Chapter 5
Gunner stepped off his bike, pulled the skid lid from his head, and dropped it over the mirror. He tossed his fingerless riding gloves into the helmet with one hand then reached into his pocket and pulled a crushed pack of cigarettes out with the other. His cellphone played a familiar Skynyrd riff. The fuck does he want? He tapped the green button on the small screen.
“Seen enough of you today, little bro.” He then listened, trying to shoulder the tiny phone so he could light his fucking cigarette. Gave it up.
He spotted the dancer leaning against a dumpster and waved her over with his unlit cigarette. She gave him a light. He waved her back to the dumpster.
“Look, man, I got club business going here. I don’t know shit about Mom’s grave. All I remember is him saying he’d do the blessing.” He sucked a satisfying drag from the unfiltered cigarette. “Seriously, bro, I got shit going on. You just get your ass to the run. Fuck Greg.” He took another drag. “Don’t give me that shit. This is one ride you don’t miss. I’ll scrape your fucking tat off myself. See you at the house Saturday.”
He punched the red button, pocketed the phone, and walked to the dancer. As he got close to the rear door of the club, he could hear a solid guitar riff peeling the paint off the ceiling inside. GN’R. Fuck, a stripper with taste. He decided he’d take a piece of that. He looked down at the dancer in front of him.
“Follow me, bitch.” There was no disdain in it; it was like another man saying, “Follow me, dear.”
In the hallway ahead he saw Phil Murphy standing outside the main office like some hulking doorman. Gunner admired Murphy’s loyalty, even if he couldn’t stand the man giving Murphy his orders. The real reason the gunplay had stopped in the streets was that Murphy was a soulless killer who did exactly what Jimmy Williams told him to do. He’d once scooped another man’s eye out with a spoon in front of a dozen witnesses. Williams hadn’t even meant it when he told Murphy to do it; it was just to scare the bastard. The eye was gone before he could say “Wait a second” to his enforcer. Street lore had it the little freak pissed himself laughing. Gunner never asked Williams about it and never would.
He walked up and reached for the doorknob. Murphy moved to block him. Shit, he didn’t need that. Gunner’s play was forced. He moved away from the door and looked up at Murphy. Gunner was comfortable with his size; he was big, broad, and intimidating. He figured most men felt small when they squared off against him. He rarely got that feeling, but he had it now. He broadened his stance as he watched the struggle play out slowly in hollow eyes hidden beneath an overhanging forehead. Murphy was at least smart enough to know he couldn’t stand in the way of a full patch. Also, smart enough to know what Williams would do to him if he let someone pass. Poor fuck.
“He tell you to keep everyone out?” Gunner asked.
“Yeah.”
“You gonna try to keep me out?”
“No.”
“You just did.”
“Yeah.”
The fucker’s smarts ended somewhere short of lying. Hell, Gunner wanted to cut him loose. Wanted him to make up some bullshit excuse for the move. Too fucking honest. Shit. The punch hit the cement jaw before the cigarette hit the floor. It was hard but not as hard as it should have been. Gunner didn’t pull it. Didn’t rotate his hips to follow through. Made it an arm shot. Still, it came from a powerful arm. Murphy’s head rocked up and then dropped back into position. His hands didn’t even close into fists. He ate the hit. Perfect fucking soldier. Too bad he was wasted on such an idiot.
“Go watch my bike,” Gunner said as he turned to the office door. He opened his hand wide, spreading his fingers apart to try to get some feeling back before he grabbed the knob.
Inside, some redhead was kneeling with her back to the door. Her hair bouncing. Jimmy Williams stood in front of her, looking down, his hand on her bobbing head. The girl’s ass was planted on her heels to get her head low enough.
“Get the fuck up,” Gunner said, as he moved into the room. The girl jumped to her feet. Williams nearly fell to the floor as he struggled to get his dick back in his pants. Gunner took a step forward with his left leg, lowering his right hip as he rolled his elbow back, and brought one all the way through. It found a smaller, softer jaw, but damn, the hand still hurt like a motherfucker. Williams landed up against the wall in a heap. The girl was grabbing clothes from the sofa and keeping her eyes away from Gunner.
