by Jessie Cooke
“You’re free to go.”
“Excuse me?” Wolf was rubbing one of his wrists as he turned to face the Sheriff’s Deputy.
“I said you’re free to go.” Grady didn’t look happy about it and when Wolf didn’t move he said, “Or I can find something else to take you in for.”
Wolf grinned. “No thanks. I’ll go.” He looked around on his way to his bike. Most of the emergency equipment was gone and so was the gold car…and Meeks. When he got to his bike he could see that they had left his saddlebags wide open. They were empty, as he knew they would be. Trying to stay positive that his ass wasn’t in jail, he climbed on the bike, slipped on his helmet, and with the eyes of at least a dozen police officers and one canine still on him, he pointed the bike south and headed home.
30
Wolf had another two hours to think about how pissed Coyote was going to be by the time he reached the front gates of the club. It was still early, just after eight in the morning. He wasn’t sure if that would be better or worse for him since Coyote probably hadn’t had time to self-medicate much yet. He stopped at the guard shack when he saw the young prospect there. The guy was huge, and he didn’t talk a lot, but when he did, it was obvious that he was smart as hell. Wolf suspected the guy might even be borderline genius, and he had been pushing his father to patch him in. Coyote had been too focused on Colleen and the shit direction he was taking the club for the past two years to notice the quiet kid, though, so he was still a prospect.
“Hey, Steve,” Wolf said as he pulled off his helmet.
“Hey, Wolf. Coyote’s been looking for you.”
Shit. The dealer had undoubtedly called by now. Wolf had thought about calling Coyote himself, but he thought it might just make things worse. As calmly as he could, because he was hoping the entire club didn’t have to know what happened, he said, “Okay. Is he at the club or still up at the house?”
“He’s at the house. Bruf was watching the gate and then he called me about six-thirty or so and he went up there. Coyote has called here twice since then to see if I’d seen or heard from you.”
At least Bruf would be the only witness to his murder at the hands of his father, he thought. “Thanks, Steve. I’ll go see him now.”
Steve nodded and stepped back into the shack as Wolf took off. He was sick to his stomach by the time he reached the house, and even sicker when he saw Coyote was waiting for him on the front steps. He parked his bike and slid off as his father’s dark brown eyes bored into him.
“I can explain,” he said, before he even reached him.
“You fucking better be able to. Where’s the brick?”
“Can we go inside?”
“Why do we need to go inside?”
“Fuck, Dad, can we just go inside and sit down like civilized people?” Wolf thought Coyote would argue with him further but instead, he stepped out of the way and let Wolf go in the door. The young man passed Bruf in the living room but didn’t say anything as he went straight to the kitchen and to the refrigerator, taking a beer out and twisting off the top. He felt like Coyote as he chugged half of it, but he needed something to be able to face his old man’s wrath. When he turned around, Coyote was sitting at the table and Bruf was standing behind him. Wolf looked at his friend, hard. Sometimes he loved the man for his loyalty to the club, but other times he wished he could give it a fucking rest and just be his friend.
“I’m sitting,” Coyote said. “Now you…and then fucking tell me why you didn’t show up in Sacramento this morning.”
Wolf finished the beer before sitting at the table. He took a deep breath and said, “I was on my way, almost to Livingston, and there was an accident.” Coyote cocked an eyebrow, but let his son go on. “I stopped to help…”
“Fuck me,” Coyote said. “The cops showed up?”
“Can I finish, please?” Coyote rolled his eyes, but he waited. “It was a really old man and he was in the car and the car was about to go over the side of the overpass. I just couldn’t leave him there, so I called 911, and helped him out of the car.”
“Get to the part where you tell me what happened to my brick.”
“It’s gone, Dad. The cops have it.”
“Motherfucker!” Coyote slammed his hand down on the table. Wolf didn’t flinch. He was practiced at not letting his father see how he sometimes terrified him. His stomach turned again, however, and the beer seemed to be turning sour when he tasted it come back up in his throat. Suddenly Coyote said, “So why aren’t you in jail?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Don’t get sassy with me, boy. That story just doesn’t make sense unless you’re sitting behind a set of bars with an orange jumpsuit on.”
“Well, that’s because you haven’t let me finish the rest of the story. The cops were arresting me and then Detective Meeks showed up.”
Coyote made a face. “That ginger cop that keeps showing up around here?”
“Yeah, that one. Turns out that the old man was his grandfather. He’s got Alzheimer’s or something and he stole the car and went for a joyride in his robe in the middle of the night. I don’t know how Meeks managed it, and I have no clue where the drugs ended up, but somehow, he talked them out of arresting me. They took the drugs and the gun but told me I was free to go.”
