Disposable Souls

by Phonse Jessome

Chapter 9

  Friday night, late

  “My friend, you’ve dropped the ball at a critical moment. You assured me you had it under control. Now you tell me a detective is connecting the dancer to the case, to the club. This is bad, very bad.” His ear to the phone, Nicholas Mapp waved Jimmy Williams into the seat in front of his desk and spun in his chair, turning away to face the rear wall. “You have just as much to lose as we do, remember that. You tell me he is a lone wolf. That helps. This has to be dealt with on our level now, not yours. Just isolate him for us. I’ll take care of the rest. Perhaps there is a lesson in this for you.” He spoke just above a whisper, but Williams could hear it all. “This nosy cop, didn’t he disrupt a shipment at the waterfront recently, some low-grade shit the Russians intended to flood our streets with?”

  Mapp was behind that desk, on the phone being the big man. Ignoring Jimmy.

  “Good, that’s very good. You see, the difference between a true career criminal and an amateur is always in the planning. The best part of that planning is in the art of misdirecting the police. The most credible false leads make themselves known long before the crime is committed. I’ve seen it work many times, and I will show you how it can help us now.” Mapp turned back, gestured again for Williams to sit.

  Williams swatted the side of the chair and walked around the room, making his own point. Little man doing his damndest to show how bored he was with being in the inner sanctum. The office was a cathedral of chrome, glass, and polished marble. It dripped cash and screamed success. Light bounced from every surface and collected like an array of tiny spotlights on the flawless clear-coat surface of the Ferrari in the centre of the room. The ’62 250 GTO was a priceless piece of Italian art. The chopper in the corner was more to Jimmy’s liking. He recognized the bike as an Indian Larry original. Not one of the copies built after his death. One made by the man himself. Had to be a hundred thousand dollars worth of ego boost, easy. He was sure Mapp couldn’t handle the torque that monster put out. The bike never left the office. The Ferrari was an antique and belonged in a trophy case. The chopper belonged on the road. Jimmy belonged anywhere but in Mapp’s office.

  Mapp was making a show of being on the phone, his back to Jimmy. Too busy. He walked around the car, wondered what Mapp had paid for it, wondered if the value would fall if he pissed on it. He didn’t know cars, but even Williams knew this one made a statement. Mapp was money, and in this game, money ruled. Maybe he could deliver Jimmy’s patch.

  Williams knew being on Mapp’s turf without a full patch could cost his life. He’d left the prospect leather in the van with Phil. He was here on Litter Box business, not as a club prospect. That’s what he’d tell Snake. Probably wouldn’t fly, but it was all he had.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Williams turned to see Mapp standing beside him. The phone gone now. Creepy fuck moved without making a sound. Mapp wore a black track suit with silver-and-blue trim on the sleeves and legs. Stallion support wear, for the after-hours crowd.

  “Ever take the chopper out?” Williams asked as he walked over for a closer look.

  “Jimmy, you don’t take a bike like that out anymore than you do that Ferrari.” Mapp laughed. “A fender bender in that car would bankrupt a small town. Dropping the bike would be a crime. They are investments, nothing more.”

  Williams figured it would make more sense to hang a picture of the car on the wall, the bike too. He knew Mapp’s wife was a hot piece with an ass that caused car wrecks. Probably didn’t ride her, either.

  “I want to thank you for your intervention this morning, Jimmy. It’s why you are here now.”

  “What, you offering a reward or something?”

  Mapp smiled. He leaned on the edge of the desk, folded his arms, and looked down at Williams.

  “There could be a reward. If you think a patch on your back is a reward.”

  So there it was. Mapp was a shot caller. Jackpot. Williams was in the right place. Had to play it cool, though.

  “It’s comin’. Just doin’ my time, same as everyone else.”

  “Good to hear. I just wouldn’t want your efforts on my behalf to become an issue.” Mapp walked over to the chopper. Kept his back to Williams. “There are things about the club you don’t know just yet, but I think you must at least suspect the truth.” He turned back. “Why else would you choose my side over your vice-president today?”