“Out,” he said and then turned to the dancer in the hallway behind him. “You get in.”
The redhead closed the door with a quiet click behind her as Gunner moved up onto the riser and sat on the edge of the desk to wait. It didn’t take long. The little man could take a hit, too. He sat up with his back propped against the wall and moved his chin back and forth with his right hand. He looked at Gunner to see what was coming next.
“Here’s the thing, prospect,” Gunner said, as he stepped down from the riser to tower over Williams. “I sent you here to find out what one of your girls was doing at the clubhouse last night. You don’t come back, so I gotta make the ride here. I find the girl I need standing outside while you fuck around with the wrong bitch in here. You really that stupid?”
Gunner wanted to build himself up to another shot at the fuck, but Williams looked too pathetic. He dropped into the sofa, throwing his legs out, the big boots clunking on the riser across from him. Williams stayed on the floor. Gunner caught him looking over his legs at the dancer by the door. Or maybe just hoping for Murphy. Gunner pulled a cigarette out to replace the one he’d dropped in the hallway. He tossed the pack into Williams’s lap, letting him know the beating was over. Time for business.
“You talk to her?” He nodded at Lolita.
“Yeah, she says Grease was on meth, she wasn’t there. The one you just kicked out is her lover. I was helping her shift loyalties.” He popped a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and then rubbed at his chin as he took a long pull.
Gunner looked down at the prospect on the floor, saw his eyes were starting to clear, could see defiance there. Good. If he wanted a full patch, he’d better show something after a sucker punch like that.
He thought about the stripper’s story. Grease did like those little chunks of ice. He was no addict—he’d lose his patch over that kind of shit. Still, he’d stayed behind during last night’s run, and he did like to indulge now and then. Gunner thought back to the conversation over the engine this morning, remembered the clarity in Grease’s eyes as he worked.
“Naw, she’s full of shit. Grease was clear as crystal today, not using it.”
“That’s what I figured. I know you don’t want her marked, though, so I was working on the other one.”
Gunner nodded. Neither man looked at Lolita.
Gunner slumped in the passenger seat. Murphy was behind the wheel, Williams somewhere in back where a prospect belonged. The van smelled like shit. Gunner powered down the window and lit a smoke to mask it. He pulled a pair of earbuds out of his pocket and stuck them into his phone. He rolled through the music for something to clear his head, stopped on “Sympathy for the Devil.” The Motörhead cover. He let himself melt into Brian May’s smooth licks as Lemmy’s vocals growled over the top. Damn if it wasn’t better than The Stones. He stayed with the music as he thought about the stripper. He wanted more time to push her on her bullshit story, but two things stood in the way. Both of them money. First, it was time for her headline act. The Fog Bank couldn’t afford to sit down the headliner during the second busiest show. Lunchtime is money time.
The second reason was that prick Nicholas Mapp. Guy kept the cash flowing, but Gunner longed for the day he’d be stuffed into one of his own money bags and dumped offshore. Mapp had called, asking for a meet to discuss the preacher, like it had any fucking thing at all to do with him. Mapp was Snake’s man, but he called Gunner. Fuck it, he pulled on the smoke and let the m
usic drive his thoughts.
Gunner was in the middle of the fourth run through the tune, watching May’s fingerings roll across the back of his closed eyelids. He knew every phrase and lick by heart. Williams interrupted.
“Hey, man, we’re in Lower Sackville. Gonna be at Mapp’s in a minute.” He touched Gunner’s shoulder to confirm he’d heard it.
“Then tell me when we’re there. You think I want to watch the finer scenery of this shithole or something?” He closed his eyes again.
Lower Sackville is a twenty-minute drive from the clubhouse. Gunner hated the place. Mostly because he’d shacked up with a crazy bitch for a miserable winter there. Well, it wasn’t all miserable, but the chick took a knife to him when she decided he needed to buy her a ring. Wanted it that night. In the middle of a fucking blizzard. He looked out the window at an endless string of used car dealerships as Murphy began to slow the van. Used cars and used-up chicks, welcome to Sack-fuckin-Vegas. The van turned into a roadway with checkered flag paint covering the pavement. It led to the biggest pile of used metal on the strip. Mapp Motors. You couldn’t see it from the strip, and there was no big neon sign like those outside the other dealerships. Nicholas Mapp brought in his customers with an endless barrage of dumb-as-fuck TV commercials. You don’t need a map to get to Mapp Motors, was the tag line on every one of them. Well, you fucking well do, shithead, Gunner thought as Murphy pulled to a stop. He parked near the service bays and washing stations, where lemons were polished into gems.
