Disposable Souls

by Phonse Jessome

  “Fine, I leave that to you,” Laroche said.

  “As for the priest and the cop, well, that cop may be our out,” Mapp said.

  “Excusez-moi. Or for you anglais, ‘What the fuck, Nick?’”

  “That cop was a member of a special unit on the waterfront. They were supposed to fight terrorists, but all they ever did was get in the way of drug imports. We’ve been careful, but others have lost significant quantities of product. Thanks to our own friend with the badge, the police here have begun to look at the Russians. The machine-gun hit fits their style, and I managed to plant a little misdirection before the hit.” Mapp smiled and sipped the Scotch to let the point land.

  “Why would the Russians shoot a cop? Even they are not that stupid,” Laroche said.

  “They lost more than most groups in these waterfront raids. The priest was simply caught in the crossfire.” Mapp drained his glass and then stood to get a refill. “Can I replace yours?” He looked at the tiny bits of crystal along the edge of the pool.

  “No, I have to head to the house and my newest Nomad. I’ll drink with people I like. You think you can fix this shit, do it. Make it fast, Nick, or this free ride of yours is over.” Laroche gestured to the pool, and the view beyond, as he walked to the pile of clothes on the sofa.

  Monday morning

  Lolita smiled as she raised a sleeve to her face. The smell of smoke lingered in the fabric. She loved that it was a Stallion support hoodie; she’d never wash it. Phil Murphy opened the door and pointed her into the office, ending her moment of joy. She cursed herself for coming to the club instead of staying at the motel, but the showers here were bigger and cleaner. She was also trying to avoid Sheilagh and her questions. She hadn’t even gotten to the dressing room when the giant stopped her and sent her in. She wondered what Williams and his goon were doing here so early on a Monday.

  The ugly freak sat at his desk, his legs out, the boot heels catching the edge of the desk. She watched as he flicked the Satan’s Stallion Zippo open and shut, showing her the logo like it meant something. The clicking of the lighter the only sound in the office. She turned away from him and looked at the monitors on the wall, one of them showing the empty dressing room. She was surprised he hadn’t shut it off before calling her in. On another monitor, she could see a small group of men huddled around the tables furthest from the stage, probably at the poker machines. The rest of the club was empty.

  “Take that fuckin’ hoodie off. You know better, girl.” Williams dropped his boots to the floor and stood behind the desk. Stallion support gear was banned at The Bank. She knew it but didn’t really care.

  “I got nothin’ else here,” she told him.

  “Like I give a fuck.”

  Lolita pulled the hoodie off and stood topless in front of the desk, let him look. She pushed an arm inside the open sweatshirt and pulled the neck out through the bottom, then pulled it back over her head with the Stallion logo now on the inside.

  “You know why you’re here, don’t you?”

  “Left Saturday night,” she said, thinking bad timing was the real reason.

  “Where’d you go?” Williams demanded.

  “Nowhere. Just went for a drive and started feeling sick, so I went back to Sheilagh’s.”

  “Every time you wander off I got a mess to deal with. You got cops coming here, leaving me to clean that shit up. Who were you with?”

  “My brother.” She could see the answer confused him. Didn’t take much.

  “Girl, you lie to me again, and I will take you out back and shoot you. I don’t give a shit how much money you bring in. Pussy is pussy, and you can be replaced.”

  “Not lyin’. I got a brother, and he lives here.” She dropped into the sofa across from the desk and began pulling at her tangled hair. Raking her fingers through it, smiling at the smoky smell, still there. Maybe she would hold off on that shower another day.

  “Bitch, you smell like shit. What the hell you been up to?” Williams stepped down off the riser, grabbed a fistful of her hair, stuck his face in it.

  “It’s just rock. Sheilagh had a party last night. Too many people hitting the pipe.”

  “Rock, my ass. I know what rock smells like.” He released her hair and unleashed a hard backhand, catching her on the side of the head. She fell back to the couch.

