Chapter 4

Hammerstein

Present day

 

“I'm sorry, Brett. I asked you—begged you—to keep a low profile.” I hike the satin pantleg of my lounge pants in an effort to make crossing my legs easier then puff on my pipe, not especially enjoying the cool breeze that's stubborn enough to remain in June.

My eyes caress the undulating waves lapping at my concrete bulkhead on Lake Tapps. The lake is full this time of year, due to the post-Memorial Day status, but unseasonably cool weather reigns supreme, and not a water toy can be heard anywhere on the lake. In autumn and winter, the lake is a graveyard of torn stumps that rise from the remnant puddles like worn-out sentinels.

The Pacific Northwest sun has decided that early June will be cold. And what rays do break through the usual cloud cover are weak and uncommitted.

Brett is wearing a leather vest full of colorful patches.

I peer at the latest one and realize he's now “patched in” to the gang—a motorcycle gang.

His luminescent green eyes are clear, resolute. Brett Rife has done a lot of growing up since his trial on the eve of his eighteenth birthday. He's a man now, though he looked like one the day I met him.

Except for the eyes. His eyes betrayed him.

In my line of work as lawyer, and later as a judge, I saw a thousand wounded children's eyes before his, and Brett’s were no different.

More severe and more tortured—but no different. When his worthless prostitute mother came to me, I almost didn't take his case.

But her eyes held love, and my weak heart held hope.

Bad combination.

Brett Rife needed a champion. What he really needed was a father, but I couldn’t be one. Never having children is easily the biggest regret of my life.

Now I'm sixty-five and spent. Career behind me. Arthritis clawing at my joints like a rabid animal.

However, if I can save one child—this child—then my life will have been worth something. Something greater than me.

I sigh.

Brett's got himself into a scrape. A large one.

“You put two men in the hospital, Brett,” I restate the facts.

“They were hurting a la—girl,” he corrects self-consciously. Many of Brett's behaviors stem from his chronic childhood abuse. He's afraid to speak because he fears looking “dumb.” He was told he was stupid by the first man who occupied his home when he was very young and all the others who followed.

Brett Rife is not dumb. He's been brainwashed and tortured. He's come a long way, and our monthly, sometimes bi-monthly, visits have helped.

My wife, Eleanor, likes to make him home-cooked meals whenever she knows Brett's coming for a visit.

She warmed up to him slowly, until she got a good look into those eyes.

They melted her. Like they did me.

Like hot wax, we loved Brett Rife. The kid we never had. We love him now.

“Judge?” Brett asks, breaking into my thought stream. I manage a slight smile in response.

“You were saying that I”—his Adam's apple plows up and down—“hurt those guys.”

“I'm certain they deserved it,” I offer. Brett's sense of justice points due north.

He nods.

“That was eighteen months ago.” Brett's hands spread, and he shrugs.

“They're making trouble, talking about how you took them by surprise. That the girl was willing.”

His brows drop over intense green eyes, his most arresting feature. “They made her, Judge—forced her—holding her.”

Brett crosses his arms, glaring at the gray waves that whip against the concrete bulkhead. As he stares angrily at the water, the waves beat the concrete as though sharing in his rage of those memories.

“Son?” I lightly tap his knee, and Brett reluctantly turns to look at me. “I believe you. But the girl can't be located to bear witness, and now you're part of this motorcycle gang.”

“They're not a gang. We're like a brotherhood. We defend each other, watch out for each other.”

So much is left unsaid.

Killing.

Crime.

An assortment of nefarious deeds, while done with others, are still prosecutable.

I scrub my face, noticing the day-old stubble. I'm such a lazy old coot now. Shaving every other day.

I chuckle, and Brett frowns.

“Forgive me, just thinking of how I've let my hygiene habits slide.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and the whisper of pain reminds me that the temptation to become a snowbird beckons. Not sure how much longer I'll accept cool Junes when I can have hot ones somewhere south.

However, I'm not through with Brett Rife. When he's on a solid path, maybe Eleanor and I can escape the damp chilly winters of the Pacific Northwest—or June—as it happens.

“I'm retired from practicing, but I can help with this mess.”

“Club's got a lawyer, Judge.” Brett leans back in the patio chair, crossing his arms.

I nod. Of that I am certain. “Yes, but does he know your history?”

Brett nods, but his eyes are troubled. “Too much, I think.”

“Hmm.”

An idea seeps into my brain, and I turn it over slowly in my mind.

Brett watches me. One of the many things I like about the boy—I mean man—is that he doesn't rush people. Brett lets them be.

Finally, I say, “In this instance, your past is your greatest strength.”