“Fuck me,” Coyote said, again. Wolf looked up at Bruf, whose expression hadn’t changed a bit. Wolf often wondered, since Bruf seemed to be his old man’s favorite everything, how many secrets those green eyes of his had seen and how many he was holding inside. Coyote finally turned around and told Bruf. “There’s a wooden chest in my bedroom. Open it up and right on top you’ll find another wooden box. It’s got a lot of jewelry in it. Take that box and find Garfunkel. Tell him I need as much as he can get me and I need the cash today.” Garfunkel was one of those guys that was a jack of all trades and a master of none. He didn’t belong to a gang, or an MC, and he didn’t work for the mob. He was what he liked to call an “independent.” He was the guy they all went to when they needed a bookie, or a fence, or even a hooker sometimes. Garfunkel had all the hookups. When Bruf left the room Wolf asked his old man:
“Is that Mom’s jewelry?” Coyote nodded. “You’re going to sell it to pay off a drug dealer?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Wolf wished he could take them back. Coyote looked up at him with fire in his eyes and he said:
“No. I’m fucking selling it to keep her son alive. You have any idea who you fucked over this morning? I didn’t own that fucking brick. But the man who did gave me twenty-four hours and three choices. I can produce the drugs, the 25k, or you.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Coyote ignored him, stood up, and went over to the refrigerator. He opened the freezer and took out a fifth of Fireball Whiskey. He didn’t bother to get a glass and he obviously wasn’t hiding anything from his son any longer. He opened the bottle and turned it almost upside down as he chugged it. When he had as much as he wanted, he wiped his mouth on his hand, closed the bottle and put it back in the freezer, and then turned and looked at Wolf.
“Go on up to the clubhouse and tell Manson to call church in two hours. I want as many there as can be…and I want the prospects there too.”
“Okay.” Wolf stood. “What about us…are we okay?”
“Hard to be pissed at the man who has the love of my life’s heart beating in his chest,” Coyote said, in a rare show of love toward his son. He couldn’t leave it at that, however. Just about the time Wolf almost felt good about what he did that morning, the old man said, “But…you better grow a pair before I die or some fool will take this club right out of your hands.”
Two hours later, blood alcohol levels as high as he could get them without appearing drunk, Coyote sat at the table in the meeting room, looking out at about two dozen of his men. Wolf was there, near the front. What he’d said to him earlier had been eating at him. He actually loved that his son was the type of man that would stop on the side of the road, without regard
to his own ass, and save someone else’s. But he also knew what this job had taken out of him, and he didn’t even come close to having that kind of heart. Wolf was tough on the outside, but Coyote worried that he wouldn’t be tough enough on the inside to do the job…and he’d end up like his old man, a miserable drunk, before he even turned fifty.
“Quiet down!” Manson yelled. Coyote had made it up to the clubhouse in time to meet with Manson first and tell him what he had in mind. Manson thought it was a great idea, but there wasn’t much Coyote ever said or did that Manson vocally disagreed with.
“You all know that the police have been stepping shit up with this task force of theirs. Right now, with Mouse in county and that mess drawing public attention, they’re more determined than ever to shake our tree and see what falls out.” Wolf looked relieved when Coyote glanced at him again. He hated that his son legitimately believed his own father was going to humiliate him in front of the entire club. “So, Manson and I have been talking, and we have an idea. This will only fly if y’all are willing to change things up a bit. Let me have my prospects up here.”
Coyote scanned each of their faces as they came forward. There was Maz, who spoke with a weird French accent. Coyote had stumbled upon him in a restaurant. The kid had been handing out cards, telling people he was a mason and looking for work. Coyote had seen him climb off his Harley earlier. He was a big guy and despite the weird accent, when Coyote spoke to him he seemed sharp. He hired the kid to do some concrete work on the shop, and Maz had asked to prospect a few months into the job. Next to Maz was a kid they called Two Tone because of a big strawberry birthmark he had across his face. He had been brought on by Shank right before he was killed. He was meaner than a snake and had a lot to learn about controlling his temper, but he was loyal and he worked hard. Cinch was next to him. Cinch was older than most of the prospects, in his late thirties already. He had recently gotten out of the army and still had the haircut and the stone face of a soldier. There was a story behind his sad eyes, Coyote was sure, but he hadn’t taken the time to learn it just yet. And then there was Steve, a genius kid from New York, and Bruce, who was Crow’s nephew. Neither of those two had road names yet…but they would soon enough.
“You guys all still want to patch in someday?”
“Yes sir,” was the collective reply. They weren’t usually invited to church, so they all looked a little nervous about being there. No one seemed to know what direction Coyote was going to go in lately and that seemed to cause them all a lot of anxiety. It kept them on their toes too, though, and he liked that.
“Good, because I plan on having a big patching-in ceremony right after the new year and you five will be the guests of honor.” The men all smiled, except Cinch. He just looked a little less serious. “But…I’m going to ask you all to do something between now and then that might well change your minds about wanting to be a Skull someday.” There were rumbles across the room. Manson banged the gavel and they fell silent instantly. “Starting today, you five will be running all product up from the border.” More rumbles and another gavel slam by Manson. “You’ll be dressed in street clothes. I’m gonna send you over to the Harley store when we’re done here. I want you to buy the cheesiest rider outfits you can find. I want you looking like those guys from that movie…what was it called?”