  “You know what, girl, I don’t give a fuck where you went. Don’t give a shit if you got a brother or if you killed that preacher. I’m the one out there fixin’ your shit, and you need to show some respect.”

  She looked at him, said nothing.

  “What? You think I’m shittin’ you? Well, you take a look at the news, bitch, see what happened to that cop you brought here. He’s dead, outta your life forever. You can thank Jimmy for that.”

  “You killed a cop?” Could he be that stupid?

  “It’s time you know who you’re dealing with, girl.”

  He grabbed her sweatpants at the ankles and pulled them off with a violent yank. Lolita didn’t see him pull the knife; it was just there touching her cheek. She rolled over on her back as he lowered the blade. She felt cold steel as the fabric split at her waist. She was glad she wasn’t wearing her stage panties. They were expensive.

  Lolita lit a cigarette as she watched the van pull out of the lot. The freak was gone. She was standing near the garbage bin behind the club. She clutched the front of her hoodie tight with her left hand, closing it around her body. It wasn’t cold; she just needed it tight across her chest. The smell coming from the bins didn’t bother her. It was better than the smell of that little bastard. It wasn’t the first time she’d been raped, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. Course, she was told long ago a ho can’t be raped. Still, she was sure that’s what it felt like when real women got raped. Even if it wasn’t real rape, there was something about Jimmy Williams that made her skin crawl, and she needed to clean him off her body. She was more worried about what he had told her than what he’d done to her. If Jimmy really had killed a cop, he was dead. So was she if the club found out she knew. She had to get away. The white Ford rolled around into the back lot, and she tossed her cigarette into the trash bin. Maybe she should burn the club down behind her.

  She jumped up into the passenger seat.

  “Hey, how are you?” Samuel asked as he put the shifter into gear and headed for the street.

  “Great now. Where we going?”

  “Home.” He smiled at her. His eyes glowed. He looked different since the fire. She wondered if she did, too.

  “Whose home?”

  “Ours, the Church of Salvation. It belongs to us now. We are going to take over. I will be the preacher. You will make a wonderful preacher’s wife.”

  “Wife?” The laugh burst from her lips. Samuel was full of surprises. It was like he was changing right in front of her. “I can’t be a preacher’s wife. Besides, you’re kinda my brother, you know.”

  “No, I’m not. Who better, Tatjana? We know everything about each other. We accept all of it. We are one. And now we are free.”

  Lolita thought about it as they drove. Why not? She called him brother, but that was just something they’d started doing long ago at the ranch. She’d had sex with him many times when they were children. Not because they wanted to, but because they were forced to.

  “You think I could be a preacher’s wife? I mean, would they let me?”

  “Of course. You can be Mary Magdalene. I will cure you of the seven demons of the flesh. You will stand as a beacon by my side. Saved by the love of Jesus. Saved by my love.”

  Lolita had no idea what Samuel was talking about. She didn’t really want to change her name to Mary, but she was sure Lolita wouldn’t work as a preacher’s wife. Sam often talked about the stuff they taught him in that church. It was stuff he seemed to know about. Maybe she could be cured. She sure as shit didn’t
want to live in Jimmy Williams’s world anymore. How much worse could a church be?

  “I want to. I do. I never want to go back there. But the club, they will find me. They will kill us both. Let’s just leave here and go somewhere far away.”

  “No, Tatjana, they will fall before the power of God. His hand is in all of this. In church yesterday, as the fools in the congregation wept, I felt a sudden warmth. A true joy in my heart that can only come from God. He is with us, I feel it.”

  He turned, looking for traffic as he angled left out of the driveway and up the hill away from the strip club. His smile was like nothing she’d seen before. Maybe God was making him happy. She wanted to feel that kind of joy, but knew she never would. His smile broadened as he continued. Maybe God had made him crazy.

  “God showed the people of my village his wrath. They were sinners. I see that now. He chose me. His hurricane set me free. He chose you, too, Tatjana. He spared you when the bombs fell on your town. Once he brought us together, he tested us to measure our faith. We passed that test, and now it is over. Do you see?”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing, reached into her bag, and pulled out her cigarettes.

