The Devil's Syndicate

by Chris Draper

  “I'm not gonna ask you again.” Hawk said wiping the soap from his shirt with his right hand. “Do you know Dottie or not?”

  Cherice sighed. “You must really wanna find this girl don't you?”

  “Why else would I ruin my favourite shirt?”

  She smiled. “Yeah I knew Dottie. She worked here for a few months up until a couple weeks ago then didn't show up one night for a shift. It pissed off a few of the girls since then we had to work doubles.”

  “Any idea where she went?”

  “No but I went to her place after my shift to check on her, you know in case something had happened, and there was no answer. She didn't have a cellphone or anything. She kept saying she didn't plan on staying here very long.”

  “Okay, did she leave any other contact information before leaving?”

  “I don't know about that but my boss Marvin,” She nodded towards a narrow dimly lit hallway behind the stage. “He might know something. His office is back there.”

  “I'll check with him in a minute. What else can you tell me about Dottie? Was she happy here?”

  “Dottie was always in a good mood, she didn't let much get her down. Said she came from a bad family situation back on the West coast and wanted to start a new life here.”

  “Interesting. So you guys were close?”

  “No, we just worked together. But us girls here kind of look out for each other. It's a tough job you know.”

  “I understand. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  Cherice put a finger to her lip, thought a moment, then said: “She was seeing someone. Some dude who used to come in and watch her dance.”

  “This guy, how do you know she was seeing him?”

  “Dottie talked about him a lot, about being on his motorcycle and how she thought she was falling for him. You know, she was young right and seemed like she hadn't been in love before.”

  “Do you know this guys name?”

  “Maybe Brian or something like that? I never really talked to him but I think Marvin my boss did.”

  “What did he looked like?”

  “He was a big guy.” She looked Hawk over. “Bigger than you, maybe 6'3'' and 220 pounds. I think he was a biker.”

  “Do any of the bikers here now know him?”

  “No those guys rode up from New York, this guy was a pure Florida biker. You know, had a deep tan, spoke with a Florida accent, seemed to know the local beers.”

  “Alright. Did Dottie tell you where she might have went?”

  “No she just left one day. I think she was having problems though, she was going to a lot of meetings.”

  Hawk raised an eyebrow. “Meetings? What kind of meetings?”

  “You know, for substance abuse, alcoholics anonymous and all that kind of thing. A few of the girls who work here went to them.”

  Hawk made a few notes in his pad then asked, “Do you know where these meetings took place?”

  “It was at the Saint Mary's Community Centre on Cybil Avenue. Like I said, a lot of the girls here went there for their problems with drugs and alcohol.”

  “She was into that stuff?”

  “Not at first but I think that guy she started seeing got her hooked on a couple of things. Funny now that I think about it he was the one that drove her to those meetings.”

  Hawk finished writing then said. “Is there anything else?”

  “Nope think that's all."

  “Okay thanks for your help. If you think of anything else here's my card.” Hawk gave her his business card, put down a twenty on the counter to cover the drinks.

  “I hope you find her mister, Dottie was a really sweet girl.”

  “I hope so too.”

  Hawk then got up and made his way past the riot of bikers and dancers to the hallway where Marvin's office was located in the back. The hallway had doors to the washrooms and the smoke stained walls had fliers of past events that had been held at the club. Hawk was surprised to see fliers dating from the 1950's when the place used to be a jazz club. Although the dance music was less intense here he could still hear the thundering bass shaking the floor with the stomp of the bikers out front. He spotted a door at the end of the hallway with a large golden plate on it and assumed that had to be Stein's office and headed towards it. He was right. On the golden plate the name Marvin Stein was inscribed in a tacky font.

  He leaned closer to the door and could hear a faint conversation going on inside. He knocked once and heard the conversation stop. “Whadda ya want?” A throaty voice shouted from inside that sounded like a mix of Oscar the grouch and Bette Davis. “Come back later, I'm busy here!”

