.” I lean forward, grinning. “You did say you weren’t scared, pig.”
Michaels tries to laugh it off, glancing around at his cronies to see if they’ll laugh with him. But none of them do. They all look at him expectantly, waiting for him to prove just how much of a big bad wolf he really is. I take a step forward, getting closer to him than he’ll like, getting so close he’ll look like a complete pussy if he steps away.
“You sure you wanna do this?” he growls.
“I want everyone in here to know that this was a fair fight!” I shout. “We both agreed to this, as men! If anyone in here decides to turn rat, remember that everyone saw this man,” and I point directly at Michaels face, “make his own choice.” I raise my fists and dance back a couple of steps. “So what’ll be, Scarface?”
“You’re a real clever bastard,” Michaels whispers, just loud enough for me to hear over the music and the murmuring. “A real fuckin’ genius, aren’t you? I’ve gotta say, kid, I’m impressed. You haven’t left me with much choice here.”
“One black eye’ll be for calling me kid. The other’ll be for being an asshole. Come on.”
Michaels rushes me, flailing wildly. Men like Michaels have never had to fight, not properly, not without the safe knowledge that their goons are backing him up. He’s never had to wonder what it’d be like for somebody to hit back. I dodge away from his clumsy swing and knock him across the jaw, a firm hook that sends him stumbling backwards. He grunts and springs at me, moving quicker than I guessed. He hits me twice in the belly. I cough, and then slide away from an overhead that would’ve floored me.
“Get over here!” Michaels snarls, already puffing.
I dodge him for a couple of minutes, tiring him out, and then slide under a hook and jab him under the armpit, in the throat, and finally twice in the face. He coughs and falls into the wall, blood dripping from his mouth. I hit him a couple more times and then jump back.
“You can surrender any damn time you like,” I tell him. “Just tell your friends here to back off, and promise to do the same yourself.”
“You’re bat-shit,” Michaels says, but much of the fierceness has left him. He looks too much like a lost middle-aged man, blood coloring his mouth like lipstick. “I don’t quit! I’m the fuckin’ law!”
“So you want to keep fighting?”
“I’m the fuckin’ law!” Michaels screams, his voice breaking. His men take a collective step back. I see the moment they decide that this man is no longer their leader. He’s humiliated himself, and the only way to salvage that is to beat me. He sees it too. He stands up straight and spits blood. “Come on.”
“All right. If you insist.”
He throws himself at me, flailing randomly and flying at me as though he has little control over what his limbs do. He tries to hit me twice. I dance side to side, dodging both punches easily, and then jab him a few times in the nose. I don’t hit him too hard, but enough to make blood crust his upper lip. I head-butt him, punch him in the chest, and then throw him to the ground.
“This is over, Scarface,” I growl. “Tell me this is over. You’re done. You’ve shown your men what sort of man you really are. This is done. There’s no coming back from this.”
“Oh, yeah?” Michaels tWolves and a tiny handgun slides out of his sleeve into his hand. He points it up at me.
All at once, every man in the room pulls out his gun and aims it at somebody else, the cops and the bikers facing off against each other as Michaels climbs to his feet. He steps forward and presses the handgun against my forehead.
“You really think you’re a big man?”
I feel the cold metal, but I don’t let it scare me. I could die now, and that’s a shame, but I’ve almost died dozens of other times in my life.
“If you shoot me,” I say, “your men will really know what you are. We agreed on a fair fight. Every man here heard us agree on a fair fight.”
“You didn’t fight fair,” Michaels says, sounding like a petulant child. “You cheated!”
“Uh, Ralf.” One of Michaels’—Ralf’s—men leans forward. “I think we ought to get going. We’re not doing any good here.”
“I’m ending this,” Michaels says. “He’s humiliated us long enough.”
Michaels stroke the trigger. That’s when I see her, hair tied in a no-bullshit ponytail, wearing shirts and jeans and looking tough and capable, even with her soft, large eyes. I wonder if Michaels has already pulled the trigger and I’m seeing what I want to see most before death takes me. But then other people react to her, too, police officers stepping aside, a few men lowering their guns as though the presence of a woman reminds them that they are men, not animals.
Nancy stops beside me and Michaels, standing next to the gun. She just stands there for a moment, the bravest woman I’ve ever seen, and then raises her hands. “Is this what’s best for Salem?” she calls across the room, her voice carrying above the pumping music. “Is this what’s best for the police, or the biker club, or any one of you men? Is this what’s best for your wives and children and girlfriends and dreams? Is this what’s best for your pensions, your retirement plans, for anything? Or have you all been led astray by this one man?” She points at Michaels. “He promised to make you feel big, to make you feel tough, and why wouldn’t you take that offer? The police don’t get any true respect these days, not like the heyday. Am I right? The heyday when my father was the sheriff. But is this that heyday, gentleman? Is pointing a gun at a man you haven’t even arrested police work?”
Slowly, the men on both sides lower their guns, Nancy’s words hitting them in the spot few men can ignore: their pride.
Only Michaels and Snake don’t lower their guns: Michaels on me, and Snake on him, just in case he needs to avenge me.
Nancy looks at Snake. “Lower your gun,” she says.
“Do as she says,” I say.
Snake grumbles but lowers his gun.
Nancy steps close to Michaels, talking into his ear. “I want you to hear me,” she says. “What you’re about to do will bring nothing but pain and misery. It won’t make you feel tough, or cool, or anything like that. You’ll feel like shit because you shot a man at point-blank range with no reason for it other than you wanted to feel powerful. Look around you, Michaels. Your friends aren’t supporting you anymore. If you pull the trigger now, you’ll be nothing but a bitter man killing for the sake of killing. There’s nothing big or important about it anymore. That’s over. So make your choice.”
She steps back, waiting. She looks calm except for her fingers, which tWolf as though typing on an invisible keyboard.
“You heard her,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Kill me, or lower your gun.”
Michaels curses and then lowers his gun, shaking his head and stepping back. “This is over,” he says, addressing the boss now. “This feud is done. I want nothing to do with it, do you understand me? It’s done!”
Nancy paces up to Michaels and slaps him across the face so hard he drops the handgun. “Don’t you ever point a gun at my man again!” she snaps. “Consider this your final warning! Now get out of my sight!”
It’s pretty strange, watching as Michaels—twice Nancy’s size—slinks away under Nancy’s gaze as though she’s some tyrannical mother. She stands like a cowboy as she watches them go, hands at her sides, ready to slap again if any of them return. They all slink out of the bar and then it’s just the Sons of Wolves and Nancy.
“We ought to kill those—”
The Old Man interrupts Snake, “No, it’s done. The bastard was right. It’s over.”
Nancy turns around. I wonder if I’m dreaming all this, wondering if she’s really here. I keep expecting to jolt awake at the booth, whisky bottle in my hand. I know she’s real when she approaches me, though. Her perfume smells of roses.