by Brian Ewing
“Ackerman.” A smug, familiar tone spoke behind Sisto and Fitz.
They turned around to see a man that looked to be constructed of spheres. He sported a polished, bald head that accompanied round features throughout his nose, cheeks, and enormous belly. He was not quite as short, but Sisto instinctively associated the man with Danny DeVito.
“Holy shit…”
Sisto thought for a moment there may have been a concern but Fitz broke into a huge smile and the two bikers embraced in a bearhug that should have concerned Mr. DeVito, being how Fitz’s six-foot-two stature held the upper hand.
“Garrett Brower, you sonofabitch. How the fuck are you?!” Fitz, visibly happy, slapped the man’s chest after they disbanded their awkward hug.
“I am good, man. I saw you over here and thought to myself that I couldn’t have been seeing who I thought I had, yet here you are. What brings you back?”
Sisto cut into the reunion with a less than subtle clearing of the throat.
Fitz looked over to him, “This is my friend, Sisto. We knew each other from back in the day and reconnected working at the current garage I am posted up at for now. I figured after his recent accident, he could use some fun and distractions. I called Púca and asked if we could crash the party here in Mustain before it picks up to the next stop. Are you doing the full event again?”
Garrett paused to answer, as he was still looking at Sisto, probably wondering what type of accident he had been in. “Every year, buddy. You know that! I haven’t missed one of these since it started. Hey, I am riding with the Williams brothers and Duke. They would love to see you, are you busy?”
Fitz looked at Sisto, who shrugged his shoulders, and they accepted. Sisto figured if he was going to get mind-fucked off and on the next two days, may as well get some of Fitz’s friends in the clear. They left the tournament crowd, but not before stopping at the keg station to get some drinks. The ice-cold suds burned in the best way going down Sisto’s throat. He didn’t even realize he was thirsty until the gold nectar chilled his throat and warmed his heart. Sisto was no alcoholic, at least he didn’t feel he was, but felt a slight buzz would be a valid reward for being subjected to the memories of the dark and twisted on a regular basis. At that mental declaration, Sisto then started to wonder the last time he went a week without a beer or shot of Jameson and couldn’t remember.
The afternoon hours went swiftly as Fitz was being greeted like a veteran returning from war. Sisto unintentionally got a lot of insight as to how much of an impact Fitz Ackerman made during his days as a ruthless biker within the community. Sisto was taken aback a few times. The entire time he knew Fitz, he gave off the impression he was some lost puppy dog trying to tag-a-long. After hours of meeting people and hearing stories, Sisto looked at Fitz in a different light. Fitz Ackerman had apparently been a man that ran into a warehouse when his crew was captured by an opposing club over a money handoff gone wrong. He snuck in and took out four people by himself between blade and hand and got his fellow 3S family to safety.
Following that, he was made a higher-ranked lieutenant in the organization from the leader at that time, Charlie Johnson. Charlie saw the potential in Fitz, letting him lead with the VP at the time, which was still Cary but a younger and hopefully happier version. They had many interactions with opposing clubs trying to take over regions that 3S had specified as their territories where business took place. All went great for over a year until one drop was a setup, causing a fresh-faced Tommy Ackerman, to lose his life. Fitz was in charge of the operation and it wasn’t his fault it went South but held the weight of guilt on his shoulders all the years since.
Sisto learned shortly after the staged coup that took Fitz’s cousin away, Charlie Johnson was also murdered in a seemingly random bar fight gone wrong. A Sunday night with broken chairs, glasses, and tables to show for the fight. No one directly involved was injured aside from some bruises and scrapes, yet a man sitting at the bar minding his own business with his girlfriend at the time received a random switchblade to the neck. A transition of power occurred and Cary revealed he had been battling lung cancer and didn’t want to take the throne to simply putter out within a few years.