  Williams hadn’t chosen Mapp. He just figured Gunner needed to slow down before he ended up in a jail cell. There were witnesses everywhere. He let Mapp think what he wanted.

  “A bold and smart move like that is a sign. I read signs, read people. It’s how I ended up here.”

  “So how do I end up here?” Williams wanted Mapp to get to the point. He had to get to the clubhouse to work the party.

  “Well, obviously you don’t end up here.” Mapp laughed and took his seat again. “No, you belong where you are, but I see having someone like you on my team as a worthy investment, like the Ferrari. Having people in the right position means everything, Jimmy. Like the man I was just speaking with. He is in a position to help me, help the club, and maybe help you. He can help because he is loyal to me. Can you be?”

  Williams had learned a lot in prison, but the most important lesson was that loyalty, like respect, had to be earned. So far, Mapp was coming up short.

  “So who is this guy?”

  “I can’t say, Jimmy. You should take comfort in that. I never discuss those who prove helpful. Suffice to say he is in a position of some influence.”

  “Whatever. Just tell me what you want from me.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. There are winners and losers in this world of ours. Most of the losers are gone, in jail or dead. The winners reap the rewards. You can be a winner, Jimmy. All you have to do is keep the police from coming near the club. I don’t care if you have to confess to killing that preacher to do it.”

  “Like fuck.” Williams walked to the edge of Mapp’s desk.

  “Relax, relax, Jimmy. It was a hypothetical example, nothing more. I just need you to know the importance of keeping the club, and by extension those of us who sit above the club, out of this. You do that, and I guarantee you a patch no matter what Gunner thinks. Hell, I’ll have Gunner give it to you if that makes you happy.”

  Fuckin’ A, yes. That’s what Williams needed. He remembered the Indian. Well, he couldn’t be blamed for things that had already happened.

  “There’s a problem.”

  “There always is.” Mapp leaned his elbows on the desk, and rested his chin on his finger tips. “Tell me.”

  “That Indian cop was at the club looking to talk to Lolita. We kicked his ass and sent him packing. But he’s been around her, so that’s around the club.”

  “Funny. That’s exactly who I was speaking with my colleague about when you arrived. Constable Christmas’s curiosity about the dancer is our number-one concern at the moment. I’m glad you were upfront about it. I see my judgment is sound. It seems, for now at least, he is on his own. Tugging at a loose string only he can see. That’s where you may come in, Jimmy.”

  Williams looked at him. Waited.

  “Montreal has good things to say about you. Says you handle wet work better than most. We think it’s time the club put that talent to work on a more delicate matter.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you should explain it for me.” Bringing Montreal into it meant one thing. Mapp was connected well beyond the Stallion Halifax charter. Still, Williams needed to hear him say it.

  “Of course. Look, this is not going to be like gunning down a rival dealer or someone stealing crack from the Litter Box. If this happens, and I feel it will, the police will be looking under every rock. Like nothing you’ve ever seen. There can be no trail.”

  Williams looked at Mapp. Could the guy really be asking him to
kill a cop?

  “I see you are puzzled. Let me make this clear. A decision will be made tonight. I will contact you after that happens. If, as I suspect, action is required, we will make certain Constable Christmas is at a certain place at a certain time. I will know the when and where. You just have to be ready. Can you eliminate our problem if that time comes?”

  “Fuck, man, I can do that. Had the chance an hour ago. Can you deliver on your end?” Finally, a chance to step up, use his skills, and make his name.

  “A patch for a badge. Yes, I think I can handle that.”

  Gunner tipped his chair against the wall and scanned the crowd. Cheyenne slithered down the chrome pole onstage. Two girls pranced the edge of the stage in heels and nothing else. Cheyenne arched back from the pole and dropped below the crowd. He fought the urge to stand. The clubhouse was jammed. A tight band was playing, the booze was flowing, and the heavy smell of high-grade pot filled the air. Gunner was working.

  He watched a street pusher from the Litter Box stagger across the room. The guy’s jeans hanging low from the waist. A cluster of ugly gold chains danced in front of the wife beater stretched across his chest. He crowned his gangsta get-up with a silver-and-blue Stallion support cap. The bill in the side-locked position. Another white-trash fool trying too hard to be black.

