New York Minute
Page 10
He was on a mission, and jerking with the tourists wasn’t going to help him get it done. Still, the thought of ruining the white-collar crowd’s biker fantasy with a dose of badass reality made him sneer.
St. John was just that—a bad ass. The former University of Florida All-American linebacker and NFL mid-round draftee still looked like he could line up across from the toughest pulling guards in the league.
Even on his bike, the six feet and six inch, two hundred and forty pound biker sat above most crowds. His reddish hair had grown long in the NFL.
After departing the gridiron, he let it grow wild throughout his undercover career with the DEA. He liked the rugged look. It gave him a sense of anonymity since his ruddy complexioned face was barely visible.
He loved the violence of the sport, but it was nothing like the sensation he got living on life’s jagged edge while operating undercover. The risk of giving up a first down was child’s play compared to the risk of losing your life.
St. John sought that risk, and it made him feel alive. His green eyes scanned across the street—it looked clear. He was always on the look out. It literally meant live or death.
The pistol sat tucked in his waistband. He flapped his leather vest, or cut as it was called, over it, but kept it unzipped in case he needed immediate access.
St. John had earned his full membership into one of the biggest and most notorious outlaw motorcycle clubs in the western United States. The problem was, he was in Daytona, not the mid-west.
A confidential informant for the federal government called Jackal had vouched for St. John at the Tallahassee biker chapter to get him into the OMC. In return, the feds dropped an attempted murder charge and pled the outlaw’s drug case down to a misdemeanor.
St. John knew he was in the enemies’ camp while wearing the Savage Souls cut, but he really didn’t give two craps about it. He could more than take care of himself.
His fingers rifled around inside the weather-beaten saddlebag. It was stuffed with money. One hundred thousand in cash to be exact. He snapped the lock and eased up to tower over his HOG. He accessed his rearview mirrors to check his back, while constantly looking up and down the street for cops.
One badge, or mall security guard in sight, and he’d haul ass out of there the way he came in. The stakes were too high. He’d left the game playing on the field when he left the sport. This was the reality of life.
Negotiations between dangerous men who didn’t have to posture with threats. Each side was always fully aware of the damage their opponent was capable of. It kept both sides honest. The problem was with the cops—they didn’t play by their rules. They also weren’t aware of the danger they placed themselves in just for the sake of making a temporary arrest.
St. John let his chrome sunshades rest across the bridge of his nose while he untethered the leather pouch from the side of his bike. He chunked it up and over his broad shoulder while his right hand gripped the pistol.
Transitioning from his bike to the meeting location left him vulnerable while crossing the crowded walkway. He was fully aware that his hulking size played a disadvantage in these scenarios. He was easy to spot, and easier to take out with a sniper’s headshot.
His right ear tickled as he walked into the dark pool hall. He mashed his shoulder against his long hair to try easing the aggravation. He suddenly cared nothing about his ear, and all about the four hombres with backs smashed against the far wall.
The open space smelled of cigar smoke, marijuana, stale pussy, and draft beer. The sticky floors were a mixed bag of second-hand industrial carpet and ash-stomped linoleum.
The sounds and smells were compressed below a claustrophobic seven and a half foot ceiling with water-stained and punched out acoustic tiles. Each of the tattered pool tables was lit by a hanging beer lamp.
The music was loud and violent. Skinhead music blared until his ears felt like they’d bleed. No one seemed to give a shit. Their heads bobbed to the unsteady rhythms and crunch of screaming lyrics.
Cracks of cue sticks against solid balls erupted as every table was occupied by hard looking men trying to prove they were not only capable of crushing your skull, but also a solid pool ball on the break.
St. John slid up to the bar. He eyed three very different bartenders. The short, fat guy with more hair over his arms than St. John had on his head nodded a series of thick chins. St. John didn’t bother with a response. He also didn’t bother with the fiftyish looking chick in the fishnets and bellybutton ring dangling from the apex of her generous beer gut.
St. John glared at the slickster who pretended he was above it all. About five feet and eight inches, the mid-thirty year old looking creep was dressed in all black with white tennis shoes. His greasy hair made a plume of an unkempt style that complimented the scattered hairs that dotted a slumping, weak chin. Both thumbs were tucked inside is cracked brown leather belt.
“You work here?” St. John snapped.
The guy was slow to pull a spit-covered toothpick out from between his charred lips. It seemed like minutes before the guy’s head caught up with his eyes that twisted sideways to glower at St. John.
He kicked a barstool to the side as he struggled to keep his temper in check. Piss poor customer service was one thing, but being a down right rude was another. St. John wasn’t here for the worthless bartender, but the guy’s attitude was about to get his name put on the list—top of the list.
“Yeah,” the guy jeered.
“Send four drafts down to those guys, and keep one here for me.” St. John nodded his head to the side toward the four men sitting against the far wall.
“You know them?”
