Outlaw MC

by Dwayne Clayden

  “William Aberhart High School.”

  “Can I speak to Sarah Park? She’s a teacher. I’m Brad Coulter. ”

  “I’ll see if she’s still here.” The line was quiet.

  The secretary came back on the line. “She’s still here. I’ll transfer the call.”

  Brad heard ringing then Sarah answered.

  “I didn’t expect you to call back,” she said. “You’re a hard man to get a hold of.”

  “I, uh, I owe you an apology for the other night,” Brad said. “Sometimes work gets in the way.”

  “I was surprised and pretty mad. Then I talked to my cop friend, and she said that for cops that wasn’t unusual, and in your job, you’re on call all the time. So, I thought we should try again.”

  “I’d love to see you again, but this isn’t a good time.”

  The line was quiet. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

  “No, no, that’s not it. I’m involved in something dangerous. It’s risky being out with me.”

  “What if I come to your house?”

  What was the harm in having her over? Lobo would alert him to anyone in the yard and he’d have his gun close. “I guess that’s okay.”

  Sarah hesitated. “That wasn’t very encouraging.”

  “I’m just cautious, that’s all. How about I make dinner for you? I’m a great cook. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “How can I turn down a home-cooked meal by a self-proclaimed chef? What time?”

  “Seven?” He gave her his address.

  Thursday Evening

  Brad glanced at the clock—almost 1800 hours—then shuffled the cards and dealt. Devlin studied his hand. “Got any twos?”

  Brad grinned. “No, go fish. Got any jacks?”

  “Jeez, are these cards marked?” Devlin flipped two jacks onto the desk.

  Brad scooped up the cards. “Got any—” The phone rang. He snatched up the receiver. “Coulter.”

  “Is your friend with drugs there?”

  Brad glanced at Devlin. “He is.”

  “Put him on speaker.”

  Brad hit the speaker button.

  “Devlin. What do you want?”

  “To meet. Market Mall. Woodwards West entrance. Be at the pay phone in fifteen minutes.” The line went dead.

  Brad and Devlin raced out the back door.

  Brad had the unmarked sedan flying as they sped up Sixty-Fourth Avenue to Fourteenth Street. The speedometer hit one hundred and twenty kilometers an hour. The car got air as it hit the entrance to the mall and skidded to a stop beside the payphone. He wasn’t sure they’d made it in time. Devlin jumped out and sprinted the ten feet to the phone. He glanced back at Brad and checked his watch.

  The phone rang. Devlin grabbed the receiver.

  Devlin ran back to the car and jumped in. “Drive around to the south side. Woodward’s door. He’s wearing a Stampeders ball cap and a jean jacket. Go.”

  “TS 110, Woodward’s south side.” Brad put two elastic bands on the mic button, swung a U-turn, and raced to the south side. As he pulled to the curb, a man with a Stamps ball cap and jean jacket stepped away from the building and slid into the back seat. “Pull away now. Go north on Shag, then west on Crowchild.”

  Brad pulled out of the mall parking lot and glanced in the rearview mirror. The guy looked familiar. Oh shit. “Very elaborate, Pickens. All cloak and dagger.”

  “Can’t be too careful,” Pickens replied.

  Devlin turned to face Pickens. “How’s it going, Slim?”

  “You’ve done your homework. But then you’ve been following the clubs for weeks and taking photos. Yes, we know all about that. You’re Tommy Devlin, narcotics. Your chauffeur is Brad Coulter, a sergeant in TSU. He hunted and killed the gunman that murdered his partner.”

  “Great, you checked us out,” Devlin said.

  “Not just me. The clubs know you don’t have the support of your department. You’re working alone. Well, almost alone. Pick it up, Coulter. I don’t want your backup finding us.”

  “You know about us,” Brad said. “We know about you. You called this meeting. What do you have for us?”

  “Nice, right to the point,” Pickens said. “If we agree on some mutually beneficial terms, I’ll provide the information you need to shut down the clubs. Understand?”

  “Yeah,” Devlin said. “We get lots of calls from people with information. Most of it’s bullshit. You gotta give us something good.”