They were here to meet Mapp, the drug dealer, not the car dealer from the TV commercials. Gunner pulled his Stallion cut off and folded it carefully before placing it on the seat behind him as he stepped out into the steamy heat of the early afternoon. It wasn’t because of the heat that he’d pulled his leather. Mapp insisted the club not fly colours where its interests meshed with his legitimate business. Fifteen years ago, Mapp couldn’t get inside the Stallion clubhouse. Now, he was giving orders, and even Gunner, the fucking VP, had to follow them. Williams dropped out of the side door onto the lot and walked toward Gunner, still wearing his prospect colours. Gunner slapped him in the side of the head. Williams spun and waddled back to the van. Hitting a prospect always took the edge off.
Mapp had started hanging around the club when Gunner was a prospect. He thought he could buy a set of colours. He’d inherited millions when his parents died in a yacht explosion. All that money couldn’t even get him hang-around status. He was a slimy loser with no spine. Not Stallion material. That cash bought him something the club did respect, though. Friends in Colombia. He controlled the flow of so much snow, the club couldn’t afford to cross him. If he cut them off, they could kill him, but they’d still be scrambling for a new supply.
Mapp’s money-laundering empire hides in plain sight in an ugly cluster of buildings decorated with uglier flags. They sprawl in a wide oval, a race track in the middle. Keep Sackville’s NASCAR nutjobs happy. Rows of shining cars filled the space behind each small building. Chevies behind the nearest building, Fords the next, the Jeeps after that. Beyond that, it was mostly imports. One building near the far corner sat behind rows of restored classic cars. Gunner noticed an old Vette. Paint the sucker blue and silver and take it home. Like fuckin’ Mapp would give him a deal. Rather pay full freight somewhere else.
Nicholas Mapp walked out of the sea of clear coat in a loose-fitting white blazer over a black T-shirt. He wore matching white pants. Reminded Gunner of a cop on a TV show he and Cam watched as kids. Hated the show; fucking cops always won. Mapp stopped in front of Gunner and shoved out his right hand under a smile as white as the blazer.
“Appearances, my man, appearances,” he said when Gunner hesitated.
Gunner shook his hand. Williams stepped up and reached out. Mapp looked down.
“Appearances, man,” he said as he turned away from Williams and put his hand on Gunner’s shoulder. Gunner held back a laugh as they walked away from the prospect.
“So what do we have? How bad?” he asked.
“We’ve got it handled.” Gunner wasn’t going to talk club business even if the club needed Mapp.
“Look, Mr. Neville, this is our business. Not just club business, okay? If this insanity blows back on you, then I’ll need another crew to move my blow.” He flashed a ten-thousand watt, twenty-thousand-dollar smile. “Is the murder of the good preacher going to land inside the clubhouse?”
“No, we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. But there might be a small connection. One of our dancers maybe knows something.” Gunner felt like he was betraying his bros. He made a silent vow: if Mapp’s day ever came, he’d do the wet work.
“What does she know?”
“She isn’t saying yet; I was working her when you called. Grease says she wanted help getting rid of the body.” Gunner reached for his smokes and swore as he realized they were in his cut. Mapp must have caught the move because Gunner was looking inside an open silver cigarette case before he raised his head. He pulled one out, tipped it to Mapp, who already had a silver lighter out.
“Do the police know about her?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps she should simply cease to be.” Mapp pulled out a cigarette of his own and lit it, turning his back to the dealership. Appearances. “You have to understand something here, Gunner. There are things in play that are much bigger than you or Snake. This unfortunate mess has—how shall I put this?—implications beyond your local concerns. It is important that you clean it up quickly.” Giving orders now.
“Fuck this shit,” said Gunner. “You know who you’re talking to, so back the fuck off before you cease to fucking exist. I said all I am going to say. We’ll deal with it. I came here as a favour because you wanted to know. You know. We’re done.”