St. John debated snatching the guy and yanking him across the bar. “I will. Why do you know them?”
“I know enough to not mess with them.”
The guy tugged on the light brown tap handle and poured four plastic cups full of foamy beer. He set them aside before drawing St. John’s beer from the keg next to theirs. The guy slammed a red plastic cup onto the bar. The slosh of foam and beer spilled over the discolored rim and splashed across the vibrant colored tattoo covering St. John’s left forearm.
The jerk weed slapped the cups on a corkscrew topped tray and yelled for the female barkeep to haul the four brews over to the hombres. He slapped his palm and three gold teeth gleamed between his cracked lips.
“Twenty bucks.”
“You shitting me?”
“It’s bike week. Prices go up along with the fun.” He smacked on his toothpick.
“Tell you what, I’ve got some business to tend to. When I’m done, I’m going to smash your face in for trying to serve me dog piss for beer.”
“What you talking about, mister?” The guy’s voice finally shook. He eyed the untouched plastic cup and then back to me. “It’s legit.”
“Then you drink it.” He slid the cup toward him.
The guy’s hand trembled as the cup neared his mouth. He protested that he couldn’t drink while on the clock. St. John never blinked. The guy slammed it back on the countertop.
“I can’t do it.”
“Give me back my five for that shit.” St. John grabbed the bill. “Like I said, when I’m done, I’m going to smash your stupid face in.”
“I’m sorry sir. It’s just a little trick we play on the tourists.”
“I look like a freaking tourist?”
“No, its just that your wearing the wrong colors,” he sniveled.
“Like I said. When I’m done.”
I looked back at the four, and one waved me over. This prick was easy, these four weren’t.
“Got it?” Asked the man on the far right.
Each looked ancient. Lives lived on the open road had weathered them until their skin looked like charred oak. Long, deep lines carved across their foreheads and crows feet raking back from each eye from squinting along thousands of roughly ridden miles. These outlaws were known among the lower Florida counties as the Four Horsem
en.
“Got it. You?”
“You doubt us?” snarled the real big one on the left.
His muscles ripped beneath skin completely covered with dark, heavy-lined prison and gang tattoos. St. John was still bigger than this biker, but they were bad times four. He, with the exception of the bartender who owed him his life, was alone. St. John rubbed his forearm across the butt of his weapon to make sure it was still there.
“No disrespect intended, but these were the terms of our negotiations.”
St. John clutched the money pouch, and then mashed his knuckles against his ear—now it stung. He knew he’d been placed in a predicament. If he left the cash outside, he risked having it stolen. Taking it inside also meant he had nowhere to escape if they decided to rob him. There was no way he could afford to take a hit for one hundred clams.
“Then uphold your end of the bargain and show us that you’re good for your end,” demanded the third from the right. His name patch read, Spider.
St. John locked onto him as the leader. Spider’s baldhead was veiled in club ink and demonic symbols. He got a real bad feeling from Spider, and St. John sensed that Spider realized that he did.
“I’ve come all the way from Tallahassee to do this, I got no problem honoring my part.” St. John said in a contrite tone in hopes of shifting the aggressive direction in their meeting.
He tossed the old leather saddlebag into the big guy’s lap. If a fight broke out, as they often do once cash is introduced, St. John figured it best to have the biggest one’s hands preoccupied with tons of money.
“All there?” Spider questioned.
“All there,” St. John assured. “Now?”
Spider pointed to the jerk weed bartender, “With him.”
“It was supposed to just be you.” St. John felt the jagged nature of the outlaw code of honor get a little sharper, and a lot less meaningful. What did he expect after all?
“Yeah, well plans change. And apologize to him for threatening to smash his face in. He’s my old lady’s nephew,” ordered Spider.
“How’d you know…?” St. John’s body began to tense. He knew a rip off when he felt one. These four terds might be revered in the South Florida outlaw biker world as the Four Horsemen, but they were nothing more than petty local bitches.
The fourth biker—the one who hadn’t spoken a word, held up a small transistor receiver and snarled.
His vest read Creeper.
“I heard everything you said to his nephew.” Creeper taunted.
“So what?” St. John brushed off his comment. He’d not said anything threatening toward them.
Creeper snarled, “So what? So I also know your ear is tingling because you got an undercover body mic in there.”
St. John’s body tilted rigid; His undercover identity had been blown.
About Louis Scott
Chief of Police (rtd.), Scott blends over 25 years of heart-stopping policing Special Operations experience.
From deep in the heart of south Louisiana’s Cajun Country, his action-packed writing style is seasoned by the Mardi Gras, hurricanes and crawfish étouffée.
Don’t let the easy Creole smile fool you. The author served most of a highly decorated career in SOG buying dope, banging down doors, and busting bad guys.
Bringing characters to life based on those amazing experiences, Scott writes it like he lived it.
Lock and Load – Let’s Roll.
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