  Pickens grinned. “Your fuckin’ funeral—literally. You wanna walk away from the guy who can give you Felix Keaton?”

  “We need to be sure you aren’t fuckin’ with us,” Brad said. “We’ve had some bad information lately.”

  “That wasn’t the Gypsy Jokers,” Pickens said. “You might want to focus on the Satan’s Soldiers. But if we come to an arrangement, I can give you the Jokers, too.”

  “I thought you were a Gypsy Joker,” Devlin said.

  “I am,” Pickens said. “There’s no greater thrill than stepping into a bar wearing Joker colors and seeing the respect from patrons.”

  “You mean fear and revulsion,” Brad said.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You might be surprised, but we’re trusted. It’s the cops they don’t trust.”

  “What do you want?” Brad asked.

  “What do most people want? Love, money, or revenge. For me, I love money. I don’t want a long-term relationship. We do this for a few months, then I’m done. I need immunity for things I may have done in the past that might come out in your investigations.”

  “We can’t give you immunity,” Brad said. “Especially if you’re a murderer or rapist.”

  “I give you my word I haven’t killed or raped anyone,” Pickens said. “You know people who can give me immunity. I’m sure you know a prosecutor or two who could help. Coulter is tight with a judge,” Pickens smiled. “That should help.”

  “We’re at the city limits,” Brad said. “Where to?”

  “Head out of town.”

  They passed the last houses of the city and into acreage country. Brad drove west on the two-lane highway, checking the rearview mirror. A black truck had been following for too long.

  “Continue,” Devlin said.

  “I’ll also need one hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Are you fucking crazy?” Brad said. “We don’t have that kind of money.”

  “It’s not that I need the money,” Pickens said. “I have an exit strategy that will more than take care of me. But what I’m offering doesn’t come for free.” Pickens leaned forward. “I’m risking my life. Don’t you think that has a price? If not, then you’re the crazy ones. Your careers will skyrocket. I can give you information that no other cop in Canada has. It’s non-negotiable. I’ll accept payments. Of course, I’ll need that in writing. I’ll have my lawyer work out the details.”

  “Your lawyer?” Devlin asked.

  “A partner in a high-profile law firm. The Gypsy Jokers, as do all the clubs, have many lawyers on healthy retainers, waiting to provide immediate services. Haven’t you ever wondered how bikers are out of jail before you’ve even finished the paperwork? Most of the time, the lawyer is already at the station. I can recommend several, should you find yourself in need.”

  “We can’t make any promises,” Devlin said. “We’re going to need something before we enter into any relationship. We’ll do our part. What’re you offering?”

  “I’ll think about it. It will be worth every cent. Coulter, pull onto the shoulder here.”

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere.” Brad’s gut rolled. Something was wrong. Had they been stupid. He kept driving.

  “Coulter, pull over now.”

  “Yeah, yeah, when I’m good and ready. I’ll pick the spot.”

  A gray sedan raced past, pulled in front of them then slowed to a stop.

  Brad followed the car off the road and stopped.

  The black GMC pickup pulled in behind Brad’s car. Devlin pointed
his pistol at Pickens.

  Brad threw open the door. With his gun drawn, he approached the truck. Zerr and Steele raced up beside him, shotguns leveled.

  “Get out of the truck, now!” Brad shouted. “Out of the truck.”

  The driver’s and passenger’s doors opened. Two men got out, hands in the air.

  “Hands on your heads and walk toward me. Now!”

  The men complied.

  “On your fucking knees,” Brad yelled. “Do it now!”

  The men knelt.

  The sound of a scuffle came from the passenger side of the truck. Brad pointed his pistol as he stepped toward the noise.

  Ames came around the corner, pushing a man. “Always one more shithead.”

  Devlin and Pickens walked over.

  “I believe this concludes our business for today,” Pickens said. “Let my men go and we’ll be on our way. I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Friday Morning

  Brad didn’t sleep much that night. He replayed the meeting with Pickens over and over. The smirk on Pickens’ face was seared into Brad’s head. He’d wanted to search Pickens’ men, but that would have ended any chance of getting information. Brad’s blood boiled as they drove away.