  “He purified us in the crucible of pain,” Samuel said. “Now, He has killed all who stand in our way. My second father and his white-haired whore. You saw how easily Bobby fell before us. This is our time. We are going to shake the Church of Salvation free of Satan’s grasp. We know the hypocrites, know their sins. Satan and all his followers will run from the church now.”

  It was the most she’d ever heard Sam say at one time, but most of it made no sense. She worried that maybe he really was crazy, that maybe the fire had tipped him over the edge. She’d seen girls crack over weird shit that happened to them.

  “That’s not the Satan I’m afraid of, Sam. The Stallion will come for me, and believe me, they won’t fall like Bobby. That freak Williams did something; if they think I know, nothing will stop them.”

  He patted her leg and laughed.

  “Satan’s Stallion. Don’t you understand the name? He is speaking to you. He put that godless horde in front of you so you can see Him crush it. Then you too will feel this joy.”

  He patted her leg again.

  “Trust in Him, trust in me. Your new life begins today. We need to find you some proper clothes and introduce you to the elders and church staff. When my mother returns, she will help us take our place at the front of the church. It’s what she wants for me.”

  “Hey, little perv, getting any?” Yves Laroche asked as Jimmy Williams walked into the clubhouse.

  “Matter of fact, I just had a taste. How’s the porn business treating you?”

  “Just fine, little man, just fine.” Laroche slapped Williams hard on the back, almost knocking him off his feet. The big biker laughed.

  Williams clenched his fists at his side but smiled broadly at the Quebecer. He could swallow the little-man shit one more time. He knew Laroche’s being here could mean Mapp had come through, and it was finally time for him to get that patch. Then the little-man crap would stop once and for all.

  “What brings you to the coast, man?” he asked.

  “Club business, prospect, club business. Now, make me a coffee before I kick your little ass.” The kick came even before Laroche finished saying it. This time, Williams did stumble forward.

  Fuck him, Jimmy thought, as he walked to the kitchen to put on a fresh pot. Prospecting is supposed to test character, to prove a man worthy of the patch. Truth is, it’s just a glorified hazing ritual, and Jimmy knew it.

  It was good to see Laroche, despite his full-patch bullshit. Williams owed him for bringing him into the Stallion world in the first place. They’d met in the Renous Federal Pen where Jimmy was running a porn business with help from a couple of guards. The guards brought in magazines and DVDs, and Williams distributed them to an eager clientele. Laroche muscled in on the profits, saying Jimmy couldn’t continue without Stallion protection. Williams was pissed at first, but quickly changed his mind when he saw how other inmates reacted. Walking under Stallion protection inside a prison gave him rock-star status, and he soaked it up.

  In the end, Laroche proved to be more than muscle. He studied everything about Jimmy’s operation and found ways to improve it. He didn’t want the guards doing the buying outside the prison. He funnelled the orders to a Stallion-owned company with access to the kinkiest shit the inmates wanted. All the guards had to do was pick the shit up and bring it inside. He used the club’s clout to reduce the cut the guards were taking. By the time Williams finished his three-year tilt in Renous, the business was thriving, and Laroche had the club running identical operations in every prison in the country. Williams always felt it was his franchise, but as the club member who set it up Laroche got all the profit. Laroche looked after him, though, getting him control of the Litter Box and prospect status with the Halifax charter. The next step was the patch Williams was sure Laroche had brought with him from Montreal. Who else to put it on his back? Snake was standing in front of the sink, pouring water into the coffee pot as Jimmy walked in.

  “Hey, Pres, I got that,” he said as he walked over.

  Snake handed him the pot.

  “You find out what the fuck that dancer was doing here?” Snake asked.

  “She was dumping the body, all right, but she says she didn’t kill him. He was dead when she got there.”

  Williams was playing it cool as he fed the information to Snake. No big deal, just doing the job. He rinsed out the pot, filled it with cold water, and dumped it into the coffee maker. He dug out the filter basket and spooned in some coffee grounds.

