Cutter
The day had started off like any other day for Cutter. He woke up early, exercised, made coffee for the clubhouse, and got ready for work. The air outside was crisp, with a hint of the changing season, like there were new beginnings just around the corner. Spring had come, and had brought with it warm afternoons. At least, that's how the morning felt to him as he rode his big chopper down to the business he owned and managed with the rest of the Vanguard Motorcycle Club.
He rode through the center of town, the little burg still rubbing the sleep from its eyes and the sun not even peaking over the horizon yet, and pulled his rumbling bike into the parking lot. He parked at the back in a special “Bikes Only” zone they'd painted out on the black asphalt. Most of the guys that worked there rode their motorcycles to work, too, but they still had to make sure the customers had plenty of space for their cars. That was just good business practice, as far as Cutter was concerned.
Not only was Cutter president of the Vanguard, he was also the head chef for Farm to Fable, a local diner that specialized in organic, localvore dishes. The small diner was the kind of place that had farm fresh eggs in the omelets, fair-trade coffee filling the French press, heirloom tomatoes adorning the chef salad, and prison tattoos on all the waiters and kitchen staff. All the guys that worked there were members of the MC. A lot of them were ex-cons, too. The club looked after its own, after all. If you went in, did your time, and kept your mouth shut, your old life would be waiting for you when you got back out. Your family would be supported, and so would you.
Cutter hadn't done any time. He'd managed to scrape by with no convictions, no matter how hard the district attorney tried to pin something on him. To some in law enforcement, the Vanguards were seen as public enemy number one. Lately, though, things had begun to die down as they moved into more legitimate work, like at Farm to Fable.
Cutter grabbed the carrying case for his chef knives from his saddle bag and headed up to the front door of the small diner. He fished for his keys and unlocked the front and let himself into the eating area with all its stacked tables and chairs, then headed back into the kitchen. The rest of the guys would be along closer to opening, and they'd take care of the incidentals like taking down chairs and wiping off tables. He had too much work as it was.
They were only open six days a week for breakfast and lunch, Tuesday through Sunday, but each morning's opening duties fell by default on Cutter's shoulders. He didn't mind. Far from it, actually. He'd come to savor the first hour or so, when he was all alone just chopping vegetables and getting fresh sauces and soups going. Having a bit of solitary time, away from the hustle and bustle of the thriving clubhouse, was good for him. These shifts gave him his daily moment of silence, a space where he could focus on just work without any outside interruptions or distractions.
Now, as the industrial lights flickered on overhead, Cutter was taken aback the same way he always was. The shining kitchen, just waiting to be used, with all its shining steel and chrome, reminded him of a perfectly tuned bike. Every object had a purpose, a specific use that was almost beautiful in its simplicity. He set his knife case on one of the steel counters and went to wash up. It was time to get to work and get everything prepped.
Unfortunately, that was when the phone decided to ring.
The contraption was an ancient rotary phone that one of the guys had updated to produce dial tones for the modern era, but had decided to leave behind the old-fashioned ringer. The telephone was clamoring to be answered, the little metal bell going crazy like a lunatic on the night of a full moon.
Cutter sighed. “For fuck's sake,” he muttered, the words feeling foreign in his mouth after a silent morning. “Really? This early?”
He checked his watch. Just past four-thirty. Whoever was calling, they probably had an excuse for why they weren't coming in. Something about this was strange, though. Most of the time, they'd have just called his cell. He grabbed the phone down off the hook and pressed the receiver to his ear. “Farm to Fable, Cutter speaking. How can I help you?”
“This call will be recorded and monitored,” said the recording of a woman's voice on the other end of the line. Cutter instantly knew why they weren't calling on his personal phone. You couldn't get collect calls to go through on a personal cell phone. Especially not from a jail.
The man's voice continued for the next part in the same digital monotone as before, till it got to his buddy's name. “You have a collect call from ... Jersey Rowland.”
He knew that recording. He'd received calls just like this one more times than he could count. “Aw shit, Jersey,” Cutter said as he leaned his head forward and rested it against the wall of the kitchen. This wasn't good.
Jersey was a hell of a bad ass. He could slam down a bottle of Jack by himself, then throw bull's eyes with a bowie knife right after. He rode his bike like a madman, screwed whatever woman wasn't nailed down to a brother, and could fight with the best of them. That was his credo: ‘Fight first. Fuck later.’
He also happened to be the best line cook Cutter had on staff at Farm to Fable Fresh. And his shift started in less than thirty minutes. Cutter needed him, and needed him bad.
The recording continued on in the woman's inhuman voice. “... an inmate at ...”
Cutter took a deep breath, wondering what kind of shit Jersey had gotten himself into this time. He was one of the good ones. Rather, he was one of the better ones, Cutter smirked. None of them were good, but some of them were better at not getting busted. Over the years, they'd gotten even better at it, too.
He took another deep breath, waited for the next line.
“Will you accept the charges?”
“Yes,” Cutter replied, trying hard to contain his annoyance.
“Cutter?” Jersey's voice came on the line, his voice haggard and bedraggled. “That you, brother?”
“Yeah, it's me, Jersey,” Cutter replied and sighed. “You holding up alright?”
“You know it, brother. Just calling to let you know my arraignment ain't for a couple days, and I clearly ain't going to be in to work this morning.”
Cutter let the silence hang for a minute, waited for Jersey to fill the gap in himself.
“Sorry for having to call out,” Jersey mumbled. To his credit, he did sound genuinely sorry for the inconvenience. Not that it mattered much, but it was the thought that count.
“We'll hold the line,” Cutter said. He had to bite back the questions he had. What had he done? Was the deed something that concerned the MC? Instead, he continued on like this was no big deal, and his line cook called in incarcerated every couple weeks or so. “I'll send one of the guys round and we'll get bail posted soon as we can.”
“Thanks, man,” Jersey replied. Both men knew not to discuss the crime over the phone. Whatever the cops had arrested him on may have been bullshit charges, or he may have been guilty as sin. But, you didn't have talks like that over a line you knew was being monitored. Hell, you didn't have conversations like that over the phone. Period. That was the first rule of business.
“Stay strong, brother,” Cutter said and hung up first.
Months had passed since one of the guys had gotten picked up on a charge. They’d beaten the courts, on that case. Mainly because the victim in the assault case dropped their charges after a little talk with Cutter. But, that was beside the point, right now. First thing, they had to get the restaurant open for business. Secondly, they had to get Jersey out from behind bars. None of his crew deserved to spend any more than the absolute minimum in jail, no matter how badly they'd screwed him on shifts at the restaurant.
Cutter pulled his phone out and started to make his calls. He hoped his second in command, Smalls, had his phone turned up loud enough to hear through his drunken stupor. Otherwise it was going to be a long day. A long, shitty day.
As he listened to Smalls's phone ring on the other end of the line, his gaze swept the room and landed on the bulletin board next to the big metal walk-in refrigerator where they stored all their prepped food. He'd pinned a wedding invitation to the cork board a few months back. An old flame of his from way back in high school, Liona Copeland, was getting married to Wyland West, Cutter's former best friend. Why she'd sent one of the elaborate cards to him, even after all these years, Cutter had no idea. But, now, after one look at that invitation, all those old feelings, those yearnings came back to him.
He realized that the wedding was supposed to be today. Today of all days. He turned his gaze away and focused on the wall. Smalls's phone just kept ringing. Shit.
Cutter sighed. Even if he did get a hold of his second in command, this was already shaping up to be a brutal day.