Gypsy's Lady

by MariaLisa deMora

  Winger nodded again, hefting a heavy sigh. “Oh, you’d be surprised at the things I’d believe on that topic, Lawman.”

  Doug licked his lips. He had never brought up the politician, the one who’d been found dead. Ignoring it as if it never happened, he’d adopted his own version of don’t ask, don’t tell, this to protect both himself and these men who’d become his friends. “They sent me undercover. There were several good things about that assignment. One was the sweet bobber I rode, the other was the men I met while playing a part.”

  Winger laughed loudly, head back, beard moving with each guffaw. He slapped the table, setting their glasses and bottles rattling against the wood. Scarcely quieter, he asked, “You expect me to believe you infiltrated one of the big MCs out West? What the fuck you take me for?”

  “Not a big one. They were far down the chain in terms of size. Made up for it by being dirty in ways a lot of the men didn’t even know, thanks to a few of the inner circle who had connections in the middle east. They weren’t big then, but they were poised to explode. That would have upset the balance in place now with those big clubs you mentioned. So, yeah, I’m here to tell you I know my shit when it comes to that kind of club.” He paused, unsure if he wanted to tip his hand so far, then deciding fuck it, said, “I rolled twos with some big names who didn’t impress me, and broke bread with men I wish I could still call brother.” Winger quietened finally and settled his gaze on Doug, his expression frozen between fierce pride and rage.

  Doug shook his head and continued, “In most ways, all the ways that count, those were the best years of my fuckin’ life. You know what I’m talking about. Hell, man, you’re an OG in every sense of the word. Fuck, Winger, I’ve heard you preach protocol and wanted to help you slap sense into some of these fuckin’ kids who want to roll iron with you. I’ve wanted to be that kid and sit and listen, learn. I fuckin’ miss it. Had a taste, man. Had a taste and loved it. Left friends behind. Brothers. And now here I am sittin’ in a bar in Indiana, talkin’ to a man like the kind I want to be. A man who has everything I want.” He realized his glass was empty. He didn’t remember drinking it. “Sorry, that’s not what you asked about.” Clearing his throat, he tried to get himself back on track. “While I was under, out of touch, one of the detectives who’d been part of the program was killed. I think he was killed by a cop, but I can’t find the connection. Thornton’s wife was pregnant at the time. Now, his little boy’s growing up without knowing his daddy was a good man, because being told isn’t the same as seeing it, ya know?”

  “I know. Man wants to be there for his son, his girl. Should be, God willin’. But, if a man can’t be, then at least there’s the stories. It’s good you’re keeping this alive, Lawman.” Winger stared at him steadily. “Tell me—” There was a pause that felt a year long, then Winger finished softly, “—brother.”

  So, he did.

  Doug spent hours there on that stool, changing over to coffee so he could stay the course. Winger shifted his seat around the table and together they pored over the reports and documentation Doug had, things he’d read so often he could recite them in his sleep, but Winger asked questions from different angles until they found a thread. Following that thread, by pairing Winger’s experience and knowledge of the area and criminal players with his own, Doug gained a different view of what he’d held true.

  Suddenly there was more, and more, and then as the coincidences kept piling up he had to admit Thornton’s death had to be tied to his own undercover work, because the club he and Joel had wormed their way into was now at war with a larger club in the area. Outriders. And Norwood had tight family ties with that club. If trouble had been brewing back then, it was a good bet Norwood would have been informed.

  “So, Outriders.” Winger sighed and leaned back, angling his face towards the bar. “Dixie, darlin’, can you bring us a couple of shots and beers?” This was a clear signal their joint brain session was done, so Doug flipped the folder shut. Winger reached out and placed his palm on top of it. “This patch on my back now, there’s a deep history beyond what anyone would know.”

  “What can you tell me?” Doug knew it wouldn’t be everything. It couldn’t be, not with Winger’s new connections to an outlaw club.

  Glass bottles slid across the wooden table, followed by a sharp thump as Dixie placed their shots of whiskey. The back door opened with a whoosh, and several men strode in, the deep rumbles of their voices echoing through the club. Winger’s lips curled up, and he shouted, “Just the man I wanted to see.”