  This ghetto goon was a problem. He kept bumping into people, hard. He was building up to something, about to let everyone know he was the man. Wrong place, wrong time for pissing on trees. Gunner stood. The club’s newest prospect, Chucky Hill, was beside the door. He was tall, but thin. Maybe too thin for a fight. Time to see what he was made of. Gunner nodded to Hill and waded into the crowd.

  The moron was stopped in the middle of the dance floor, working his cellphone, making a show of texting or tweeting or some damn thing. Gunner pulled the phone from his hand, and slapped the sideways ball cap off his head. The guy was big, six one and maybe 220, not used to people fucking with him. He spun quickly, looking wild eyed as he shoved his right hand into his waistband, digging for a piece that wasn’t there. His hand moved left and right, but then stopped as the realization hit him. Gunner watched as a slight panic crept across his face. He didn’t have a gun. He was sobering up enough to realize he wouldn’t be carrying in the clubhouse. He looked around the room for support. If his crew was with him, they were staying out of the fight. The guy squared up with Gunner, set to unleash the first punch. He didn’t even get his arm back. The new prospect circled behind and swung an arm around the fool’s neck, locked it expertly in a rear naked chokehold. He pulled the guy off his feet and eased him to the floor as he choked him out. Quiet, efficient, and no drama. Prospect Hill showed promise.

  Baggy jeans, white T-shirts, and locked ball caps flooded the dance floor as a dozen Litter Box Boys moved to the fight. Who the hell would take these clowns seriously? Maybe Gunner was losing touch with the street. He set his eyes on the guy in the lead. He was younger than his friend on the floor, smaller, but big enough. His stride was even and smooth. If he was drinking, he held it well. Everyone in the room was watching. The band stopped playing, Cheyenne stood beside the pole, her eyes on the three leading Litter Box Boys. The prospect moved in from behind him, squared off with the three men, standing between them and Gunner. Kid had balls.

  The guy in the lead spread his arms out from his sides, palms open and facing forward, his head tilted slightly sideways as a smile crossed his face. He made a quick sweeping motion with his hand, and the two guys behind him moved to pass him, their hands out palms forward, as well. The prospect turned back, and Gunner nodded. He let them pass, and they bent to help the drunk on the floor.

  “Bro, we are truly sorry about this. He’s havin’ an off day. We’ll take him home if that’s okay.” The guy was definitely sober.

  “Do that. When he wakes up and starts worrying about this, tell him he should. If he starts to think about coming here to apologize, tell him he shouldn’t. Tell him never to show his face near this house again.”

  One of the guys picked up the ball cap and the cellphone.

  “Leave the cap. He doesn’t wear blue and silver again. Take him out now.” Gunner’s gaze never left the guy in front of him.

  “Not a problem. He’s all gone, m’man.” He nodded to the door, as the two men lifted the drunk from the floor and dragged him to the exit.

  “Good luck with the ride tomorrow.” The guy trying to keep it casual and friendly now.

  “I want you here when it ends. You can explain to me why this asshole was trying to prove himself in my house,” Gunner said.

  “Sure, but he’s…” He started to say something, but thought better of it. “Yeah, sure m’man, what time?”

  “Just be here, and he’s got nothing to say about it.” Gunner figured the hesitation meant the drunk ran the crew, and this guy didn’t want to step out of line. Smart guy. He’d be running the crew tomorrow. His first job would be messy. Shit happens. Shit stays the same.

  Gunner went back to his chair as the band ripped into a GN’R tune. He wanted to go jam, but the idiot being carried through the parking lot was proof he couldn’t kick back tonight. It was one of those rare nights, when the clubhouse welcomed squares along with the regular hang-arounds to a party. Outsiders in the house meant rats in the room, and Gunner stayed ready. No one gets hurt; nothing for the rats to talk about.

  He was thinking maybe Jimmy Williams would get hurt, but that would wait. The little shit should have been here working the door with the Hill kid and the other prospects. More than that, he should have been controlling his idiot crew. He’d get here soon enough. Cheyenne had told Gunner about the fight at The Bank. Williams was going to have to explain how beating a cop would keep the police away from the club.