A few seconds drill between us.

“I killed Arnold Sulk. How is that okay?”

A look of perfect understanding passes between us. After a full minute of studying my house slipper, I finally say, “You still don't read?”

“You know I don't. Don't need it. Don't want it. The guys in the club don't need smart men. They just need good ones.”

I nod, still looking at the quilted pattern on my deep-scarlet house shoes.

I lift my gaze to meet Brett's.

“Sometimes, if it appears as though someone is trying to better themselves, and they go to court”—I wave a hand around—“say, in the future, like the next half-year…”

Brett goes to sullen silence, and I let the pause become a moment before continuing.

“Then those efforts toward betterment could work in your favor.”

“You're saying I have to go to Sylvan Learning center or some crap like that and be academic?” He slaps his thigh, planting his elbows on his legs, clearly frustrated by the thought. “Judge, hear me: I cannot read. And I don't speak too good, neither.”

“You've improved immensely, and you're highly capable.” I lean back, resting against the uncomfortable wicker patio seat that Eleanor likes the looks of, even though my old ass protests using it. “There's a special program—”

“No.”

In a low, commanding voice, I say his name. “Brett.”

He looks at me. His dark hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail low on his skull. It leaves his face naked. Stark. He's a hard young man, but his eyes are still wounded.

What can heal that? “Just give it a try.”

“Don't want to be in a class full of people calling me dumb. Thinking it.”

I shoo that thought away with another wave of my palm. “It’s one-on-one instruction.”

He stills, however. Brett is listening.

“It's a special needs teacher a young woman by the name of—”

“Nope.” He stands up suddenly. “Not being in a class for retards. That's the same as dumb.”

I stand too, gripping his shoulders, though his six feet five to my stooped five feet ten means I have to hike my chin to meet those eyes.

Angry eyes.

“Krista Glass does not teach retarded people. Not that it would be a bad thing if she were to. She specializes in teaching people who have learning disabilities, no more. Regular-intelligence folks or more than regular intelligence.” My eyebrow rises significantly.

I capture his gaze, and he reluctantly meets mine.

“You are not dumb.”

Brett grits his teeth.

“You have never been, nor will you ever be dumb, Brett Rife.”

He dips his head so I can't see his expression, especially the windows to his devastated soul.  His answer is a whisper. “Okay.”

I make some calls, then we sit down to Eleanor's delicious supper of roast, mashed potatoes, and peas.

Brett has extra gravy.

No one would ever know that I claimed a victory for him—or he one for himself.

 

*

Trainer

 

“You're going to learn-how-to-read school,” Storm snorts, barely containing his laughter.

I whirl, and he flinches. “Listen, fucktard, the Judge says I can't have a re-do, or I'll go to prison for sure this time.”

Wring strolls past, sees the look on my face, and blasts the heel of his hand over Storm's head.

“Fuck!” he hollers. “I hate those.”

Wring smirks. “So stop giving our boy Trainer grief, and I won't be inclined to impart brain dusters.”

“He's going to learn how to read,” Storm says with a smugness I want to wipe off his face with my fist.

Wring gives him a narrow glance. “Maybe people that wish to improve themselves are braver than those who want to make fun of them.”

I blink at Wring.

And with that, he walks away, whistling tunelessly. He whips out a switchblade and cleans his nails as he walks.

Storm's neck grows ruddy, and he turns to me. “I guess I was an asshole.”

I don't miss a beat. “Yup.”

“Didn't mean nothinʼ. I know it took you a million years to patch in and you did all kinds of stupid, gross shit.”

“Yup.”

“Fuck.” He rasps a palm over his kinky hair. “Sorry. A couple of weeks ago, we were both prospects with the shit detail. Now you're patched in. Trying to make the transition is all.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, for a quiet fucker, you sure say a lot.”

My lips curl.

Storm huffs, walking away.

A sweet butt comes up to me, showing me what she’s got. Crystal is her name. A month ago, she wouldn't give me a glance because I wasn't real. I was just a prospect.

Now I'm really fucking real. Earned this spot. Hardcore.

“Hey,” she says.

Just looking at her makes my dick stiff. She's a perfect woman, but like Noose says, she’s conniving as fuck. I don't really know what conniving means exactly, but think it means she might lie and hurt everybody to get what she wants. Hard to remember that when the acres of smooth skin and smoldering hiked tits are packed against my chest.

I swallow.

Then she says the perfect thing for me to walk away.

“The other girls say you have a huge dick. I want to be split.” She winks.

I sorta cringe back. Every sweet butt I have sex with, I love. Just for that time, in those moments. I don't hold nothinʼ back. Not one thing.