That is where it was decided among the brotherhood to appoint up and comer, Púca, as the acting President. He fought side by side with Fitz for many years. He was born into the life, as his father and grandfather were both 3S members. Púca was chosen because not only was he a scrappy fighter that believed in 3S as a way of life but knew the direction the world was headed. It was a small percentage of lifers in the motorcycle world that had anything above high school education. Púca knew if he wanted to get the club to the next level, he had to lead by example. He ended up getting a bachelor’s degree in business management and putting the club into a new realm.
The bell near the chow line was rung, and the herd started moving like cattle being beckoned. The Sun was at a sliver along the ridge, slowly being engulfed by the night. The complex had floodlights along the building, as well as the completed activity areas, replacing the natural light so the party would not miss a beat. Fitz and Sisto, along with Garrett Brower and his group made their way to the chow line to get some dinner and beers. Sisto was happy that upon inspecting Brower and his crew’s psyche’s, they were genuinely good people. They had the occasional misdoing but the worst thing Sisto was shown by The Reels, was a bar brawl where Duke had applied brass knuckles, to ensure pain and broken bones to his opponent.
Waiting in line, Sisto felt his stomach start to churn. He realized he hadn’t eaten much during the day and while beer was one of his favorite food groups, was desperately craving a Smokey Robinson sandwich at that moment. It seemed while everyone was partying in the back, food trucks dropped off tons of food which were then transferred to catering setups to stay warm. Sisto took a plate and walked up to the hot gruel that was being kept heated by a diminishing Sterno flame. The aluminum top had been a homemade handle by hole punching two holes in the top and running wire through it. Sisto lifted the top by the primitive handle to see there had been no Smokey Robinson sandwiches. There were rows of the aluminum containers that had crispy chicken wings, macaroni and cheese, coleslaw, rolls, and some other fixings.
Sisto nodded in approval and stocked his plate as high as he could manage. He then followed Fitz and Garrett over to one of the open tables that had been set up by the partially constructed ramada. The table was long and could easily hold a dozen men and women. Sisto was in between Garrett and Fitz, with Duke and the Williams brothers opposite them. Sisto figured if he was in the middle of two good men, the odds of some delinquent grazing him and throwing him into a horror show from his second sight, would be minimal.
“There you guys are,” A voice spoke in the men’s direction from behind them.
Sisto, mouth full of macaroni recognized the voice but couldn’t place it offhand. Fitz had been to his right and stood up and greet the voice.
“Hey, brother.”
Fitz gave Púca a loose hug and then noticed the men that accompanied him. Behind Púca was Cary and Tiny, followed by a group led by a man he recognized from his past.
“Ackerman,” Mason spoke politely as he extended his hand.
“Mason Wilcox, long time no see.” Fitz reciprocated.
“I wanted to make sure you were all doing well and enjoying the accommodations.” Púca broke through the awkward tension. “Fitz, you know Mason. Behind him here is Rug and Freddy, and…Andrew?”
“Andrick,” a soft and hauntingly mellow voice spoke.
“My apologies, Andrick. So, Fitz, Mason and his crew and I have some business to speak of after dinner. I was hoping maybe you would sit in and potentially contribute?”
Fitz’s position shifted awkwardly as Sisto finally looked over to see a group of hardened criminal-types. It was the men that Sisto mentally took note to meet during his excursion earlier in the day.
“Púca, you know I keep my nose clean now. I am just here to hang
out and catch up. I can leave if you are uncomfortable with that?”
“Fitz, I know you’re out of the game. I would just appreciate some tribal knowledge and input on what we have going on. I am not asking you to interject yourself in anything actively.”
Fitz took a moment to think about the offer, then sighed and agreed.
“Gentlemen, please join my friends here and eat and we can meet up afterward. We are all family here. Oh, excuse me a moment.”