  Hawk tried the doorknob but it was locked. The knob was old, could probably be broken off. Hawk wasn't in the mood to wait. He could still taste some blood in his mouth from his run in with He-man. He took a step back, then push kicked the door with his right foot and the flimsy wooden frame flew back easily. There was a scream from inside and Hawk saw two girls sitting on a large oak desk in skimpy outfits rubbing the exposed hairy chest of a slimeball who had to be none other than Marvin Stein himself.

  “Marvin Stein?” Hawk asked. “Hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Stein was furious and quickly buttoned up his shirt. Stein was probably around 45, short, had slick black hair, and looked like a greasy gangster from some 80's action flick. He turned to one of the ladies, a Latino women perched on the right wearing too much mascara.

  “Valerie, go fetch Bo will you? Tell him we got a wiseass back here that needs to be hauled out by his balls.”

  The woman made a move to leave but Hawk blocked her. “Bo's a little occupied at the moment.” Hawk then spoke to Stein. “I gave him a bit of wash in the kitchen and think he's gonna be M.I.A for the next little while.”

  Stein looked at Hawk's shirt, noticed a few soap bubbles falling down near the bottom and motioned for the two women to leave. Hawk let them pass then shut what was left of the door behind them.

  “Now will you tell me who the hell you are?” Stein asked indignantly.

  “I was told you have information on a girl who used to work here. A girl by the name of Dottie Wagner. I need you to tell me everything you know about her. Am I clear?”

  Marvin's jaw dropped slightly. “You expect me to tell you about one my girls after you just storm in here like some god damn superhero, bust down the door to my office, and then have the nerve to tell me you beat up one of my guards? Get the hell outta here wiseguy before I call the police!”

  Hawk looked down a moment, took a deep sigh, then stepped in closer to Stein who shrank back a foot in his chair then grabbed him by the collar speaking within an inch of his face. “Look Marty, I'm not having the best day right now. See this shirt I'm wearing? Do you know how much this shirt cost me?”

  Stein looked at Hawk like he was a madman and slowly shook his head from side to side.

  “About 300 pesos. And do you know approximately how much that is in U.S. currency?”

  Stein was speechless.

  “No of course you don't. It's about $15.00. But besides that it was my lucky shirt and now it's ruined see? So knowing that I think you better tell me everything I want to know before I decide to mop the floor with your greasy ass.”

  Marvin took a deep breath and spoke to Hawk with his face turned away. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about Dottie Wagner.” Hawk kept his eyes on Marvin. “I want to know everything you know about her.”

  “She worked here for a few months as a dancer then didn't show up to work 3 weeks ago. That's all I know, I swear.”

  Hawk pushed his arm into Marvin's throat and he made an ukkkk sound.

  “I know that already. Do you know how to reach her?”

  “No she didn't give me a number. Girls come and go in this business, it's not my job to keep track of everyone.”

  “What about her last cheque? She didn't leave a forwarding address?”

&nb
sp; “No we paid our girls after their shift so she would have been paid already.”

  “I heard she was dating someone, do you know anything about this guy?”

  “He was a biker that used to come in and watch her dance. I talked to him a few times”

  “What was his name?”

  “It was a weird name.” Marvin thought a moment. “Byron. Yes that's what it was. He didn't give me his last name.”

  “Okay.” Hawk said and loosened his grip on Marvin's collar and wrote the name Byron in large letters in his book. “Anything else?”

  Marvin shook his head, choked out a hoarse, “No nothing else.” And winced for a reprimand but Hawk let him go.

  “Okay, if you think of anything else here's my business card,” Hawk dropped a card on the desk beside Stein's wallet, turned to leave but then stopped suddenly and turned back around. Stein flinched and brought his arms in front of his face but Hawk was done with him. He reached down, pulled out a 20-dollar-bill from Stein's wallet on the desk, said “For the shirt” then smiled at Stein and turned around and left the room. As he was leaving he saw He-man back by the front door. Hawk walked toward him and he moved out of the way, nodding at Hawk as he passed by.