  He wanted to believe this was a break but worried for his life and the lives of his team. They’d taken a tip and ran right into an inferno. Not going to happen again. He didn’t believe Pickens’ bullshit story about not needing the money, unless he was skimming from the Jokers accounts. That would get him a slow, painful death. Pickens was playing his own game and Brad needed to figure out what that was.

  He had planned to ask Pickens about Annie, but then the meeting had come to an abrupt halt. Next time, if there was a next time. Circulating Annie’s photo had yielded a few tips, but no Annie.

  He met Devlin before seven at the Barlow truck stop. One of the perks of being on patrol for five years was knowing where to get a good breakfast.

  Devlin looked his usual homeless self in tattered jeans and T-shirt. Brad was more presentable. They sat on opposite sides of a booth in the corner and silently sipped coffee.

  Archer, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, paused as he stepped into the restaurant, surveyed the room, then strode to the booth.

  The waitress set a coffee in front of him. Archer poured cream into the cup, stirred, and took a sip. “I can’t tell if you two are working off a bender or someone stole your puppy. What’s up?”

  “Good morning, Chief.” Brad told him about the meeting with Pickens. “We think he’s the real deal.”

  “That’s quite a story.” Archer sipped his coffee. “If he’s their treasurer, did he offer any details of their operation?”

  “No,” Brad said.

  “That’s something to get from him. Cooperating with a biker raises red flags. It comes down to what you’re willing to sacrifice, willing to compromise. It’s never clean with an informant. Unfortunately, sometimes that’s the way we have to work.” He took another sip. “What does he want from us?”

  Brad stared at his coffee, then spoke. “He wants a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Of course he does,” Archer said. “Don’t we all? We don’t have that kind of money. Tell me you didn’t promise anything?”

  “Relax,” Devlin said. “We said we’d have to get you and the prosecutor on side.”

  “You didn’t use my name, did you?” Archer asked.

  Devlin shook his head. “Of course not.”

  “Why do we need a prosecutor?” Archer asked.

  “He wants immunity for anything he did in the past,” Brad said.

  “You two are crazy.” Archer shook his head. “He wants a hundred K and immunity?” Archer spilled some coffee. “What do we get in return?”

  “He’s inside the Gypsy Jokers,” Brad said. “He said he’d get us information on the Soldiers, too. We’d never get this kind of information any other way. Pickens had to do something illegal to get to this level in the club. Criminal Code stuff. That’s why he needs immunity.”

  “How bad?” Archer asked.

  “We’re not sure,” Brad said.

  “What did you find when you did a computer search?” Archer asked.

  “We didn’t run his name,” Brad said.

  Archers’ eyes narrowed. “Why the hell not?”

  Brad lowered his voice. “We’re compromised. There’s a leak.”

  Archer clenched his jaw. “A leak? What the fuck do you mean?”

  “We don’t know if it’s a reporter or somebody in dispatch or records.” Brad hesitated. “Or a cop.”

  “Are you serious?” Archer looked around the restaurant and lowered his voice. “Why am finding this out now? You two assholes didn’t think this was important enough to tell me?”

  “We weren’t sure,” Brad said. “We’re still not positive.”

  “Now you trust me? Thanks a fuckin’ lot. Why do you think we’re compromised?”

  Brad leaned forward. “They—I mean the Jokers and the Soldiers—have been ahead of us all along. We think someone in records is involved. Both of our license plate numbers were entered into the computer at the same time we were doing surveillance on the Jokers.”

  “That’s easy, check the regimental number of who requested the search,” Archer said.

  “We did,” Brad said. “Someone is using Collins’ regimental.”

  “If this wasn’t so serious, using Collins’ regimental to do searches would be funny.” Archer rubbed his forehead. “Who knows about the informant?”

  Devlin leaned over the table. “Brad, me …. Steele, Zerr, and Ames. Now you.”