  “So who killed the fucker?”

  “She says he was into some kinky shit and it went bad. Figures the fucker choked himself out or some damn thing.”

  “Same shit she tried to feed Gunner. I’m not buying it.” Snake ran a hand over his head. He grabbed a thick length of hair, pulled it forward over his shoulder, and then tossed it back. “She say why she brought him here, for fuck’s sake?”

  “Says she figured you’d help get rid of it. You weren’t here, so her brother figured the dump was a good spot.”

  “What brother?” Snake repeated the thing with his hair. Williams grabbed his own, mimicking the move.

  “She claims she got some kind of foster brother here lived with the preacher. Says she helped him clean it up.”

  “Shit. The cops are gonna get to her pretty damn quick if she’s got a brother living with the fucking guy.”

  Fuck. Snake was so far behind the curve on this thing there was no point in Jimmy even explaining. Yves Laroche walked into the kitchen and headed for the coffee pot. He slapped Williams on the back of the head as he walked past.

  “Fuck you.” It came out before Jimmy could stop it. “Sorry, man, sorry.” He swallowed hard on the apology. Laroche looked at Snake.

  “Your prospect, man.” He shrugged and grabbed the coffee pot.

  Snake’s kick was half-hearted, at best. It caught Williams in the left hip and spun him into the counter. Williams leaned, favouring the hip, trying to sell it so there wouldn’t be a follow-up.

  “Get the fuck out and wash the bikes. We got things to discuss in here. And make sure no one without a patch walks into this house. Got that?” Snake took the coffee pot from Laroche and poured a cup.

  Pricks. Make the coffee, don’t drink the fucking coffee. Wash the fucking bikes. Jimmy headed for the door.

  Chapter 18

  I sipped coffee and stared at my cellphone on the workbench. Monday morning, nowhere to be. At least the latest from the hospital was good. Blair was still in ICU, but he’d been upgraded to stable. I wanted to call the major-crime office, call Carla, or anyone who might give me something, anything on the investigation. I should have been working out, but I couldn’t get into it. I’d feel bet
ter if I pounded the bag, but I didn’t want to feel better. I needed to let the hate build. I looked at my father’s bike in the corner. Another wave of regret. They just kept coming. I could see Greg straddling the bike. What was it, just a month ago when I was tightening the compensating sprocket on my Harley and he stopped by? Hiding from the bishop, he told me.

  Gunner and I grew up hanging in garages. We never owned a hockey stick between us, but we both had tool chests. If you ride it, you wrench it. The only worthwhile lesson of our childhood. The old man never even taught us that. Grease made sure I could strip a bike, and Gunner could, at least, maintain his.

  Greg was living the Sunday school life, learning the Bible while we were studying shop manuals, elbow deep in grease. He was one-hundred-percent Neville, though. He learned to ride a dirt bike like a wild man. Saddle fever was showing when he stopped by my garage. I could see him on the Glide, holding the grips and rocking the bike back and forth between his legs, feeling its weight. He asked if he could take it out for a run. I said no. I could have slapped the primary back on my bike in three minutes, and we could have gone for a run. Let him ride the old man’s bike once. I could have been sitting in my garage, reliving that ride. Instead, I treated Greg the way the old man had. I made him feel like he wasn’t really a part of the family. Nice memory.

  I pressed the crucifix beneath my shirt as I pushed the guilt down. I was going to hurt someone, but if I was going to find that target, I needed focus. I didn’t have the badge, but I was an investigator, I knew how to break a case. The Litter Box Boys had burned a Caddy Saturday night. A Caddy was used to shoot Greg and Blair, also on Saturday night. Escalades are prime targets for any decent car-theft crew, so it could be a coincidence, but I didn’t think so. Everything inside told me the shooters had used that car. I wanted to push hard but knew enough to back off. Get aggressive too fast and you kill a lead. Gunner had more credibility with T. J. and his crew, so I had to let him work it. Waiting sucks.