by Layla Wolfe
“Yeah,” said Twinkletoes, “he’s schmoozing with the guy who owns that microbrewery and the owner of the sushi joint.”
“Can you do me a solid, Slushy? If you’re done with the salad, can you give Ormond a break behind the bar?”
“I’m sure I can. Wouldn’t mind mixing up a few Sidecars and Cosmopolitans for the blue hair crowd.”
The Lions were in full swing when I entered the dining hall. Normally the location of our pool tables and a few zombie arcade games, row after row of long picnic tables had been placed here for the starving masses. The Lions had agreed to gift a percentage of their take to Rover’s new dog charity, so everyone was working toward a common goal here. Forgetting about my case of wine, I went and installed Slushy behind the bar, where he took up the metal cocktail mixer like a pro.
He called out like an emcee, “Now, is anyone up for a Bloody Mary? I make a mean Planter’s Punch…”
I often wondered about Slushy’s background. The Bare Bones had found him dumped off by a rival gang in the middle of the desert. But he often seemed to have skills and a past that had only just been hinted at.
“What’s up?” asked Ormond. “I was just getting the hang of those lemon peel garnishes.”
“I want to find Turk. I think I’ve done enough for this club that he can answer some questions for me.” I put my mouth near Ormond’s ear. It was so loud in there—no music, just the hubbub of hundreds of voices raised in revelry—that I had to shout, “I’m getting nervous about my daughter. I need to know about my roots.”
“Good call.” Ormond had been after me to press Turk about my father. I didn’t want to rock the boat, and frankly, I think I was afraid of the truth. “He’s right there, talking to Seely Buxton.”
Turk immediately detached himself when he saw I wanted to talk. He had been more than generous with me in payment for the work I’d done for his club. “Noodle Mantooth is doing a fucking amazing job, Anson. He’s been serving and bussing all night like he was born to Prospect.”
The Zealots had taken Brick Mantooth under their wing. They’d given him the road name Noodle because he was a tough noodle. They’d vowed to protect his family and given him a Prospect’s cut, which Brick wore with pride. They needed more Prospects, so they’d also taken in one of the kids who had been rounding up stray dogs for Iceman. Merwin Bigwater at first made a lot of noise about not wanting to prospect for a fag club. But after Rover got him in a few reverse half nelsons and body slammed him, Merwin started calming down about that. He hadn’t talked about a “fag club” for several days now.
“It’s time you told me about my dad.”
Turk looked stunned for several seconds. His eyes froze, and he had no expression on his face.
Then he smiled. “All right. Let’s go into the chapel.”
It was just the three of us entering the chapel. Ormond still had to inch forward using two crutches, his femur having been broken in several places. It was eerily quiet in there after the din of the main dining hall. Turk didn’t take his traditional spot at the head of the table. He took Lock’s spot at one o’clock. Maybe because he wasn’t acting in an official capacity and we were just in there for lack of anywhere quieter to go.
Turk tilted his head. “You want to know about Riker.” As though I hadn’t asked a thousand times over the past twenty years. “You’ve probably figured out that he’s persona non grata in this club and The Bare Bones. You already know he was kind of a crude and filthy sort of guy, a guy who had done a lot of time.”
“Is he a member in bad standing?”
“To say the least. We’re not ones to attempt to enlighten guys about their old men. That’s something that’s best done by a guy himself. But seeing as how Riker always ducked out whenever you’d come around, and now he’s vanished into thin air, I think we can tell you the truth.”
I nodded soberly. “Good. I’m not afraid, Turk. I had the feeling he wasn’t the most outstanding fellow in the world the couple of times I did see him. He tried to curse me and my mother by using a skinwalker. He wanted to literally see us buried in a hole.”
Turk snorted. “That sounds typical. Well, no doubt you’ve heard of the death of Cropper Illuminati, Riker’s Prez in The Bare Bones.”
“Of course.” No one had the exact 411 on what had gone down in that desert that day. Turk had been present. He had emerged standing after Cropper’s body was discovered near a burned-up truck full of Mexicans. I wondered if I’d finally get details, but I’d never be so lucky.
“Well, Riker escaped that day. He knew he’d have his backpack removed if we ever caught him. Let’s just say he’d been implicated in the abuse of Ford’s old lady, Madison. He lived to cause more problems for the club. He turned up on this cult’s land, and I can tell you, Anson, he’s the one who shot and killed our brother, Ziggy.”
