The cowbell clanged. The door swung wide, hitting its stop with a thwack! The opening was darkened by the President of the Rebels, Tiny Mack. Upon noticing Price and Brisco, the three-hundred-pound Rebel stopped dead in his tracks.
His eyes widened with worry.
The Rebels who remained outside mumbled their complaints about the blocked doorway. Incapable of seeing into the bar, they shoved against Tiny’s oversized frame, eventually forcing him to stumble forward. As Price and Brisco came into the other men’s view, the expression on their faces confirmed my nightmarish suspicions.
This wasn’t going to be pretty.
I swallowed heavily and waited for someone to speak.
Following a few long seconds of awkward silence, Price rose from his chair as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. One confident step at a time, he shortened the distance between him and Tiny by twenty feet, leaving not much more than an arm’s length separating them.
He gave Tiny a thorough once-over and then crossed his arms over his chest. “When the way things are is different than the way they should be, it causes me to take pause.” He glanced at each of the Rebels, and then met Tiny’s nervous stare. “I look at the situation in question and wonder how—or where—things fell apart.”
Four Rebels were inside and two were standing in the doorway. While they listened intently to what Price was saying, they all shared the same expression.
They were scared for their lives.
“Did I make a mistake in judgement when I allowed your fat ass to open up shop?” Price asked, clearly in rhetoric. “Hell, in my opinion, your instructions were simple. The ‘Eights agreed to let you run your business in our territory as long as you and your club met our demands. You agreed to manufacture a product that was superior to the shit coming in from Mexico. You were supposed to peddle it and pay your taxes. In turn, we agreed to look the other way. Either I made a lapse in judgement or your fat ass misled me.”
Price raked his fingers through his hair and drew a long breath.
The Rebels safety was no longer at the forefront of my thoughts. Awestruck by Price’s commanding presence—and his ability to convey his message in a series of well put together sentences—I waited anxiously for him to continue.
“It was simple,” Price said, shaking his head. He raised his index finger. “Superior product and pay your taxes—”
“Hold up a minute, Price. We’ve paid our—” Tiny began.
“Shut the fuck up, Tiny,” Price demanded, taking a step forward. His nose was nearly touching Tiny’s. “Interrupt me again,” he fumed, “and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”
Tiny, who outweighed Price by no less than a hundred pounds, swallowed heavily. He took a cautious step away from Price, and then another.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” Price said, looking at each of the Rebels briefly. He paused when his gaze reached Tiny. “You’re done. You and your miscreant bunch are out of business. After today, if one of the ‘Eights sees any of you in our territory,” he glanced around the bar. “this bar included, you’ll be stripped of your colors and beaten within an inch of your life.”
Tiny nervously scratched at his scruffy beard. His lips parted, but common sense must have prevented him from speaking.
Shamefully, his gaze lowered to the floor.
“To be crystal clear,” Price warned. “If you sell one more flake of that fentanyl-laced shit in our territory, I’ll personally bury all six of your sorry asses in the desert. Pay Lacky the taxes you owe for this week’s income and find somewhere else to call home.”
Apparently, I was wrong about the Rebels. Reading between the lines of Price’s carefully composed complaint, it was obvious that the Hard Eights gave the Rebels authority to sell drugs, as long as they sold a quality product and paid their taxes.
In and around Marana, there had been half a dozen deaths in the past two weeks from overdoses. The coroner declared that all the deaths were caused by fentanyl-laced methamphetamines. Apparently, the drugs came from the Rebels.
Tiny lifted his gaze from the floor. He glanced at Brisco, who was standing a few feet away from Price with his massive arms crossed. He then looked at Price. “Can I speak?”
“Probably be in your best interest to nod your head apologetically, waddle your fat ass out to your raggedy-assed sled, and beat feet,” Price responded. “Anything more than that, and you’re likely to piss me off.”
In complete contrast to my preconceived notions about him, Price had maintained an even temper throughout the one-sided verbal exchange. Even so, his commanding voice and undeniable presence were intimidating as hell. I wondered what he was like when he was angry. My guess was that Tiny and his men didn’t want to find out.
As instructed, Tiny gave a nod and turned around. His men, seeming relieved that their lives were spared, followed suit without muttering a single word.
As the sound of their motorcycles faded into the distance, I exhaled.
It was over. There was no blood to mop up, no chair legs to reattach, and no broken tables.
Only a bar without patrons.
While I sank into a mild state of depression about losing my steady source of income, Price looked at the row of beer taps, and then at me.
“Got any issues with putting Budweiser on tap?” he asked.
I prayed he was thinking what I was thinking. I leaned onto the edge of the bar. “I suppose not.”
“What about changing dollar draft night to Thursdays?” he asked.
“I don’t see any problems with that,” I replied, struggling not to smile.
He glanced at Brisco and gestured to the door. Without speaking, Brisco gave me a half-assed nod of appreciation and then sauntered toward the exit.
Price reached into his pocket. He pulled out a handful of bills. “This is for tonight’s lost business.” He tossed them onto the table. “Change from the hundred I gave you is your tip.” He took a few steps toward the door, and then glanced over his shoulder. “Might want to change your sign.”
