Bobbi

I opened the door and stepped out of the car. The building’s open garage door gave full view to the sea of motorcycles that were neatly parked inside.

I knew why, too. Crip made them park inside so no one would know who was there, and who wasn’t. If you wanted to know, you needed to pull in and see for yourself. If you did, you’d have to face the wrath of him and his sidekick, Bones.

The dozen or so men that were gathered in the building didn’t capture my complete attention. It was the five men that stood in the afternoon sun, leaning against the outside of the building. Wearing jeans, boots, and their kuttes, they resembled one another in dress, but were different in their appearance and age.

I told myself not to stare, but it was more difficult than one might think. I didn’t have to be told their names, I felt like we were already acquainted. I’d been through hell and back with those five men.

We were twenty feet from them, but Tate’s descriptions of the men were spot on. In the center, with salt and pepper hair, and a few day’s growth of beard, stood Crip, the president.

To the right of Crip, the 6’-8” Sergeant-at-Arms and resident teddy bear, Bones, stood with a smirk on his face.

Beside Bones, Nut Bucket paced back and forth, nervously smoking a cigarette like it was his last. His eyes met mine for an instant, and then he looked away.

To Crip’s left, the former boxer of Hispanic-Irish heritage, Chico, reached for his ball cap. He gave a slight nod and tugged against the bill. Upon seeing it, I almost cried. He did it in the book when he was nervous or felt uncomfortable. I wondered if the scene where he was tortured by the Mexican gang was real, or made up.

Beside Chico, the last of the six men who graced the pages of TD’s books stood. He was a loner of sorts, and had a daughter who he raised on his own. I enjoyed Smiley’s dry sense of humor, and seeing his close friendship with Nut Bucket. I wondered if anyone really vaped as much as he did in the books. It seemed he always had that thing in his hand. Blowing vapor in Crip’s face just to get a reaction.

As Tate walked to my side, Chico took a step in our direction. Seeing his slight limp caused a lump to rise in my throat. I imagined his captors smashing his feet with a hammer.

Towering over the other men, the Sergeant-at-Arms took a few steps in our direction.

Please, don’t say it. Tell me at least that part was a lie. If I hear you say ‘what’s shakin’, motherfucker’, I just might break down.

He opened his arms and grinned at Tate. “What’s shakin’ motherfucker?”

My knees wobbled.

It was his signature greeting. When the men saved Chico from the Hispanic gang, he said it as he lifted Chico to his feet. Those three words, alone, brought me to tears.

“C’mon,” Tate said. “They won’t bite.”

“Fellas, I want you to meet someone,” he said. “This is Bobbi. Bobbi, this is Pee Bee.”

I shook the hand of the man I knew as Bones. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Same here.” He waved his massive arm toward my car. “Like the car.”

“Thank you.”

“The ugly fucker’s Crip,” Tate said.

Crip shook my hand. “Thanks for getting him home in one piece. That car’s pretty slick.”

“It was the least I could do, and thank you.”

As he pulled his arm away, I looked at his right bicep. If the books were real in their depictions of the men, he’d have a SEAL Trident.

My heart skipped a beat as he turned to the side, revealing the eagle, anchor, and pitchfork tattoo.

“This is Cholo,” Tate said, waving his hand toward the book character I knew as Chico, the former Golden Gloves boxer.

I shook his hand. “I’m honored.”

He smiled and tugged against the bill of his cap. “Appreciate you giving him a ride.”

“No problem.”

“And, these two fools are Smokey and P-Nut,” he said.

P-Nut blew a huge cloud of smoke to the side and stepped toward me. After shaking my hand and giving a nervous nod, he shuffled toward the building and began pacing back and forth.

Smokey shifted his vape from his right hand to his left, and then extended his hand. I couldn’t help but notice the green dragon tattoo that covered his right arm, just like in the book. I wondered if he really had a snake tattooed on his stomach. I doubted it. After all, they were his worst fear.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

He grinned. “Likewise.”

Crip crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Tate. “Heard a rumor that there was an unfortunate incident while you were in there. Any truth to it?”

Tate nodded. “One of Satan’s Savages men was killed. Other than that, it was smooth sailing.”

I froze in my tracks.

Satan’s Savages?

In the books, the Dirty Diablos were undoubtedly a portrayal of the Filthy Fuckers. The Dirty Diablos rival club was called the Savage Sinners MC. My guess was that the Savage Sinners MC was really Satan’s Savages.

If the Dirty Diablos were an accurate depiction of the Filthy Fuckers, and it sure seemed they were, I doubted it was ironic that one of the Filthy Fuckers came to prison for a day, and a member of their rival gang was killed while he was there.

My guess was that the Filthy Fuckers were every bit the vigilante group that the Dirty Diablos were. In book one, Crip’s Ol’ Lady, Taylor, was beaten by the Savages in retaliation for Crip beating two of their members in a bar fight.

Bones hunted each of them down and cut off their hands.

Their acts of retribution throughout the series didn’t make light of violence or condone it, it simply used violent acts to administer the justice where it was due.

I stared blankly at Tate.

I recalled what Turner said. Prison justice is blind to loopholes, legal restrictions, and limitations. Inside the walls, the men get no less than what they have coming to them.