Holy shit. I’d always been the closest to Ziggy because he was one of the youngest Boners. Rover had told the truth. “You’re sure about that?”
Turk nodded, Zen-like. “I was there. I saw it. Then he escaped again, and there have been rumors he’s been hiding in Jerome. I’m telling you, Anson. He’s not a nice guy. It’s best if you leave well enough alone and don’t even try to find him.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking. But it’s stuck in my craw, not knowing who half my entire clan is, if that makes any sense.”
“Of course.” Turk grinned mysteriously. “That’s why I’m here to tell you there’s a silver lining to all of this bullshit. You probably know his real name is Stuart Grillo.”
“Right.” My mother had known that much. She had written that on my birth certificate. Riker was of Spanish descent, just like Ormond.
“Well, it might not surprise you that he knocked up more women than your mother. God knows how many half-siblings you have around, but I’ve been able to find a few. Sure, a couple have died, mostly of drug ODs. But one guy is a programmer for the University in Flagstaff. Another guy is a pool sales rep in Tucson.”
“No shit!” That had never occurred to me before, that I might have half-siblings. It sounds stupid in retrospect not to have wondered about that, especially knowing how prolific Riker was. Turk was opening up a whole new world for me now—a way I could discover my clan, and avoid Riker all at the same time. “Who else did you find?”
“There’s a gal in Yuma, she’s the closest one to us, she’s looking forward to meeting you. She seems to have emerged unscathed from the Riker fire. She’s a graphic designer with two kids.”
“No fucking shit,” I marveled. I looked at Ormond, and the excitement gleamed in his eyes, too. “I have some half-nieces or nephews.”
“A niece and a nephew. Amanda Carpenter. Here. Let me write her email address down. She’s expecting to hear from you.”
“She’s not…”
Turk said, “She’s an Anglo. I guess Riker didn’t have a ‘type.’ He was an equal opportunity impregnator. Oh. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “I’m sure you have no interest in defending him, and neither do I. Look what he did to my fucking family. Not only did he fuck bareback and run, but he got out of paying child support.”
Ormond added, “By placing a hex on you and your mother.”
“Exactly. No, there’s no love lost. I just wanted to know more about him. I guess you’ve enlightened me.”
Ormond asked, “But could there be more, Turk? I mean, everyone has their good points. What were Riker’s good qualities?”
Turk’s answer was immediate. “Oh, he had good qualities, to be sure. He was loyal to a fault. I think that was why he stuck with Cropper so long—loyalty. He saw Cropper as being the club, so he stuck with him far past the point anyone else would’ve. The number one main thing in Riker’s life was his club. He would die for his club, which made him one of the best men to have in a tight spot.”
I was becoming uncomfortable with where this was going. I wanted to change the subject. “Well, those are good qual
ities. Of course, it led to him backing the wrong—”
“And we all feel you have the good qualities of Riker, Anson. Minus the bad.”
Ormond added, “Minus the part where you run around with a dick enlarging pump hanging down.”
Turk chuckled. “Right. I haven’t seen too much evidence that you own any ball bending package enhancers.”
I had to laugh, too. “Not me. I mean, I like a little light bondage like the next guy. But I’ve never felt the need to go out and purchase a cock leash.”
“Why not?” asked Ormond. The men laughed.
But unfortunately for me, Turk was back on his single-minded quest. He could not be deterred. “This is why we’re sincerely extending an open invitation to you, Anson. Become a Bent Zealot. Wear our colors. Don’t go back to fucking Afghanistan. You’re too old for that shit.”
I’d been suspecting I was, too. Not “old” in years, but old in spirit. I was becoming one of those burnt-out, bitter, cynical mercenaries I had seen. They become so hardened to death, they retire from the circuit to become a bodyguard to a gangster, anything where they can kill without guilt. They actually seemed to look forward to murder. Since taking the PTSD meds again, it had all become crystal clear to me. I didn’t want to go back overseas. The camaraderie of my men would be the only thing I’d miss. My fellow mercs, marching into battle side by side, arm in arm. And if that was the only thing I’d miss, I could replace it with club brothers.
“You’re right.” I nodded. “I’m too old for that shit. But aren’t I too old to be a Prospect, too?” I grinned. I was just giving Turk shit. I didn’t feel I was “above” prospecting for a while.
Turk said, “We’ll just make you clean the women’s room here in The Happy Hour. The other kids can clean the men’s.” It didn’t matter that the women’s room was almost as abused as the men’s, since normally the only women in The Happy Hour were the fag hags, the sweetbutts and hang-arounds who just liked being near bikers regardless of whether or not they’d ever become old ladies. And some of them just liked watching two men make out.
