Outlaw MC

by Dwayne Clayden

  The door opened. The man filled the door frame. His shoulders almost touched the sides. His thick black hair was only a few inches from the top of the doorframe.

  Davidson stepped back and bumped into Gunther.

  He gasped, “Oh shit.”

  She swallowed hard. Damn, he’s big. I think we just found Sasquatch.

  The mountain of a man with a thick dark beard and long hair pushed Alf aside. He stepped out onto the porch. “Alf, get the hell inside.”

  Alf slinked around the biker into the clubhouse and closed the door.

  “What the fuck do you want?” the biker asked.

  Davidson glanced at his vest. His patch said Sgt. at Arms. The smart move would be to retreat. Say they’d made a mistake. But backing down was what the biker wanted. Davidson moved forward a step.

  He leered. “What’s your name?”

  Now she was too close. If he decided to do some damage she would not be able to react in time. She felt like a rabbit that was nose-to-nose with a cougar. It was all about who made the first move. “Davidson and Gunther. Who are you?”

  “Jeter Wolfe. You got a first name, honey?”

  Davidson’s skin crawled and an icy chill rolled through her. “We’re looking for a missing girl. She disappeared last week. About sixteen, blond hair, slight build.”

  “She from around here?”

  “Uh, no. Southwest.”

  “Why the fuck you looking here?” Wolfe folded his arms across his chest.

  Davidson wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep acting brave. Her stomach churned, her brain screamed, Go, now! She hoped they were getting close to the fifteen-minute mark or that dispatch had checked the address and had the cavalry on the way. “We got a tip she was seen here.”

  Wolfe rubbed his chin. “I’d remember that. No young girls around here, only our old ladies. You know what I mean.”

  Wolfe’s eyes roamed over her. “Now you, you’re a real woman. I might be able to find time for a bitch like you. Do you like it rough? I bet you do.” He reached out to Davidson’s chest.

  Gunther stepped forward, hand resting on his gun.

  Wolfe laughed. “Ah, that’s cute. The gallant cop is protecting his lady partner. You screwing her? Is she a good piece of ass? She’d dump you in a second once she got a big chunk of Jeter.”

  Wolfe tried to grab Davidson again. She had the cruiser key tightly held with the end sticking out between her knuckles. She jammed the key into Wolfe’s hand with everything she had. The biker yelled and pulled away. “You fuckin’ bitch.”

  Davidson and Gunther backed off the porch.

  “You have a nice day.” Davidson backed down the sidewalk, her hand hovering over her gun.

  Inside the cruiser, Davidson held the steering wheel and willed her hands to stop shaking.

  “Jeez, you almost got us killed,” Gunther said. “That was the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever seen you do.” He keyed the mic. “Dispatch, 432. We’re clear of this residence.”

  Annie heard pounding at the front door. Wolfman looked out the window, then swore a blue streak. He herded Annie and Sissy out of the kitchen and shoved them into the bedroom. They crouched at the bedroom door, listening for the conversation, but the bedroom was too far away. Still, they were curious. Wolfman was furious.

  Finally, a key turned the lock—they scrambled back to the bed. The door opened—it was the red-headed kid. Sissy said his name was Alf. Weird name. Annie had only seen him on the few occasions when Wolfman let her out of this room, usually when he wanted the house cleaned.

  Alf came into the room and closed the door.

  Annie rushed to him. “What was that about?”

  Sissy stood behind Annie.

  “The cops were here,” Alf said.

  “What’d they want?” Annie asked.

  Alf hesitated. “They … they asked about you.”

  “Did you tell them I was here?” Annie asked.

  “N … no,” Alf said.

  Annie grabbed Alf by the shirt. “Why not? Alf, why not? I could have been free!”

  “They’d kill me,” Alf said. “Wolfman for sure.”

  “They’re gonna kill us all anyway, you stupid shit. That was our chance, maybe our only chance.” Annie slumped against the wall and slid to the floor. “My only chance.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Friday Night

  Brad tried several looks and still wasn’t sure he had it right. Getting ready for a first date never got less painful. He’d told Sarah they were going to a fancy restaurant, so jeans were out. But most of his clothes were jeans or uniforms. The only suit he owned was the one he bought for Maggie’s paramedic grad. The suit was out. A light blue button-down shirt and dark navy dress pants—that will have to do.