  On the way back to the hotel Hawk pulled over on the side of the road in front of the Saint Mary's Community Centre where Dottie had been attending her meetings. He tried the front door which was locked, then looked at a bulletin board behind a pane of glass. It said the next meeting was tomorrow night at 8:00. He made a note of the time in his book then headed to one of the strip malls located near the hotel. He had a new shirt to buy.

  5

  The Devil's Syndicate had their base in a large old brick warehouse deep in the Big Cypress swamp of the Florida Everglades. Byron had purchased the warehouse from another biker who said that it had been used as a still during the prohibition era by mobster Al Capone. Before that he'd heard that the facility had been used for logging in the early 1900s before falling into disrepair sometime in the 1930s.

  Byron liked the place as soon as he saw it. Being in the Big Cypress made sure that the Syndicate would be completely secluded with nothing around for miles except impenetrable swamps infested with alligators, crocodiles, Burmese python, sawgrass and dense entanglements of mangroves. The only way in was a small dirt road partially overgrown with cattail bush and low lying trees. It was an old road said to have been built by the original Seminoles who cultivated the land hundreds of years ago and trailed off for miles before joining onto the Tamiami Trail connecting to the rest of Florida.

  The building was mostly hidden by tall mangroves and sat on the edge of a fresh water river that snaked off into the wilderness. Part of it had also sunken into a slough and now looked a bit lopsided though Byron had studied carpentry in prison and had been able to correct some of the flooring to keep it relatively straight inside. The interior was built into several small rooms about 300 square feet in size and got its electricity from a Generac 60 kW propane generator that a Syndicate was assigned to refuel once a week. There was no internet, no phone connection, and the only source of contact with the outside world was a few radio stations and a bit of basic cable on a clear day as reception in this area of the wilderness was almost non-existent.

  In this part of the country heating wasn't an issue either as it was warm year round but the temperatures could soar above 90 degrees Fahrenheit on an average summer day so Byron had placed two heavy industrial sized fans in the main room of the building that seemed to keep the temperature cool. It was true that the conditions inside could sometimes get quite damp but most of the Syndicate had spent years living in prisons or squalid apartments anyway so it wasn't much worse. He had also considered installing cameras at one point so he could keep an eye on everyone but had tossed the idea after realizing he would have had to hire outside help which could compromise their location. Byron had also constructed a metal garage on the right side of the building that could only be accessed from the outside and Syndicate computer wiz Travis Cheung had even installed a communications deck for when they needed to contact other Syndicate members out on the road. Out here though they were primarily kept isolated from the rest of society and functioned as a solitary unit. Which was exactly how Byron wanted it.

  He liked the idea of running the Devil's Syndicate in private with no cops, no rivals, and nothing but miles of deadly flora and fauna separating them from the rest of the state. Sure, the living conditions weren't great and a member of the gang had to ship in food once a week which consisted mostly of canned goods, but then again the food they brought in was better than the prison food most of them were used too anyway. Each member also had their own room sparsely furnished with a single bed, radio and a toilet. Old pipes had been installed years ago that ran water in from the freshwater river outside but they had to manually filter the water themselves and the sewage had to be changed weekly which was then dumped into a fetid swamp located a mile behind the compound. There was a kitchen with a crude oven Byron had installed as well as a sink and small fridge that mostly contained water and some meat.

  Byron had told the Syndicate that living here was the best thing for them as it provided a sense of camaraderie that would help make them work more efficiently as a single entity. It let them know that they had a safe haven, a place where everyone could belong and follow out Byron's orders as he saw fit. Having everyone under one roof also allowed Byron to know what everyone was doing, so if something was needed at a moment's notice it wouldn't take long to assemble members together. The Devil's Syndicate after all was a business to Byron - and so far business had been good.