  Doug twisted and looked, watching as one of the men separated from the others, stopping a couple of followers with a sharp gesture. The man approaching their table was tall and broad, powerfully built. His face was craggy and angular, creased here and there with lines and scars. He walked like he owned the bar, like he owned the world, and that wasn’t arrogance. Doug thought it was probably just the way things were for this man. There were several visible tattoos, but the one that caught his attention and held it was a colorful phoenix winding up the man’s left arm, flames, and clouds of ash surrounding the mythological bird.

  “Winger,” the man offered, bent close to clasp hands in a warrior’s grip and pulled the older man into a one-armed clinch. “Good to see you, brother.” Doug grew more alert, that spoken word on the air representing so much of everything he coveted. The man leaned back and eyed him up and down, head tipping slightly to one side. “This must be the famed Lawman you’re always goin’ on about.”

  Doug reached across the table and the temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees, a cold chill coming off the man for a moment. Doug left his hand hanging there and held the man’s eyes. They studied him, assessed him, and for the first time in a long time, Doug found himself wanting to prove his worth to someone. Something about this man compelled it. After another long moment, the man nodded and wrapped his fingers around Doug’s thumb, shifting their shared grip up and down twice before disengaging. “Doug Tatum.” He introduced himself and waited, still holding the stare across the table.

  “Mason.”

  Doug glanced down at the man’s vest, seeing the word President above his nameplate, then noticed the National tag right above that.

  “Lawman, this sumbitch is my national president, and a body you’re going to want to get to know.” Doug jerked his gaze to Winger in time to see him share a glance with the man. “Mason, Lawman here has extensive experience out West.”

  Mason jerked and then stilled, face expressionless, his grey eyes drilling into Doug. “Outriders?”

  Uncertain of what caused the sudden tension, Doug nodded slowly.

  The smile spreading slowly across Mason’s face held nothing of humor in it, only hunger and a deep, abiding rage. “Tell me.”

  ***

  “Hey, Lawman, get out here. I got something for you.” Doug twisted around on the barstool and frowned towards the figure silhouetted in the doorway. It was Youngblood, one of Winger’s men. He owned a motorcycle shop here in town. “Come on, slowpoke. Jesus, the man wants to know what you think.”

  Doug drained the last swallow in the glass and set it down, tucking a bill under it to cover the single beer he’d had. Youngblood had the door open and Doug stiff-armed it when Youngblood stepped away, swung it wide again and walked out to the lot. There were a dozen bikes parked near the building, and Youngblood was standing in front of a crowd of men positioned near the most beat-up and battered piece-of-shit bike in the row.

  It had been a month since he’d first met Mason, weeks flying by with rounds of barely tolerated work shifts followed by hours at a time spent in the company of one Rebel or another. He knew exactly what this was: a hang-around period. A calculated segment of time allowing Doug to try on the Rebels’ attitude and mission. It had the added advantage of allowing them to try him on for size, too.

  A club, a real one, was built from the inside-out with layers upon layers of collective experiences. Those combined with a deep loy
alty, working together to create an unbreakable fabric. They went from individuals to being a group of men who would trust a patch brother with their lives, because sharing a patch meant you shared ideals and goals, meant you went about things in the same way, cohesive and strong. Clubs crafted in this fashion remained solid, regardless of the number of chapters, because time and distance weren’t a factor.

  Even the club’s motto was a promise. Rebels forever, forever Rebels told every member that as long as they held the club first, the club would have their backs.

  “You wanna know what I think?” Doug laughed when Youngblood nodded, expression serious. “I think it looks rough as shit. How many garage sale wrecks did you have to cobble together to fix Frankenstein here up?”

  He stepped forwards, fingers trailing along the handlebars adjusted just about right for a man his size.