  If he wore a coat, he could wear his 9mm. The early spring weather was warm and he wouldn’t need the jacket. He picked up the holster and gun. He’d put them in the glove box. He grabbed a sports coat on his way out.

  On the drive to Sarah’s house, he thought about the bikers. They were as dangerous as the Mafia.

  How had the bikers grown to be a Mafia-type crime organization without anyone noticing? Devlin said they were masters of window dressing. People in the community said they were good neighbors. Newspapers printed pictures of bikers shoveling snow—model citizens. For some reason, that had changed. Their ugly side was showing.

  Brad parked in front of a modest bungalow. Large evergreens towered over the front yard. A neatly trimmed hedge surrounded the lot. He glanced at the mountains to the southwest as he moved up the sidewalk. Before he could ring the doorbell, a lady with short, light brown hair and oversized glasses opened the door. Probably watched him from the window.

  She peered at Brad, then looked past him to his car, and back. “I’m Hazel. Are you Brad?”

  “Yes. Nice to meet you, Hazel.”

  Hazel blocked the doorway, keeping Brad on the porch.

  “Sarah says you’re going to dinner. She likes dancing, you know.”

  “I remember that.”

  “She says you’re a police officer.” Hazel squinted. “That must be dangerous.”

  “Yes, sometimes. But I love what I do.”

  Hazel continued the interrogation. She would have made a good prosecutor. “Did you become an officer after high school?”

  It was a little different being on the other side of an interrogation. “Well, no. I attended university and played football for five years.”

  “I see. You played football for five years.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Brad shook his head. “I took courses, too.”

  “What courses did you take?” Hazel folded her arms across her chest. “Five years—that’s a long time, isn’t it?”

  “Mom.” Sarah, slightly out of breath, pushed past Hazel. “Hi, Brad. I didn’t hear the doorbell.”

  “Well, I didn’t get a chance. Hazel met me at the door.”

  “Mom!” Sarah glared.

  “It’s okay.” Brad winked at Sarah. “We’re having a nice chat.” Brad turned back to Hazel. “I studied economics and law.”

  “Law.” A big smile crossed Hazel’s lips. “You’re a lawyer?”

  “No. Courtrooms and law libraries weren’t for me, I graduated from law school but haven’t taken the bar exam.”

  Hazel’s frown was back.

  “I have a degree in economics,” Brad said.

  “I see,” Hazel said. “I suppose that’s good.”

  Sarah grabbed Brad’s arm and whispered, “She’ll talk all night if we don’t leave.”

  She turned to her mother. “I’ll see you later, Mom.”

  Puccini’s was the newest restaurant in downtown Calgary—the place to dine.

  A tall man with long graying hair and a thick handlebar mustache met Sarah and Brad when they entered. His face lit up.

  “My friend, Mr. Brad. Welcome.” He shook Brad’s hand with both of his and then turned to Sarah. �
��Who is this vision of beauty?” He kissed Sarah’s hand and bowed. “I am Paul Puccini, the owner.”

  “Sarah Park. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Puccini. Your restaurant is beautiful.”

  “Ah, you flatter an old man. But please, call me Paul. All my friends do.” He stepped back and snapped his fingers. A hostess in an elegant, black dress stepped forward.

  “Please show this lovely couple to their table. They will like it very much.”

  “Thank you, Paul.” They followed the hostess to a corner table for two. A bookshelf displayed leather-bound books interspersed with lamps and candles. Classical music played from hidden speakers. Brad didn’t know who the composer was. Bach? Beethoven? Tchaikovsky? They were all the same to him.

  The hostess handed them each a menu.

  A waiter in a white shirt, tie, and black vest placed a basket of toasted cheese bread on the table. While the waiter took Sarah’s order, osso buco, Brad stared at the menu. He saw spaghetti, but that seemed too ordinary. He settled on tortellini with rosata sauce. Whatever the heck that was. They agreed to share a Caesar salad.