  The Syndicate had been his baby all those long nights he sat up planning out the details with fellow Syndicate Randall Morello while they sat in their cell at Florida State Penitentiary, each doing a 4-year stretch for being accessories to the murder of two members of a rival motorcycle club. Byron had got the name Devil's Syndicate after reading into some Satanist teachings in the prison library. There had been a book there by a famous cultist by the name of Anton Levy and almost immediately Byron had felt a connection with the material, almost like the words on the page had been written for his eyes only. He'd decided then that he would assemble his own group as soon as his prison sentence was over, a place where the criminally disadvantaged could form one unit, a place where he could teach them what he knew and a place where they could function as outcasts from society.

  But if someone were to ask him what the Devil's Syndicate was he felt that it wasn't such a clear cut answer. Was it a cult? A biker gang? Byron didn't like labels. He'd seen videos on TV before of those bullshit hippy cults from the 60's and that didn't seem to fit into his vision of the Syndicate. And then again there were dozens of other bike clubs around the country and Byron himself had rode with one called Satan's Stormtroopers but those didn't seem to match his vision either. The gang he'd rode with had all been a bunch of clouts who seemed to care more about how many hookers they could acquire on a given night rather than doing anything meaningful. The Devil's Syndicate was different.

  He'd heard many times that it was better to be feared than respected, and he wanted everyone in the Syndicate to fear him first and respect him second. He'd dreamt up hundreds of ideas from his cell those long nights, the types of crimes they would commit, how they would act – how they would dominate the drug and weapons trade in Florida and move their net elsewhere when things got big enough. How long ago that now seemed that the Syndicate was taking off and things were running smoothly.

  The outfit currently numbered about 20 club members but there was dozens more part-time members working the streets and clubs in places as far off as Jacksonville and Tallahassee. Actual Syndicate members in the compound could fluctuate daily but there was always someone going out or coming back with information to ensure Byron knew where everyone was on a weekly basis. He also knew that none of the members would try to double cross him either – he'd shown them before that he could be both merciless
and swift with retribution for any member that defied his hospitality. Usually a bullet to the brain before tossing them into the river worked best; or at other times maybe burying them back in the forest where no one would ever find them.

  And once they got the ransom money for a girl named Dottie Wagner he could focus on moving their core operations to other areas of the state. It was always easy to buy abandoned buildings on the outskirts of major cities, he could get one in each major city in Florida and the Syndicate would rule all the way from the tip of Mexico to the fringes of the state border in the North.

  Thousands of dollars worth of weapons, drugs and electronics were stored in the compound, not to mention the 'big prize' as Byron had called it which was Dottie Wagner herself. Her father was a rich investor that Byron knew could easily cough up a couple million for his daughter's safe return. He also knew that no one would be able to track her this deep in the Everglades. Dottie was kept secure in her own room that had a steel door with a small opening in it to provide her with meals twice a day. The room was locked with a deadbolt and Byron had his cousin Larry Grimes guard her and the rest of the compound whenever the Syndicate were away. Larry was a bit slow in the head but Byron knew he was reliable since he was blood and blood never let you down. Larry was now going through a box of rifles, taking them out to inspect like a child would a new toy. He kept pulling out the ammunition clips and smiled at the simplicity of their loading mechanisms. On a small color television nearby some of the Syndicate were crowded around a worn leather couch watching a pretty reporter on Channel 3 reporting last night's robbery-murder.

  “Police are still searching for suspects in last nights brutal slaying at an industrial complex on the Miami waterfront. The thieves killed three guards and made off with thousands of dollars worth of military weaponry and high grade explosives. Police are saying it's one of the worst crimes committed in a year already marred with similar crimes across the state. One of the guards, a man named Lester Womack, has gone missing and authorities are worried that he has been kidnapped by those responsible. We go live now to the Amarack site where all of the carnage from last night took place.”