Nick

Standing in the clubhouse parking lot, I stared at my bike and tried to imagine it with paint on it. “I don’t think the fucker will look any better. It’ll just look different.”

Pee Bee cocked his head to the side and studied the rusty gas tank. “Up to you. Been lookin’ like shit as long as I’ve known ya. Don’t know why you’re wantin’ to paint it now.”

I shrugged. “Just thinking about making a change.”

“Changin’ your bike ain’t gonna change anything, Crip. When you get done, your life’s still gonna be here.”

“Well holy fucking shit. Listen to you. What? You a certified fucking therapist now?”

“No.”

“So why you trying to tell me how to live my life?”

“I’m not.”

I lifted my leg over the seat, sat down, and draped my arms over the handlebars. “Sure sounds like it.”

“I don’t like it either, motherfucker. Not even a little bit. But I can’t fuckin’ change it. Only thing we can do is keep on keepin’ on. That’s it.”

“Thanks for the words of wisdom, Peeb.”

“Whatever I can do to help, asshole.”

I gazed toward the street, not really focusing on anything. The building we used for a clubhouse was in Oceanside, twenty miles north of San Diego. The city was the home for many Marines stationed in Camp Pendleton, which was a few miles north. Along with the neighboring cities of Carlsbad and Vista, the overall population was about 200,000.

Our location was on a street that had minimal traffic, making passing cars something of an oddity. The unmarked police car that was approaching stood out like a dick on a wedding cake.

“Fucking hell.”

Pee Bee’s eyes widened. “What?”

“My three o’clock. Cop.”

“No shit?”

He turned toward the street. “Looks like your fuckin’ buddy.”

He was right. The car and the driver looked pretty god damned familiar. It was none other than detective shit-for-brains, the man who arrested me in the shop.

“Here he comes,” I said.

He pulled in the lot, pulled up alongside us, and came to a stop.

He rolled down the window and poked his head out. “You know, on some days, I wish I didn’t have to work,” he said. “I could just hang around, sit on my motorcycle and look mean. Wouldn’t that be the life?”

“Only a couple of problems with that, detective.”

He lowered his sunglasses and peered over the top of the frames. “You know I’ve got to ask. The problems? What are they, Navarro?”

I stepped off my bike, folded my arms in front of my chest, and flexed my biceps. “You don’t have a motorcycle, and you look like a pussy.”

He laughed a sarcastic laugh, opened the car door, and stepped out. He removed his mirrored cop glasses and hung them on the collar of his police-issue polo shirt. “That’s funny.”

“I’m the club joker. Jokes? I got a million of ‘em. Something I can help you with, detective?”

“Maybe. And, just so you know, I’m not on a fact finding mission. I’m really just here to make you…” He glanced at Pee Bee. “…and your cohort aware of something.”

“So you stopped by to talk to Peeb and me?”

“That his name?” he nodded toward Pee Bee. “Peeb?”

“No. Name’s Pee Bee, but I call him Peeb.”

“Pee Bee, huh? What’s that stand for?”

“Peanut Butter,” Pee Bee said. “One of the other fellas is named Jelly. We’re fuckin’ besties.”

He alternated glances between Pee Bee and me. “You two should come on down to La Jolla and get a job at The Comedy Store. Shit, you could get rich, funny as you two pricks are.”

I cleared my throat. “Never much cared for the smell of pork, detective. And we’re getting’ ready to ride out of here. What can I do for you?”

“This entire state is filled with outlaw motorcycle clubs. Personally, I never gave a shit one way or another about most of ‘em. You know, you guys kind of clean up your own messes. Makes it nice for people in my line of work.”

“Get to your point,” I said.

“Well, there’s one local club I always kind of detested. Maybe you’ve heard of ‘em. Satan’s Savages. Bunch of shit birds, if you ask me. Always flexing their muscle, and trying to be something they’re not. They want to be like the big boys. You know, the Mongols or Hells Angels...” He shook his head. “But they can’t.”

With my arms still crossed in front of my chest, I stared back at him. “What’s this have to do with us?”

“I’m getting to that. So, a few nights back, we got several reports of a group of bikers riding through town. A big group. Maybe sixty or so. It was late at night, which isn’t when most outlaw MCs are out and about in full force, unless something’s going down. With no reports of violence or gunfire, we really had no reason to react, because riding motorcycles in itself isn’t a crime. So we waited. Then, late that night, one of Satan’s Savages showed up at Scripps Mercy. Someone had cut his cock clean off. Castrated him too. Thirty minutes after that, two more showed up at Kindred. Same damned thing. Relieved of their cocks and balls.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Wasn’t some kind of club initiation, was it? Cut off your cock to jump from prospect to patch?”

Pee Bee laughed out loud, but the detective remained straight-faced.

“All three of ‘em claimed it was an ISIS attack. They said some towel-heads did it.” he paused and forced a laugh. “So, about five in the morning, the president of Satan’s Savages shows up at Scripps. His cock had been cut off so short he was left with a twat. But one thing that was different about him was that he’d been shot. Once in each leg with a .45 caliber.”

“Same thing? Towel-heads?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “Said he cut himself shaving. When we asked him about the gunshot wounds, he said he didn’t even notice ‘em. Crazy prick rode his motorcycle to the hospital. He’d lost so much blood they had to give him a transfusion.”

“But all four of ‘em lived?”

The detective nodded. “It’s a damned shame, but they did. Which is why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Never cared for the president of that group. The Savages,” he said. “Had him on a couple of rape cases a few years back, but neither of them materialized. Sad thing about rapists is that they seem to maintain a pattern of repeating the crimes. Considering the facts of this case, and that someone cut his cock off, my guess is that he dipped his dick in the wrong skank.”

I clenched my jaw at the thought of him calling Peyton a skank. “So you came by to tell us this, why?”

“Like I said in the beginning. I don’t mind MC’s. They have their own means of administering justice, which saves me time, and saves the taxpayers money. Rumor has it that Whipple and his boys are going after whoever did this. You might get the word out.”

“So, you want Peeb and me to spread the word that four dickless bikers are looking for revenge?”

He put his glasses on, pressed them high on his nose and got in his car. He then draped his right arm out the car window, brushed his left palm up his arm, and lifted the sleeve of his polo shirt slightly. “No, I want you to finish what you started.”

My eyes locked on the tattoo in the center of his bicep.

An eagle, trident, anchor, and pistol.

“Have a nice day,” he said.

And he drove away.

“That was fuckin’ weird,” Pee Bee said.

“Sure was.”

I waited to see if Peeb was going to mention the tattoo, but it never came.

After a few minutes of small talk and trying to decide if we were going to stay at the shop and drink beer or go eat lunch, my phone beeped.

Anxious to see if it was Peyton, I pulled it from my pocket and read the message.

“Peyton wants to go to lunch. You want to go?”

He shrugged. “Long as you don’t mind, sure.”

“I don’t mind. And she might like the company.”

“Sounds good. It’s almost noon now, want to meet her somewhere?”

“I’ll just have her meet us here.” I said as I typed her a text message. “I’ll see if she wants to ride. Maybe it’ll will clear her mind.”

And maybe it’ll clear mine, too.