  Gunner faced the wall, his guitar slung low. He stomped a foot switch near his amplifier and turned back to the front of the stage. The clubhouse was locked down, the squares gone now, and he was trying to relax. His fingers raced across the fret board chasing the solo that blared from the speakers overhead. Beads of sweat dropped from his close-cropped hair as he leaned over the guitar, eyes closed. He tried to get into the solo, but his mind wandered. The house had the dead smell of cheap perfume and stale beer. Hard to groove when the party’s over. He opened his eyes, spun the volume knob down, pulled the guitar over his shoulder, and leaned it against his amp. He was thinking about Cheyenne.

  Snake Howard marched into the centre of the room with a wooden gavel in his hand and a murderous scowl on his face. Jimmy Williams was behind the bar cleaning glasses. Gunner smiled at the mean-looking green-and-yellow bruise covering half his face. Snake shot the prospect a look, and Williams swaggered to the side door and disappeared into the office.

  Eight full-patch Stallion members were draped over the couches and chairs. They weren’t sober, but they were still functioning. It was late for a club meeting. The group looked pissed off. Mostly because the women had been chased out by Snake. They’d be more pissed if they knew the meeting was just a show. Gunner had already reached out to Cam.

  “Gunner, shut the fucking stereo off. That shit’s been too loud all fucking night.” Snake dropped into his chair and slammed the gavel onto a small wooden table to his left. Church was underway.

  Outlaw clubs were calling their meetings church before Gunner was born. No one questioned it. Dues are paid at church; business is discussed, and, when necessary, punishment is handed out. Only full-patch members can attend, and missing it was a serious offence. Snake had called this meeting, and he was chairing it down in the main room to allow members to be more comfortable. He didn’t like chopping a party short for a vote, but club business always comes first.

  A half-finished bottle of Jack Daniels sat on a wooden crate in the middle of the cluster of chairs and sofas. Gunner walked over and raised the bottle, taking a long pull before putting it back on the table and taking the chair beside
Snake. He worked through last night’s party; today’s was just beginning.

  “We’ve got a problem,” Snake began. “That dead preacher is going to cause us some grief.”

  “Fuck ’em. We didn’t kill him,” Grease said, reaching for the bottle.

  “No, we didn’t, but one of our girls is involved. And the dumb bitch dropped him beside our house.” He stared at Grease; the older biker didn’t flinch. “Our former brother knows we have cameras. That means a search warrant and cops inside the house.” Everyone looked at Gunner.

  “Fuck that. They can’t get in here on that weak shit.” Dirty Lyle pushed himself up from a leather armchair and began to pace.

  Gunner was surprised to hear him speak up. He was the newest full-patch member. His Stallion patch was so clean on his back it almost looked fake. Lyle’s loose crop of blonde hair stopped short of his shoulders and framed an angelic face with full red lips, a razor-sharp nose and deep-set blue eyes. His features bordered on feminine, and the older bikers had balked when Snake himself sponsored him for membership. Lyle wore a deep blue, open-collar cotton dress shirt over tight-fitting designer jeans. The clean leather cut and Stallion patch looked like an afterthought. The kid ran a profitable drug pipeline into the university campuses in Halifax. New kid or not, the patch meant he could speak, and the others listened.

  “Boys, they’ll try to bluff their way in the way Cam did yesterday.” He glanced at Gunner as he circled the small group. “That body wasn’t on our property, and last time I checked, strippers weren’t members. No way they get a warrant on that.”

  “We can’t take the chance with the lawyers. We need to clean the house. Guns, drugs, knives, explosives. All of it,” Snake said. Gunner knew the president hated being contradicted, especially by a kid he’d sponsored.

  “Naw, shit’s safer here,” Leroy Moon Eyeking interrupted. Moon patched in while Gunner was serving in Iraq, and the massive biker was voting with his fat ass. “They gotta be watchin’ the place. We can’t get it out, so I say we leave it sit.” Always looking for an excuse to do nothing.