Púca walked over to a man that was waving him down, leaving Mason and his group to take their plates and sit on the open end of the table. As they each sat down, Sisto visually assessed each one. Mason was obviously the man in charge of the group and held a slightly entitled balance about him. The young one named Freddy looked like someone’s nephew that begged until the group got sick and let him in the club. Rug was a rotund man that spoke very minimally, but as he did, Sisto felt his voice resembled the same raspy element as actor Sam Elliot. When he started telling a story of his balls chafing halfway from the park they were camped at the night before, all the way to Mustain, it was as if the actor gave birth in his throat.
The last man, Andy, or some odd variation, hadn’t spoken much at all. He had been just as quiet as Sisto. In fact, Sisto realized Andy was assessing Sisto’s group just as he was assessing the new group. Sisto tried to brush it off but felt something off by all of them. Sisto wanted to walk up to the men and offer to shake their hands but wasn’t sure how to approach. He had sat at the same table as the men for nearly twenty minutes without speaking a word to them. He did nod slightly to Mason as Fitz introduced him to the group. Sisto didn’t have to be psychic to realize something felt off about the men, one if not more of them.
Sisto stood up and walked over to the cardboard setup trash can and dumped his plate. Walking back on his side of the table was young Freddy and next to him, Mason. Rug and Andy sat on the opposite side. Sisto hobbled in his brace and faked a stumble so he could slightly bump into Freddy to start sifting through the human garbage. The Reels held absolutely nothing as he tapped his elbow in sling across Freddy’s back.
“Sorry, still getting used to this thing,” Sisto said.
Freddy looked back annoyed but didn’t say or do anything to show dominance.
“I’m sorry I was eating earlier,” Sisto said, extending his left hand towards Mason. “You and my boy, Fitz, go way back?”
Mason looked at the presumably handicapped man and shook Sisto’s left hand. The Reels kicked off in excitement and showed a highlights reel of Mason Wilcox’s greatest hits. Sisto was still trying to sort all the mishaps as he made his way back to his seat. The Reels had shown him flashes of robberies, drug pushing, prostitution rings, underground fights, all attended by Mason or organized by him. One flash intrigued him more than the rest, however. It was of him standing over a dim-lit public restroom, leaning over a sink. An open blade sat on the porcelain by the faucet controls. The blade gleamed off the poor lighting and the handle was custom made and engraved. Mason looked like he had been struggling with something as he looked at the knife. He got enraged and punched the mirror in front of the sink, shattering it into pieces.
Sisto glanced at Mason’s side before settling in at the table and saw no sheath on the man’s left side. The knife was important, or The Reels would not have shown it in the vision. Sisto wanted to get a closer look and see what the inscription had said. It may have been from an ex-girlfriend or something and have nothing to do with his case. Or it could be that Mason Wilcox was the man whose memory Sisto invaded that night of the junkyard band. Sisto looked at Mason and pondered if the large, intimidating man could be the same person that made a stranger piss himself before ending his life.
“We gotta go,” Mason spoke up a short time later. “Fitz, Púca wanted you to join us.”
Fitz stood up as Sisto whispered, “You sure this is a good idea?”
Fitz looked back and patted Sisto on the shoulder.
“Later, gentlemen,” The raspy Rug said as he stood up.
“Have a lovely time. Pleasure meeting you all,” Andy spoke.
Sisto realized he hadn’t gotten to invade the memories of Rug or Andy but didn’t want to come off as pushy. There was still all day tomorrow. Sisto just nodded at them both and let the group proceed.
CHAPTER 24
Andrick was feeling his high from Mole’s kill start to fade. He didn’t really want to be a part of the meeting they were attending but decided with two nights in the complex, he could get in the good graces of the Saints and Sinners club. If Andrick could get away with every kill he was intending on completing from that moment until Miami Beach, it would be nice to have a place to fall back to while the dust settles. As the grip he held firm all the years since Logan Woods had started to lose traction, he still had muscle-memory in place to strive for caution. The conflict internally was minimal as he knew he wanted to get away with murder but needed to kill. If he had to choose one or the other, he chose the niche occupation that he has created for himself as a messenger of death.