  “She’s got good bones, though.” He placed one hand on the leather seat, pressing hard and shimmying the bike back and forth, grunting at the effort it took. “She’s tight as a whore’s ass in church.” That earned him a laugh, then Youngblood leaned forwards and tossed a small ring of glittering metal to him. Doug caught the keys one-handed, tipping his head to the side as he looked at the man and the bike, swinging around to see every member of the loose ring surrounding them were smiling.

  “Ride with us, see what you think.” Doug twisted to look at the speaker, finding Winger had joined their group at some point. “Put your money where your mouth is.”

  Doug knew the smile on his face was broad, and he’d likely catch shit later for being so excited, but he didn’t want to hide it from these men who had recognized his longing and taken steps to get him what he wanted. “Hell, yeah. If you’ll have me.”

  Youngblood chortled as he turned towards his own bike, laughing as he semi-repeated Doug’s words, “If we’ll have you. You’re fuckin’ funny, man.”

  Five hours later, the mass of bikes made their second stop, this a joint pitstop for gas and a quick meal. It was nearly midnight, and Doug couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this energized. He didn’t give a shit he had to appear in the squad room for roll call in less than eight hours. All he wanted to do was keep riding with these men. They were all so in tune by the time the sun had gone down, it seemed unreal. Very much as Doug remembered things being with Joel back in the day.

  Gassed up and parked, he stepped off the surprisingly comfortable bike and stretched.

  “Still think she’s a monster?” Youngblood caught his ribs with a stiff elbow, laughing as he walked past Doug.

  “Fuck no, man. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Passing through the opened door, Doug spoke from his heart. “Didn’t even know how much I needed this, man.” He glanced sideways at his companion, seeing a smug grin on his lips. “Thank you.”

  “Jesus wept, Lawman. You got all earnest and shit. Now I know you’re a keeper, you spout shit like that.” Youngblood shouted across the small diner, “Winger, brother, you called it.”

  “How far we come, Road Captain?” Winger’s shout was just as loud. “You got the papers?”

  A member Doug hadn’t yet met strolled up, putting his elbow on Winger’s shoulder as he dug into an inside pocket of his vest. “Three hundred, give or take. You need exact?” Winger nodded. With a sigh, the man, whose nameplate read Bingo, read from the paper, “311 miles. You’re closest, Winger, with 325. Youngblood was short by more than twenty-three, and everybody else bet a lot higher numbers.” He dug around in his pocket again, dragging out a wad of bills. “Any argument?” He clearly didn’t expect anything, and there wasn’t even a peep from all the men. “Winger’s the goddamned winner. I claim foul because you already knew him before Mason tagged him. Cheating asshole.”

  Fingers back to the pocket, Bingo pulled out a twice-folded envelope and tossed it at Doug. As he had with the keys, he caught it easily. The deed for the bike was inside, along with a bill of sale listing him as the buyer for twenty bucks. Doug’s throat clamped tight around any words he might have said.

  Winger peeled a bill off the money he held and stuffed it into Doug’s fist. “There, don’t say I never gave ya anything. You earned it.”

  Finally finding his voice, Doug stared at Winger as he asked, “Winger, what’s going on?”

  “Got you a bike.” Winger shrugged as if this was the smallest of gestures. “Boys all chipped in, but Youngblood did all the work. Said he fuckin’ enjoyed a challenge.”

  “You…” He swung in a short half circle, meeting every man’s gaze. “You’re giving me a bike?”

  Nods and grins met his disbelief, forcing it back. Bingo reached out and slapped Doug’s back, right between his shoulder blades. Exactly where a patch would ride if he were a member. “It’s a start.”

  “You’re giving me a bike?” Doug had to voice the question again.

  “Can’t be an MC club member without one, can you?” That was Youngblood again. “Kinda begs the question otherwise.”

  “I’m not a member,” he reminded them and was shocked at the easy laughter that filled the air.

  Winger pushed past him, sliding into a booth, reaching to grab the menu from beside the napkin holder. “Yet.” He looked up and caught Doug’s gaze, then winked. Raising his voice, he called to a waitress loitering in the open swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen, “Karen, darlin’, I’m hungry. What’s the late night special?”