To know they talk about me like I’m just a cock, with no man attached, breaks me down some.

Feels raw.

“Not interested,” I say quietly and disentangle myself from her clinging.

“What the fuck?” she says, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Is it because I wouldn't bang you before you patched in?”

Kinda, but if she wouldn't talk and say that shit, it might've happened. Everything she says is like a small weapon of words. Why don't people understand words can cause wounds too. Like they're not plugged into life or somethinʼ. Hell, I'm a dude, and that shit bothers me.

Only from women, though. Men, I couldn’t give a fuck about.

Except Judge. He means more to me than he should. My eyes tear around the club before landing on the church door. For a year and a half, I've listened and participated in all kinds of things.

A small seed of happiness burrows into my chest like a worm, seeking its target.

The heart.

Crystal rants behind me, but I ignore her. I got church. The brothers are waiting.

The only real family I got.

 

*

 

Viper sits quietly in his chair, looking us over, like a king over his subjects.

Storm's late and comes in like a dog with his tail tucked.

Wring gives him a slanted stare, and he looks away from those incinerating-blue eyes.

I love the way the brothers take an insult to me like an insult to them personally. Even though they were hard on me, I could feel the training, the concern, and the shaping of who they wanted me to be.

Probably why my road name is Trainer.

Over and over again, they said I needed extra training. When they patched me in, they said I was all done. That I could train others now.

Trainer.

Stuck to me like glue. Like it better than Brett anyway.

“So we've got the gun running out of the way, though there's Bloods trying to reclaim their leader's territory.”

“Always,” Noose says, flicking the hard-boxtop cigarette lid over and back, over and back.

Noose would rather be outside blowing smoke rings than sitting still in church. This, I know.

Viper's pool-water eyes move to me. And I'm reminded that his eyes are the lightest blue I've ever seen. Just like mine are the lightest green I've ever seen. Kinda weird twindom.

“You're going to a school so you present well for a possible trial?”

I nod.

Storm opens his mouth, and Wring raises the switchblade from the nails he’s been cleaning restlessly. Without even looking up, he says, “Don't.”

Storm's mouth snaps shut, but Lariat and Noose give him a speculative stare.

“Shit,” he mutters, running a nervous palm over his head.

Viper ignores them all and continues to stare at me.

“Don't want to, but Judge said it'd be ʻprudent.ʼ” I almost slap my hand over my mouth. I don't know where that word came from.

Snare whistles, sending me a wink. “Love the four-dollar word, Trainer.”

I don't look at them, but I feel heat on my face. Don't know whether I'm proud or embarrassed.

I look at Viper instead. He seems safe.

“Good. Whatever he says. We won't drag our mouthpiece into this until we must. Al has plenty of Road Kill shit to manage without a little bit of trouble over a bar thing.”

“It's not a little bit,” I confess, and all eyes shift to me.

Noose doesn't look interested. That's when I figure he knows, but I gotta be sure. “You know?”

He nods.

“What the fuck is going on?” Viper says.For a moment, I feel sorry for him. He's always putting out fires, as Lariat says.

“I bashed this guy's head in with my mom's ashtray when I was seventeen.”

Silence can be loud.

Like now.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Viper says, running a palm over his face a couple of times, then he turns to Noose, palms flat on the table. “You're supposed to vet men, Noose.”

He shrugs.

Viper states, “I will not go back on a brother, but hell, this is complicated.”

Noose shrugs a second time. “Juvie thing. Mom was in danger. Trainer stepped up and waxed him.” He gives a chin flick in my direction. “Dig his innovativeness,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Don't know the word, but I’m too embarrassed to ask.

“What's that mean?” Storm asks for me.

I duck my chin, hiding the smile.

Lariat says, “Means he's a McGyver. When shit needs doing, he uses whatever's handy. Innovation.”

Viper rests his chin in his hand. “Now that dictionary time is over with?”

“If I do this class, then it looks like I've made good on being better, trying to self…”

“Improve?” Wring supplies. “What a bunch of trumped-up shit.” Then he nods slowly. “But the courts like that crap. It was smart on your Judge's part.”

My Judge. Yup.

Tears clog my throat. I've never cried in my life. Not one tear. But thinking about Judge looking out for me to the finest detail is… The gesture moves me, even when I fight being moved.

Viper's a sharp man.

He pounds the gavel—yeah, I know the name for that now too.

“Church's over.”

The guys throw their chairs back and head out. When it's just me and Viper, he squeezes my shoulder as he walks out.

Hard.

I know what the unspoken support means.

Maybe I'm not so dumb, after all.