  Sarah took a sip of water and scanned the restaurant. “I love the ambiance here. It reminds me of Italy. The north, Milan area.”

  The only place Brad could compare it to outside Alberta was in Scotland, and he was pretty sure Italy was a lot different from Glasgow.

  The waiter returned with a bottle of red wine.

  “We didn’t order that,” Brad said.

  “No, Mr. Puccini sends it with his compliments.” The waiter displayed the bottle to Brad.

  “Sarah, would you like to try it?”

  Sarah read the label. “Brunello.” The waiter poured. Sarah swirled her wine glass then sniffed. “Mmmmm. Earthy tones with wild berries.” She took a sip. “Oh, my, that is nice. The flavor lingers on the tongue.”

  The waiter filled the glasses.

  Brad took a hesitant sip. “Yes, I see.” He didn’t have a clue and didn’t like red wine.

  Sarah swirled her glass again. “What’s the story with you and Mr. Puccini?”

  “Two years ago, I was in his other restaurant, a pizza place. A doper came in with a gun in his hand and robbery on his mind. I stopped it. Since then, Paul looks after me.”

  “That takes guts, robbing a pizza joint with cops inside.”

  “Well, I wasn’t in uniform.”

  “Undercover?”

  “Well—no.”

  “Perhaps a date.”

  “Yup, a first date just like tonight.” Time to change the subject. “That is a nice dress. Blue is your color.”

  “Thank you.” Sarah smiled. “Nice change of topic.”

  Brad tilted his wine glass toward Sarah. They clinked glasses.

  “What’s the occasion?” Sarah asked.

  “Fine dining and new friends,” Brad said.

  Sarah stared over her glass. “Tell me about Brad Coulter.”

  Brad sipped his wine. “I’ve been a cop for six years. You already know I’m assigned to the Tactical Support Unit.”

  “You told mom you graduated from law school.”

  “I played football and got economics and law degrees.”

  “But now you’re a cop?”

  “Giving up law to be a cop baffled my parents, friends, and cops. The truth is, I’m not sure I understand my decision, even now. Six years ago, it felt right.”

  “Was law school always your plan?”

  “Football was my plan. Tuition was covered so that was an incentive to get an education. In my first semester, I took general studies. Economics fascinated me, so I went that route. A professor knew I’d wanted to be a cop, so he thought law would be a good idea. I was staying at university to play football anyway.”

  “So, you’re a cop and almost a lawyer.”

  “I’m just a cop.”

  “I don’t think you’re just a cop. That night at The Cuff, my friend—she’s a cop in Forest Lawn—said you’re a hero. You shot a bank robber. That he’d killed a bunch of people.”

  Brad stared at his wine. He figured this topic would come up sometime. But this early—he hadn’t expected that.

  “I’m no hero. That guy was ex-military and the leader of the gang that killed my partner and shot me. He would have killed me, too. I didn’t have a choice. It was survival, nothing else.” He took a long drink of the wine, instantly regretted it and grabbed a glass of water.

  “I’m sorry. Bad question to lead with. My cop friend thinks you’re great. It didn’t occur to me that it would be different for you. How about we start again? Where do you live?”

  “I have a house in Bowness. It backs onto Bowness Park. It’s my grandparents’ place.”

  “You live with your grandparents?”

  “No. My grandfather died when I was sixteen. He’d have been proud I’m a cop. My grandmother has early Alzheimer’s. Last year she moved into a nursing home and asked me to care for her house.”

  The waiter placed the Caesar salad between them.

  “Do you live alone?”

  “I have a dog, Lobo.”

  “Really? Not a big dog, I hope.”

  “He’s pretty big. A cop’s dog—a German shepherd. When my partner was killed, I took his dog, Lobo. That’s what Curtis would have wanted.”

  Brad felt the knot in his stomach and sadness envelope him. He was relieved when the waiter placed the main course in front of them and refilled their wine glasses.

  Sarah took a bite and tapped her plate. “Oh my god, this is delicious.”