Gunner headed toward the van. He paused mid-step when he heard laughter behind him. He spun and took two quick steps back. He pushed Mapp hard once, and the laughter stopped. In an instant, the old spineless Nicholas Mapp was backing away.
Gunner grabbed a fistful of that expensive silk blazer with his left and slid his right all the way back to fully cocked, ready to do twenty-thousand in damage. The cocked fist stayed there. He turned to see Murphy’s meaty hand wrapped around his wrist. The giant had a pained look in those hooded eyes. Williams peered out from behind his strong man.
“You wanna do him here, that’s cool. Just thought you might want a moment to pause. That’s all. Let go, Phil.”
Gunner’s fist almost flew into Mapp on its own, but he stopped it. He smoothed the blazer and looked Mapp in the eye. “I think you got the point, shithead.” He spit at Mapp’s feet to drive it home.
He walked back to the van. He pulled the door open and reached in. He threw the leather over his shoulders and stood there, putting his back to the customers wandering around the dealership before he got in.
The van rolled over Magazine Hill. They were almost back to Halifax before Gunner spoke. He started with Murphy.
“You get a pass this time. Not saying what you did was right, but it wasn’t all wrong, either. Tell you what, though. Next time you want to stop my fist, step in front of it and take the hit.”
“Okay.”
Just one word. But from Murphy it carried the weight of a speech. Shit. Gunner looked at the big man. Knew he meant it. If it came to it, Murphy would step in front next time. Fuck, if the guy showed one ounce of intelligence, he’d put him up for prospect himself.
He turned to Snake’s favourite prospect in the back. “You gutless cunt, hiding like a bitch.” He blew smoke back in Williams’s face. “You ever get it in that greasy fucking head you know better than a patch, you’d better step up. You put the club first back there. Woulda been a ballsy move, if you stepped up to me, showed it. Might have earned you my vote. Instead, you show me pussy.”
Gunner turned back to the front. “Get me to my ride.”
&n
bsp; He slipped the earbuds back in place and scrolled through the music in his phone. Needed something edgier this time. Went for Slash. Just right. The grinding guitar was pulling him back into his place. He could hear Jack calling from the clubhouse. Slash was grooving while Ozzy was singing about “Crucifyin’ the Dead” when Gunner’s head drifted to his brothers. Cam was a problem. Saying he couldn’t make the run Saturday.
Stallion members out in good standing must ride in one club run a year to protect that standing. That meant Cam, especially Cam. The blessing was the only run Cam ever made. No way Gunner would let him miss it this year. The blessing was an all-clubs run. The First to the Fight assholes made it a point to fly their colours there. They wore an outlaw-style, three-part patch, and Gunner was pissed because he couldn’t pull it. The Stallion protected its territory and made sure no one flew outlaw-style colours. Trouble with the First to the Fight pricks was that they were cops, firefighters, and paramedics. The club wasn’t going to go to war with them over patches. As long as those pricks rode on the blessing run, Cam could ride behind the club, and no other cops could say shit. Missing the ride meant Cam losing his standing. Gunner still believed his brother would walk away from the pigs and become a true bro again. But if he lost standing, well, fucked if Gunner would sit by and let that happen. Cam would ride.
As for baby brother Greg. What the fuck had Cam said? Some shit about the three of them riding to the bitch’s grave after the blessing. Like fuck. Could priests even ride? He knew Greg rode the shit out of the dirt circuit as a kid, but could he ride now that the Jesus freaks owned him? He smiled at the thought of little Greg on that motocross track flying from hilltop to hilltop. Little fucker could fly. Man, had to give him that. He had no memories of Greg that weren’t at a dirt track. Only place they were allowed to see him. Thanks, Grandma. Bitch.
Lemmy was screaming at his doctor while Slash pounded that Les Paul to shit in the earbuds. He smiled at the song and at the image now playing out in his mind: Greg jumping up and kicking Gunner’s bike to life, running that suicide shift like a man, lighting up the ass end. Crowd of squares staring at the priest in the outlaw saddle. Shit, that would be worth the price of a ride to the old lady’s hole in the ground.
Disposable Souls Page 11