My posture straightened. “To my real name?”
“The other sign,” he replied. “On the marquee. Dollar beer night. From Wednesdays to Thursdays.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I walked around the edge of the bar I’d been hiding behind, and then hesitated. “I’ll do that.”
He turned to face me. “By the way. What’s your name?”
I had a love it or hate it name. So far, I had no real reason to like it. Somewhat embarrassed, I sighed. “It’s Gray.”
He undressed me with his eyes, taking all the time in the world to do so. He made no effort to hide the satisfaction his imagination conjured. “Hope you’re ready.”
“For what?” I asked.
The eye-fucking continued for a moment. Upon satisfying himself, he smirked. Then, without responding to my question, he turned and walked away.
2
Price
The smell of death hung in the air like a plume of heavy smoke. I took a step to the side, allowing the overhead lights to illuminate the vehicle’s trunk. Surprised at the sheer size of the Oldsmobile’s oversized cargo area, I gave a nod of approval. “They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”
“Cars.” I waved toward the three blood-soaked bodies that were intertwined with one another, using caution not to touch my bare hand against the car. “These mid-Eighties GM products are something else. You could still fit another body in there if you needed to.”
“It’d take some situating, but I think I could get two more,” he deadpanned.
I glanced at each of the men. After mentally identifying them, I let out a sigh of frustration. “God forgives. ‘Eights don’t,” I said in a voice loud enough that I was the only one likely to hear it.
I hurled my half-eaten jelly donut toward the trash can in the distance. It plastered against the side of the 55-gallon drum with a thud.
Carp watched the pastry slowly creep its way down the outer edge of the trash can. W
hen it came to rest on the shop’s concrete floor, he looked in my direction. “Should I have waited ‘till you were done eatin’ that before I popped the trunk?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I replied. “I eat too many of those damned things, anyway.”
He glanced at the flashing “OPEN” sign across the street. “It’d help if we weren’t next door to the fucking place.”
Sweets calmed me. Being next door to the donut shop kept me on an even keel. Without the sugary pastries as part of my daily routine, I’d likely be difficult to get along with.
I wiped my hand against the thigh of my jeans. “Where’s Brisco?”
“Gettin’ a little sleep before we get rid of these pricks. Supposed to bring his Jeep when he gets up.” He reached for the trunk lid and then paused. He gestured toward the deceased. “You good?”
I gave a nod. “Seen more than I needed to.”
He slammed the trunk closed. “This state sucks.” He wiped his brow against his forearm. “It’s four in the fucking morning and it’s still 98 fucking degrees.”
Lance “Carp” Carpenter had two loves in his life; his wife, and his motorcycle. After catching the neighbor balls-deep in his wife, an assault charge and a short stint in prison followed. Upon being released, he moved from Baldwin, Wisconsin to Tucson. The move freed him of Wisconsin’s frigid winters, the memory of his unfaithful wife, and the watchful eye of the local police. Although he’d been in Marana for ten years, he complained about the heat every summer like it was a complete surprise.
“Arizona’s all I’ve ever known,” I said. “There’s worse places, believe me.”
“Where?” He looked at me like I was nuts. “Hell?”
“Same as,” I replied. “Florida. It’s 95 degrees and 90 percent humidity.”
He shook his head. “Not interested.”
I glanced across the street. A rust-covered powder blue Ford truck chugged to a stop in front of the donut shop. An elderly man got out of the jalopy and shut the door with a swing of his hip. Dressed in faded overalls and a long-sleeved western shirt, he turned toward the establishment’s door.
He stepped in front of the brightly lit storefront and peered inside. Despite his age, his gait expressed the attitude of his youthful years. In his day, I was sure he’d been in more than a few scrapes.
“Who eats donuts at four-thirty in the morning?” Carp asked, nodding toward the old man as he spoke. He looked at me. “Other’n you?”
“Looks like he does.”
“Ever make you nervous that our clubhouse is across the street from a bunch of commercial businesses?” he asked. “Instead of out in the middle of nowhere?”
I shifted my attention from the old man to Carp. “If it was in the middle of nowhere, everyone would wonder what the fuck we were doing going in and out of there all hours of the night. Here, it looks like we’ve got nothing to hide. People think we’re a bunch of nocturnal beer-drinking law-abiding bikers.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “The beer drinking part’s right.”
I glanced at my watch. It wouldn’t be light for an hour and a half. “You going to wait here until the sun comes up?”
“No. I thought maybe I’d get a breakfast at McDonalds and then go to the 7-Eleven and buy a couple of scratchers and a Slurpee,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “Then, I could take these dumb dead pricks on their last ride around town while I sucked down that cool drink.”
Burying bodies beneath the desert’s moonlight only happened in the movies. Driving toward the base of the Tortolita Mountains the middle of the night raised the brows of everyone within miles. Making the same trek during the daylight—especially in a 4-wheel-drive SUV—didn’t get a second look from anyone, police included.
“Thought I’d ask.” I gestured toward the office. “I just brewed a pot of coffee.”
I gazed through the open garage door. The old man exited the donut shop and then turned toward his truck. Boxes of donuts were stacked all the way to his chin.
“Be right back,” I said.