The meeting was apparently about a heist Púca was setting up at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. He wanted to hijack a rival gang’s shipment of guns that would conveniently be arriving at the harbor around the same time they would be closest on the trail. He said he wanted to have at least ten men veer off the event trail and take care of the proposed deal. Once completed, each man would be compensated well and be able to make up time on the trail, probably reconnecting with the event before they hit New York. Andrick stopped listening after that but watched as Púca had brought the worthy opponent he had set in his crosshairs earlier, Fitz Ackerman, into the fold. Apparently, Mr. Ackerman had some experience with situations like Púca was proposing, back when they worked together.
Andrick measured Fitz up with his eyes, trying to figure out how many different ways he could kill him. Based on his height and build, he would probably need along the same amount of drugs as the gym rat back in Miriam. 300mg was a good figure for recreational use, so Andrick figured three times that much should knock the Titan’s system down. Andrick then wondered if went the stun gun route, would 100,000 volts even do the trick? The man looks like he had endured worse. Andrick felt a twinge of greed form as he would prefer if the new slab of prey he chose could be coherent as his life was whisked away from him. He felt using drugs would be cheating himself of such a euphoric opportunity.
Andrick took note of every word spoken from the rugged man. Fitz had long dirty blonde hair with streams of gray folding in, although Andrick could only see the side of his pulled hair. The rest had been covered by a black bandana, yet the back of his hair, contained in a samurai man-bun, was protruding. The beard was long and graying as well. Andrick could tell Fitz looked older than he was, enduring many things over the years that probably added to his level of threat that Andrick had been yearning for recently. The man spoke like a poet, which threw Andrick off. It was not like the man rhymed with each sentence, but his words always seemed to be chosen carefully and executed soft but stern.
The meeting then turned another direction after whatever option had been decided on that first matter. Now, Mason had explained in the trusted circle of Púca, Tiny, and Cary, along with Fitz and the rest, about the untimely death of Mole. Freddy and Rug, while privy to the information already, had a look on their faces as if they may be sick. Púca had visible distaste at the list of crimes Mole had been accused of, along with Cary in his shadow. Fitz leaned against the back wall in thought. Surely, he couldn’t be okay with the list of atrocities, yet he kept a stoic face and body language among him. Andrick chalked the reaction up to growing up in a life where violence and heinous acts were an unfortunate but hard reality.
Mason went on to praise Andrick to Púca, explaining how Mason lay the daunting task on him and he came through with no issues. Púca assessed Andrick, as Andrick sat in a wooden chair by a small table that had a poker game felt top on it. Púca looked the sitting man up and d
own a moment, then nodded his approval of the situation. It was then that Mason continued to explain he wanted to promote Boyd Davis up to his new VP and have Andrick replace the missing hole that was left by the untimely death of the pedophile and thief that they had harbored unwittingly for so long. All eyes fell on Andrick, including the giant leaning on the wall. Andrick realized what he was about to say was actually easier than expected, partially because it had become true over the last few days.
“I was happy to kill Mole.”
That sentence lingered a moment too long and as he saw Rug and Freddy visibly shook by the statement, when he saw Mason and Púca start to look concerned, he continued.
“Mason has shown me nothing but courtesy and respect since I met him. I have had interactions here and there over the years with 3S and I can tell you that your group of men should not be tarnished by a thieving, child fucking, degenerate.”
Freddy and Rug were more visibly upset in that moment than they had been at the first statement. That didn’t concern Andrick however once he saw that the concerned looks on Mason and Púca both wash away.
“I have been a non-member longer than I was ever an actual member of any club. I have never felt like I belonged anywhere until I met these men.”
Púca looked over at Mason, then back to continue and assess the level of sincerity of Andrick’s statement.
“I don’t know you at all, Mr. Púca. All I can tell you is that I would lay my life on the line for any of the men in this room, along with anyone wearing that 3S patch.”