  They ate in silence. Brad savored every bite.

  The waiter came back and poured wine for Sarah. Brad declined. “Coffee, please.”

  When they finished the main course, the waiter returned. “Would you like gelato?”

  “I’d love some,” Sarah said. “What flavors do you have?”

  The waiter listed a half dozen. Sarah selected pistachio and Brad picked raspberry.

  When the waiter left, Sarah asked, “No more wine?”

  “I’m at my limit,” Brad said. “Never good when a cop is arrested for impaired driving.”

  They finished the gelato, and the waiter cleared the plates.

  “I believe you like dancing.” Brad set down his coffee cup. “There’s a Chicago tribute band playing at the Highlander Hotel lounge. It’s only eight. Still early. Would you like to go?”

  Sarah took Brad’s arm as they strolled toward the entrance to the lounge. A low rumble grew louder, catching Brad’s attention. Harleys rushed past. The bikers wore the Gypsy Jokers patch. Where are they going? He tracked them to the east.

  “What are you looking at?” Sarah asked.

  “Not often you see that many bikers in a group. Just wondering where they’re going. Let’s get inside.” He took Sarah’s hand and guided her to seats near the stage and ordered drinks. The band played, Saturday in the Park.

  When the band played one of his favorites, If You Leave Me Now, they danced. At first, they danced at a respectable distance. With each new song, they drew closer. Brad forgot about the bikers. He was immersed in everything Sarah—the sweet smell of her hair, the warmth of her body, the way they nestled together. He needed this. The band announced the last song before the break, Wishing You Were Here.

  Brad was vaguely aware of vibration on his hip. Sarah pulled away. “Brad … Brad, is that your pager?”

  From someplace far away with only music and Sarah, Brad returned. “Oh, sorry.” He glanced at the pager. Devlin.

  “I’m so sorry, Sarah. I have to call work.” He led Sarah to their table. “I’ll be right back.”

  He caught the bartender’s eye and showed his badge. “I need to use your phone.”

  The bartender set a phone on the counter.

  Devlin answered right away. “We’ve got an opportunity. The Jokers are gathering at the Beacon. Can you meet me there?”

  “Not a good time,” Brad said. “We’re doing surveillance on them tomorrow. Not
tonight.”

  “I know, but we’ve got every member of the Jokers in one place. We’ll be able to get pictures of them. I need your help.”

  Brad hung his head and closed his eyes. At that moment he hated pagers, hated his job. Most of all he hated Devlin, but that many bikers in one place was a big opportunity. “Give me fifteen.”

  Sarah read his face as he sat down. “Do you have to go?”

  “Yes,” Brad said.

  “Work?”

  “Yes.”

  Sarah lifted her coat off the back of the chair. “All right, take me home.”

  “I can’t drive you home. I have to leave right away. I’ll get a cab for you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brad raced east on Sixteenth Avenue toward Centre Street. The Beacon Hotel had one of the hottest bars in Calgary. Not because it had the best décor or because the food was good, and the beer and drinks were watered down. It was famous as the largest strip club in Calgary, known as ‘Peekin’ at the Beacon.’ It was the watering hole of the Gypsy Jokers and their base for prostitution.

  Brad drove past the Beacon Hotel. At first, he didn’t see Devlin’s car, then he spotted it in a service station parking lot backed against a ten-foot cement wall between the station and a large garbage bin. Brad parked a couple of streets away.

  “This better be good.” Brad slid into the car.

  “Well, good evening to you, too.” Devlin glanced at the jacket. “Did I take you away from something?”

  “Yeah, asshole,” Brad said. “I was on a date.”

  Devlin raised his eyebrows. “Last week, you didn’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Well, this week I had a date that was going well.”

  “Was?” Devlin raised his eyebrows.

  “Yeah, some shithead called me away. I sent her home in a cab. Not good on a first date.”

  “Well, you’ve got me,” Devlin said. “Play your cards right, and I might buy you a milkshake at Peters’ Drive-in.”

  “Date with a gorgeous school teacher or milkshake with you? That’s a real dilemma.”

  “Yet you’re here with me.”