Cutter
The cops came for Big Jack in the middle of the lunch rush. And they didn't bother with being polite about the arrest, either. If anything, they went out of their way to cause a scene for all the diners in attendance.
“Can we at least do this outside?” Big Jack asked, his voice as controlled as he could possibly get it. “We've got paying customers in here, officer.” He was next to one of his tables, pitcher of iced tea in hand. Their drinks just sat there, full of ice, and empty of refreshment. It was almost sad, really.
Smalls had run in back and grabbed Cutter from the kitchen. Now, he stood at the lunch counter in his dirty white chef coat, drying his hands with one of the towels, keeping an eye on everything. First Jersey, now this. He couldn't think of anything else that could go wrong today.
Big Jack hadn't come by that nickname by chance. At six-six and weighing in at two-sixty, a name like that was kind of a given. He loomed over the cop, his massive build making the matchup with the averagely built officer look almost comical. If things got out of hand, it wasn't going to end well for the boy in blue.
Jack had done his time in the big house, doing a stretch on possession with intent to distribute. He had been head of that little side venture for the Vanguard for years, and had done a good job. Like all the others, he'd kept his mouth shut and his head down. When he came back, they'd had a position open for him at Farm to Fable. Part of the deal when he came back to the MC, though, was that he kept his nose clean. No former associates outside the crew, and no involvement in the shadier affairs of the business.
“You talking back to me, boy?” the officer asked, bowing up to the much larger biker. He had three other patrolmen backing him, their radios squawking and beeping the whole time. “I said I was placing you under arrest.”
“No, I ain't talking back,” Big Jack replied, clearly exasperated. He looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. “I'm just asking you if we can take this outside.”
Cutter knew that was his cue to step in. “Jack,” he said, coming out from behind the counter. “I'll take your table. Just go ahead with them, okay?”
“Cutter,” Jack boomed, his voice starting to rise, “I just want to know what's going on. I didn't do nothing wrong, man.”
The officer checked out Cutter, sizing him up. Cutter recognized that look. The officer knew who he was, knew his position in the MC. He could practically see the calculations going on behind their eyes.
“We'll figure it out after the officers do what they need to do,” Cutter said, ignoring the patrolman and reaching out to take the pitcher of tea from Big Jack. “Alright? You ain't gonna win an argument with a cop.”
Cutter could feel the tensions running high. It was like working in a steaming kitchen with all the burners going, and the over door gaping open. And, with tensions this high, all it would take was a single spark. Jack finally sighed, resigned to his fate. Hands now free, he put his wrists behind his back and turned around to offer his hands to the officer.
“James Chandler, I'm placing you under arrest for violation of the conditions of your parole,” the officer began as he snapped the cuffs down over Big Jack's wrists. He continued on in a monotonous drone, one that he'd clearly honed over years and years on the job performing similar arrests. This was old hat to him, just like it was old hat for Cutter to dice onions.
Just like with Jersey, they all knew this game. They all knew to keep their mouths shut, especially when the cops were trying to pin something on them. Cutter just narrowed his eyes as he watched the proceedings. Just like Jersey, too, this hadn't come at the most opportune of times. They were trying to go legit, trying to get out from under all this pressure from the cops. And now, twice in twenty-four hours, the boys in blue had come down on them.
They began to frog-march Big Jack out through the front doors. “Don't get too comfortable, boys,” said one of the cops back over his shoulder, his tone light and humorous. “New assistant DA says he's got y'all's number.”
“New DA, huh?” Cutter said to his back. “What's this new guy's name?”
“Wyland West,” the cop said. Just before he let the door slam shut behind him, he turned back and looked Cutter straight in the eyes. “Y'all folks have a nice day now, ya hear?”
Wyland West. He felt his blood go cold. The same man who'd ruined things with him and Liona. Cutter's former best friend. Cutter's hands clenched into fists, and his jaw clenched tight. What kind of sick joke was this? Did he want to take everything from him now?
He watched through the big glass windows as the cops ducked Big Jack into the back of one of their squad cars. Soon, the disturbance was nearly forgotten, and the restaurant returned to its normal hustle and bustle. Minus one six-foot-six waiter, of course. The patrons barely even batted an eye. This was a restaurant run by a bunch of rough-and-tumble biker types, after all.
As soon as the cops were gone, Cutter disappeared in back. Smalls, his shaggy overweight second in command, followed after him. He looked in even more disarray than normal, his frizzy beard sticking out like every which way. He'd picked up the nickname years before, when he was about seventy-five pounds lighter. Like all nominal names, though, this one had stuck over time, and changing physical attributes. Sometimes, there were things that never changed, no matter how much they actually did.
“Dude,” Smalls said as the swinging doors shut behind them, “what the fuck? First Jersey, now Big Jack? And what's with this West guy?”
“I know him,” Cutter said as he began to strip out of his chef coat. “He's an asshole, and apparently our new assistant DA.”
“You know this guy?” Smalls asked, shock in his voice. He was clearly confused by the whole thing.
“Yeah, I know the asshole,” Cutter said as he tossed his coat aside and grabbed the wedding invitation down from the bulletin board. “We went to school together. Guess you could say we got history. Need you to get on the phone with Big Jack's lawyer, and let 'em know what's going on, alright? If it's a parole violation, and it's for real, that means they're going to really try and turn the screws on him.”
Cutter went over and grabbed his leather jacket down from the peg where he'd hung it that morning. He pulled it on and headed for the door.
“Wait,” Smalls said as he looked around the kitchen with a stunned expression. “Where the fuck you going, dude? You taking off or something? It's the fucking lunch rush, man. On a fucking Saturday!”
Cutter stopped in his tracks. “Got to, Smalls,” Cutter said as he pushed through the double doors leading back out onto the floor. “There's a wedding I need to attend, and an asshole DA I gotta see.”