  “You two fuckin’ amaze me. You tell them before me? Stop telling people. It’s not statistically possible that six people can keep a secret unless five are dead.”

  “We can’t do this alone,” Brad said.

  “I know,” Archer said. “I said I’d support you and I do. But you need to keep me in the loop.”

  “What about the money?” Brad asked.

  “I can’t get a hundred thousand. I could get the RCMP involved. They might get cash from Ottawa.”

  “No RCMP,” Devlin said. “They leak worse than we do, and they’d take this over. We’d lose everything.”

  “Then they’d screw it up,” Brad said. “We gotta find a better way.”

  Archer massaged his temples. “Let’s meet with a crown prosecutor. You have one in mind?”

  “Vaughn Matson,” Brad said. “He hates the bikers.”

  “I’ll set it up for today.” Archer got up to leave. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Not going to have breakfast with us?” Brad asked.

  Archer snorted. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “We’ll take care of your coffee, Chief,” Brad said.

  “That’s nice.” Archer turned to the cook. “Cops still drink coffee here for free?”

  The cook grinned.

  Brad and Devlin arrived at the crown prosecutors’ office before 0900. Archer and Matson were seated at a table.

  Of the dozen prosecutors, Matson was the favorite because he was hard on criminals. He had piercing gray eyes and a perpetual frown like he thought everyone lied to him.

  Matson pointed to chairs opposite them. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

  “Brad,” Matson said, “you’ve done well. A sergeant—and TSU. Congratulations.”

  “You two know each other?” Archer asked.

  “Many years ago, a law school graduate spent the summer carrying my briefcase and researching my cases,” Matson smiled. “He did great work and had promise. I guess I scared him away. He became a cop.”

  “Well, damn,” Archer said.

  “Although, I was talking to Judge Gray last week. He thinks we might get the cop to come back.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that,” Devlin said.

  “Archer gave me a quick overview. I have no respect for the outlaw motorcycle gangs—organized crime, since that is what t
hey are. Unfortunately, the public doesn’t believe that. They kill a dozen people, then raise some money for charity and all is forgiven. That’s bullshit. On the other hand, legally speaking, I am against getting our hands dirty to put a few bikers in jail. You have fifteen minutes to convince me.”

  Brad told Matson what he’d told Archer at the restaurant.

  “He wants immunity for past crimes,” Matson said. “Seems that’s his goal. The cash is a bonus. There’s something in his past he’s afraid of.”

  “We’re not sure what he did,” Brad said.

  “What’s his criminal record? He must have been arrested a few times if he’s been a member for seven years.”

  “We didn’t run his name,” Devlin said.

  “Why not?” Matson asked. “That should have been the first thing you did. We need some idea of who we’re dealing with. Are you worried about a leak?”

  “That’s a possibility,” Archer said. “We’re cautious. This could be a big break for us, real big.”

  Matson shook his head. “If he’s been the main hitman for the club, there’s no way I can sanction any form of deal—and certainly not immunity.”

  “He said he hasn’t killed anyone.” Brad felt like an idiot the moment it left his lips.

  Matson opened his arms. “Well then, if he said that, no problem. What the hell did you think he’d say?”

  “I believe him,” Brad said. “He’s not a typical biker. He dresses and acts like an accountant. He’s soft-spoken and seems like an ordinary guy.”

  “So were several serial killers, including John Wayne Gacy,” Matson said. “We don’t know enough yet.”

  “Why not put that condition in the contract?” Archer asked. “Immunity except for a few things like murder or rape? He had to earn his patch somehow.”

  “The problem is we don’t know how,” Matson said. “I might be able to get one hundred thousand.”

  “What?” Archer said. “From where?”

  “That’s for me to worry about,” Matson said.

  “What’s the next step?” Devlin asked.

  Matson leaned his elbows on the table. “First, he needs to give us something significant. You need to meet with him again. If it’s good information and we get significant results, then I’ll consider a payment plan. Ten-thousand-dollar increments if the information keeps coming. Immunity is doable with the caveat his crimes aren’t murder or rape. If not, the entire deal is off, including immunity. He screws with us, he becomes our target.”