Darin Wheatland got what he had coming. Only someone on the outside could have found out about the deal he was cutting with the DA.

Tate was that man.

It didn’t bother me to think that it may have been Tate that killed Wheatland. In fact, it filled me with an ironic sense of pride. Knowing that I stood amongst the real Dirty Diablos was an honor.

Strangely, as Crip and Tate talked, I didn’t feel out of place. I simply stood and put the pieces of the puzzle together, feeling all the while that I was fortunate to have met the man who I’d grown to love as being Becker Wallace.

“Be right back,” Tate said.

I smiled. “Okay.”

He walked into the building, and then returned, wearing his kutte. His patch read Meathead, and I wondered how he got the name.

“Meathead, huh?’

He grinned. “Meat, for short.”

“Why Meathead?”

“When I was a kid, I signed my school paperwork Tate R, for Tate Reynolds. I wasn’t old enough to spell my last name, and the teacher didn’t require it. With the ‘E’ and the ‘R’ being so close to one another, all the kids started calling me Tater. Soon, they started calling me meat and taters. I didn’t like Tater, so the name Meat stuck. Been called Meat for as long as I can remember. This club changed it to Meathead.”

“I like that story. It’s cute.”

“I should probably go,” I said. “Leave you to your gathering.”

“No,” he said. “Stay for a while. A few of the Ol’ Ladies will be here in a minute. Peyton’s on her way.”

“Who’s Peyton?”

“Crips Ol’ Lady.”

I wondered if she was really a thrill-seeking reporter that wrote articles for Newsweek. In the book, she surfed, skateboarded, snowboarded, and skydived. She wrote articles for Newsweek, but only about what she wanted to. She was intrigued by bikers, and by their sense of brotherhood. An article she was writing is what brought her to meet Crip.

If a topless jeep came rolling into the parking lot, I feared I’d pee my pants right on the spot.

We stood and talked for several minutes, and the men seemed genuinely interested in everything I had to offer the conversations. They asked about prison, about my car, and then we discussed the music Tate and I listened to along the way.

I felt accepted for once. No one was talking behind my back. There were no fingers being pointed nor was anyone whispering about me under their breath.

We were simply people who enjoyed fast cars, old music, and motorcycles.

The sound of distant music grew louder with each passing second. I glanced to the left, but saw nothing.

I looked at Pee Bee, who was telling a story about killing a rattlesnake while he stopped to take a piss at the edge of the desert.

The sound of Aerosmith’s Walk This Way boomed in the distance. I glanced to my left again, wondering where the music was coming from. Just as I prepared to turn toward Pee Bee, a gray Jeep Wrangler – sans top and doors – came around the corner. With Steven Tyler’s voice blaring from the speakers a brunette dressed in a bikini top and cut-offs came to screeching stop at my side.

The girl jumped out of the Jeep and pulled off her aviator sunglasses. “Out for good?”

Tate smiled. “Yep.”

“Everything’s everything?”

“Yep.”

She raised her flattened hand in the air.

Tate slapped his palm against hers.

“Glad you’re back,” she said. “For what it’s worth, book six made me cry, asshole.”

He shrugged. “Sorry.”

She glanced at me. After looking me up and down, her eyes shot to Tate for answers.

“Sorry,” he said. “Peyton, this is Bobbi.”

She gripped my hand firmly and shook it. “Peyton. Nice to meet you,” she said, speaking almost faster than my mind could discern.

I smiled. In the book, Taylor was a fast talker.

Holy crap. It was her.

In book one, she proved to be the strongest female character I’d ever read. At least at that point. I later decided Chico’s Ol’ Lady, Leddy, took the trophy.

“I like your Jeep,” I said. “It’s awesome.”

She nodded toward my car. “Is that yours?”

I nodded. “It is.”

“1971 or 1972? I can’t tell them apart.”

I was surprised she knew as much as she did. “1971.”

“It’s awesome.”

“Thanks, my dad built it for me.”

She looked the car over, and then met my curious gaze. “He did an awesome job.”

“Thank you. I’ll let him know you like it.”

“So, how do you know Meathead?”

I scrunched my nose, and leaned toward her. “I was his prison guard,” I whispered.

She coughed a laugh. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“That’s funny.”

It was my opportunity to find out if I was jumping to conclusions, or if my thoughts were on track.

“What do you do?”

“For work?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m a reporter. Journalist. I write articles about Southern California violence. It’s not for everyone, but I like it. I might want to interview you some time. See what it’s like behind the walls.”

I tried to hide my excitement. Not about being interviewed, but about her being who I hoped she was. The thought of everything I’d read being real – or close to it – was

“That’d be fun.”

“I like your dress,” she said. “It’s cute.”

“It’s a LuLaRoe. I’ve got dozens of them. They hide what I want to hide.”

“No need to hide anything with these guys,” she said. “They’re as genuine as it gets, and that’s all they’ll expect of you. If you stick around, you’ll see what I mean.”

I glanced at the men as they laughed at Pee Bee’s story. He offered a boyish grin and then leaned against the building. To many, they were an outlaw motorcycle gang, and a threat to society.

To me, they were simply the men of the books I’d read.