“Wild Hogs,” Manson said. There was a spatter of laughter. It was a movie about a group of friends that decided they were going to form a “biker” club. They were white-collar guys, and it was hilarious. Coyote particularly loved the way the movie had depicted them in designer jeans and three-hundred-dollar boots. No real biker he ever knew dressed like that, but the weekend warriors they passed on the highway sometimes did.
“So, we won’t wear any colors?” Steve asked.
“Nope,” Coyote said. “Nothing that makes you look like one of us. I want shiny new helmets and designer boots. I want you to look like doctors and lawyers that thought they needed to go a little badass over the weekend.” The guys laughed again. “Okay, so Manson here is going to take the five of you shopping and he’ll explain everything else to you as well.” Manson got up and the five guys followed him out the door. Once they were gone, Coyote turned back to his men and said, “They’re going to need a lot of help. You guys are going to have to be in teaching mode, constantly. I don’t want those kids dead, or in prison by the end of the month. One of your new assignments will be dressing in street clothes yourselves and tailing these guys for a while until they get the hang of this. You’ll all also have to pick up a lot of the slack around here. These guys do most of the grunt work and they won’t be expected to do that while they’re doing this…anyone have any comments, questions, or complaints?” Coyote wasn’t surprised when Crow held up his hand. He was always the first to comment. He always spoke his mind, even if it bordered on getting his ass in trouble. Coyote had actually expected him to be one of the guys that left and went to Boston when the split with the Southies happened, but he’d stuck with the Westside Skulls and despite being stubbornly opinionated, he was an asset. “Crow?”
The big Indian stood up and said, “I just wanted to say what a stellar fucking idea this is, Boss. Good job.”
Coyote laughed. That was not what he was expecting. But it was nice for a change to be recognized for something he did right. “Thanks,” he said. “Anybody else?” He looked at his son. Wolf still had that grateful/relieved look on his face. When no one else said anything, Coyote picked up the gavel he never used and slammed it into the table. “Church is over. Get to work.”
31
One Year Later
“Seriously?” Sabrina spat out the word as she walked into the kitchen and found Coyote sitting at the table, drinking a beer. He was glad he had put out the joint before he got up. The roach was still in the ashtray on the table, however, and her pretty eyes were on it. “Do you live here now?” It was only his fifth or sixth visit in the past year. Talia thought that it might help Sabrina if he was just around from time to time; that way she could get used to him, gradually. Of course, the benefit to Coyote and Talia both was that at fourteen, Sabrina spent a lot of time with her friends…and that gave them the private time that they both wanted.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “Still have my own place. How are you?”
“Annoyed, and choking on that nasty, skunk-smelling stuff. What kind of example are you trying to set anyway? I’m an impressionable teenager.”
Coyote tried not to laugh, but the smile couldn’t be suppressed. “I’m sorry, you’re right. You’re so mature that sometimes I forget you’re only fourteen.”
She rolled her eyes and went over to the refrigerator. “Kissing my ass won’t help you.”
“Sabrina!” Her mother had come in from the garage just as she told him that. “Watch your mouth.” The girl rolled her eyes again and pulled open the refrigerator. Pulling out the glass jar of orange juice and unscrewing the top, she started to bring it to her lips. “Huh-uh, get a glass,” Talia told her. She sighed, but did what her mother told her. While she drank her O.J. Talia said, “You want some breakfast, honey?”
“No. I have to get to school. Are you taking me?”
“The car is still in the shop, honey, remember? I thought you were going to arrange a ride for today.”
“Oh, damn…I mean shoot, sorry. I forgot. Shoot! Janie’s mom is working today, she had to get a ride from Nancy’s dad and he only has room for the two of them because of her little brother and sister. I don’t know who else to ask.”
“You’d better hurry then and catch the bus,” Talia told her.
“The bus? Mom! I haven’t ridden the bus since I was ten.”
“So…? I’m sure it still works the same way. But I see it pull up at seven-twenty every day and it’s already seven-ten.”
Coyote sat quietly, listening to the exchange between mother and daughter. But when Sabrina said, “I’m not riding the bus. I’ll walk,” he jumped in.
“I c
an take you.” Both women fell silent and looked at him. Sabrina was undoubtedly trying to come up with a smartass comment, but when Talia said, “Huh-uh, no way, she’s not getting on that bike,” it changed the young girl’s direction completely.
“Thank you, Coyote. That would be nice. I’ll get my backpack.”
“Young lady, did you hear me?” Talia said.
“I heard you. But come on, Mom. He’s here all the time because you desperately want me to get to know him. He offered to give me a ride. So, what’s the problem? You don’t trust him?” Talia looked at Coyote and said:
“You know that’s not it. I trust you. It’s just…”
“Then there’s no problem,” Sabrina said. “I’ll be right back.” She turned and left the room and Coyote could almost feel the heat from Talia’s eyes as she glared at him. He looked up at her and sure enough, there were flames in her eyes.
“I don’t want her on that motorcycle.”
“Why not? I just heard you say you trusted me.”
“Don’t do that. Of course I trust you. But things happen. She’s only fourteen…”
“I know how old she is, babe. I also know how precious she is. I’ll be very careful, I promise. Don’t you think it’s a good sign that she’s willing to let me take her to school?”