  By the time they got back to Fort Wayne, Doug’s head was heavy on his neck, his arms and shoulders tight and aching from the unfamiliar position, but his soul felt more at ease than it had in years. No bones about it, the ride with good men tonight had been something he’d needed, and it startled him to realize he felt so much more comfortable surrounded by the men of the RWMC than he did among the officers and detectives he served alongside.

  All I’ve ever wanted was to be a cop. Do some good in the world, he thought as he leaned the bike into a gentle curve, maintaining his position on the road and in relation to the bikes in front and behind him. I’m not certain I can reconcile the two different lives in a way that lets me have what I want from both.

  Intersection by intersection, men and bikes peeled away from the main column, turning down side streets as they headed home to family. Over dinner, he’d heard several of the men discussing a job they were working on the next day, and he realized they had settled into lives that allowed them to be around other members. Even more support for them that way, he mused.

  Talking to Winger and Bingo, he’d learned for some of the men, the life of a club member was an extension of how they’d always lived, or how they’d been raised. Hardscrabble and tough, they carried themselves in an unmistakable way, spines rigid and heads on a swivel, continually ready for whatever trials life threw at them. Several of the men had become members after a come-to-Jesus moment in their path through life, something so profound it could uproot and disrupt whatever they’d been working towards before. It reminded him of Claudia, how she’d abandoned everything she worked for because it was the right thing to do.

  Shaking his head as he lifted a hand in farewell, he turned away from the group and down the road that led to his little house. Doug wondered if there was a correlation to be drawn.

  Decision time

  “Yo, Tatum, you hear the latest?”

  Doug looked up from pouring a mug of the disgusting station coffee and studied the patrol officer facing him. Nathan Williamson wasn’t someone he knew well, but the few times their paths had crossed, he’d found the man extremely competent, which was more than he could say for about half their respective peers.

  Shaking his head, Doug lifted his coffee, sipped, and grimaced at the bitterness of the caffeine in a cup he so desperately needed. Last night had been another long ride, followed by a meal at a member’s home over in Ohio. It had been nearly 3:00 a.m. when he crawled into bed this morning, only to have to roll out and begin his day with too little sleep. Still worth it. Staring
at Williamson, he was struck by a resemblance to one of the Rebels, Deke.

  Williamson’s mouth twisted to the side. “You remember that big deal politician from Indy we had up here a while ago, Sullivan?”

  Doug’s belly flipped, then settled as he took a slow breath and nodded.

  Williamson didn’t need more of an invitation. “Fucking piece of shit’s been replaced by a bigger piece of shit. Dude’s connected to a kiddy porn ring Toledo PD busted last year, but all evidence about him mysteriously disappeared”—Williamson made air quotes around the words—“and everything got swept under a big, ole greenback rug. Now, get this—” He paused and fisted his hands on his hips. “—I pick up the local computer repair geek over in Huntertown on possession charges. Barely, I mean, if he hadn’t been an asshole, the tiny bit of potpie he had wouldn’t have mattered to me. But get this, he offers up this politico on a platter to make his own shit disappear. Guy had brought his computer in and sang a song and dance about how an old buddy had stayed at his house for a week and used the comp, and after he moved along, this dude noticed it was acting weird.” Williamson flattened his cheeks with his palms, creating the illusion of shock. “Oh no, kiddy porn? O. M. G. Ewwww. Make it go away.”

  Doug snorted, and Williamson grimaced. “Exactly. Dude paid off the geek to destroy the hard drive and then paid him a fuck of a lot more to be quiet about it. Geeks, man. Don’t ever piss ‘em off. They’ll own your ass. Kept a copy. I just handed it to the cap and he gave me this stare down that said it all.” Williamson reached past Doug to pour a cup of coffee, then backed up with the waxed container in hand, glaring at the dark surface as if it was to blame for his frustration. “Geek’s released with no charges, and you and I both know ain’t nothing at all going to happen to the big man in office.” Mouth twisting like it had earlier, the resemblance to Deke was more pronounced. They have to be related. “And now I gotta watch my back.”