I hustled across the street, reaching the old man when he was at the edge of the curb. He peered over the top of the boxes and let out a sigh of frustration.
“Let me help you.” I opened the passenger side door and reached for the boxes.
“I got ‘em,” he grunted, pulling away from me. “Just couldn’t get the goddamned door. I’m not an octopus, you know.”
“That’s a lot of donuts,” I said. “Picked a good place to get ‘em.”
“Been goin’ to the place off West Marana for sixty goddamned years,” he complained. “What’d they do to show their appreciation? Closed the goddamned place. Normally don’t venture this far south, but Virgil said this place was good.” He carefully lowered the donuts onto the seat, and then situated each box. “Got a bunch of idiots out at my place this morning. Staying through the weekend.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Did you know they’ve got a donut in there that has bacon on it?”
“It’s one of my favorites,” I admitted. “The Firemen get here Thursday mornings at about six o’clock. It’s a good thing you got here before they did, or all the good ones would have been gone.”
He stepped back and slammed the truck’s door. A once-over followed. “Do I know you?”
“Don’t think so,” I replied.
He looked me over again, slowly. After studying me thoroughly from head to toe, his face washed with disbelief. “I’ll be goddamned. You’ve got to be Earl McNealy’s boy. You a spitting image of him.” He pushed his hands inside his overalls and gave me another quick look, this time with admiration in his eyes. “You’re on the hundred and sixty acres just the other side of the old tracks. In the white house. Aren’t ya?”
I’d never seen him before, at least not that I could remember. Nevertheless, I wasn’t surprised that he recognized me as being my father’s son. In comparing old photographs, we looked like twins. I considered my response, but before I could answer, he continued.
“Place used to be yellow, and it was brown before that,” he said convincingly. “Think your father painted it yellow in ’73 if my memory serves me correctly.”
“It was yellow when I was a kid. I painted it white.” I extended my hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Name’s Gardner. Jim Gardner.” He struggled for a moment and eventually pulled his hands from inside his overalls. “Nobody calls me that, though.” He shook my hand. “Most around here know me as Jack. Cactus Jack. Road leading to my place is lined with ‘em. Planted ‘em three generations ago. Four, including me.”
I nodded in acknowledgement. “Price.”
“Can’t imagine they’d have been more than a few cents a dozen, back then,” he replied. “Hell, it was a hundred and fifty years ago when he bought that place. Home’s different, but the cactuses haven’t changed.”
I mentally laughed at his response. “Price is my name,” I explained. “Price McNealy.”
He looked down his nose at me. “Not your given name.”
“I don’t use my given name,” I said. “I go by Price.”
He gazed at the toes of his boots for a moment as if digesting the name. “Shame about your folks,” he said, looking up. “Goddamned cops around here are a bunch of dimwits. Always have been. The whole lot of ‘em.”
He paused, waiting for me to respond. Instead of being lured into a conversation, I admired the rust spots on his truck.
“Live down the way from you a piece,” he explained. “Off Missile Base road. Been there since before your mom’s sister sold that place to your father.” He turned toward the truck. “I better get home before one of my clan misses me. They’ll probably think I wandered off into the desert. Hell, Martin might even call the cops. Last thing I need is that know-nothing kid who’s on night shifts out at my place nosing around.”
It seemed he was trying to get me to trust him. Short of the men in the club, I didn’t trust anyone, donut eating old men included.
I of
fered him a crumpled smile. “Enjoy your donuts.”
“I got five dozen of the goddamned things. That’s six a piece for the ten of us.” He sauntered around the front of the trunk and opened the driver’s door. “We get together once a year and shoot up my place. Been doing it for twenty years.”
I gave him a confused look. “Shoot up the place?”
“Machine guns,” he said with a nod. “I’ve got a couple Tommy Guns and an M16. Martin’s got a belt fed M60. The rest of the clan has Grease Guns, some British stuff, and a few pieces of Russian junk. Always enjoyed machineguns. More fun than plinkin’ at soup cans with a pellet gun, that’s for sure.”
Arizona was a machine gun friendly state, and allowed legal ownership by civilians, as long as the individual registered the weapons. Accordingly, the state was filled with gun enthusiasts, automatic weapons, and the occasional extremist. Nevertheless, it surprised me to hear what Cactus Jack’s plans were for the day. Machine guns or not, I still didn’t trust him.
“Sounds like a good time,” I admitted.
“We’re roastin’ a hog over an open fire this evening, at sunset,” he said. “You’re more than welcome to stop by. Contrary to what these simpleminded dimwits around here might say, your father was a damned good man. Helped me mend my fence after a truckload of drunken high school kids mashed half a mile of it in ’74. That’s how we met. After that, we became friends. As friendly as two outlaws could be, anyway.”
My father, like me, didn’t have friends in a common sense. The only men he trusted were those in his close-knit group. By definition, and by my father’s own admittance, they were outlaws. I couldn’t help but wonder just who Cactus Jack was. My curiosity, however, wasn’t so great that I wanted to sit down to a meal with him and his friends. Nevertheless, being respectful to an elderly man—especially one who claimed to be an outlaw—was a different matter altogether.
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