“I’m in,” I said, and leaned forward to shake Turk’s hand.
“Oh, son of a biscuit,” Ormond cried, flinging his hands up in a hallelujah. “I didn’t want to be one of the ones on the bandwagon to make you stay, but I encouraged Turk and Lock to invite you. I didn’t want to be accused of using sex to make you stay.”
Turk slapped my bicep. “We’ll call a sit-down tomorrow to give you the formal invitation. I’ll have Kenna make you up a new cut.” Kenna was Turk’s sweetbutt, a gal who would do anything, including die, for him and the club. None of those chicks would ever get a PROPERTY patch. They knew it, and were fine with it. “And yeah, the cut has to have the Prospect patch. Sorry.”
“I know,” I said. “You can’t treat me any different. I just figure since I’m living in Ormond’s house, I should be paying him rent. Can’t just pretend I’m here temporarily forever.”
“You’ll love Rough and Ready, Lake Havasu,” said Turk. “It was weird for me at first, too. I missed the gorgeous red spires, the sandstone canyons of Pure and Easy. But there’s a wide open feeling here, a real optimistic vibe. You get the feeling you can see, and live, forever and ever.”
Ormond kissed me on my jaw. Only then did I notice his eyes were heavy with tears of happiness. “Mi amor. You have made me the happiest man alive.”
I turned my face to him, caressed his cheekbone. I hoped to hell he could live under my rules. As far as I knew, Ormond Tangier had never been faithful to anyone. And I was going to absolutely not tolerate any random skull jobs, whether or not it was to a cop to get out of a speeding ticket. Whatever the excuse, heads would roll. Ormond knew that. He had said it was new for him, but he knew he could do it. Remain monogamous. I was enough of an unstable loose cannon without discovering my lover giving a hummer to some fireman while a house burned down around them.
So far, so good. He’d given me no reason to mistrust him.
“Don’t worry,” said Turk. “I’ll give you seniority over those two Indian kids. How’s that? You think you can handle them?”
Ormond fit his head in the crook of my neck. “This man is the reason those kids are even alive. He fought for Brick—err, Noodle. He fought hard to keep them alive.”
“You’ll have to do whatever Twinkletoes wants, though,” Turk warned. “He’s fully patched now.”
Two short raps on the door, followed by someone unceremoniously barging in. It was Slushy who swung open the door and barked, “Boss. There’s something fucking urgent in the back alley behind the kitchen. Come right away.”
Slushy’s demeanor didn’t leave much room for argument. Since we seemed to be done with our business, we all rose and followed the lawyer through the packed dining room. People were finishing their crab, migrating toward the reception hall where all the auction items were displayed. Two- and three-handed drinkers were jostling their mates and friends and sloshing colorful liquors on their shirtfronts. We threaded our way through the partiers and into the kitchen, where even Dipstick had stopped his frenetic movements.
Dipstick was just standing stock-still, a wooden spoon in his hand, staring at something on the chopping block. Twinkletoes, Dr. Moog, Mayo, Hobie, Rover—everyone except the two Prospects were standing around lamely as if in shock.
“What’s up?” Turk asked, chipper. He liked to get right to the heart of the matter.
Twinkletoes gestured limply. “This. I went out back to dump another load of crab shells. Found this sitting right there.”
The kitchen suddenly seemed deafeningly quiet. The roar of the Lions still swirled around us outside the room, but the room itself was so quiet you could hear your own organs. Only our eyes moved—me looking at Turk, Ormond looking at me, Turk looking at the thing on the table. Finally Turk took a step forward. Ormond and I followed like obedient foot soldiers.
My mind couldn’t quite wrap around what I saw. A human baby. The tiniest, reddest, wrinkliest little thing, with clenched fists and a face screwed up in a quiet wail. It seemed almost too weak to muster up the energy needed for a good sob. It had been placed in one of those baby seat carrier things, swaddled all in pink cotton, and apparently placed literally on our doorstep.
Slushy answered the first question that came to mind. He handed me a tan envelope. “This was in the carrier next to her.”
My mind a blank, I slid the card from the envelope. It was one of those pastel congratulation cards, that was all I remember. Inside, in swirly rounded lettering, was written,
Dear Dad. I know you and the Lions can take good care of her. I didn’t even name her. I cannot give her the proper care she needs. I know you and the Lions can. Sheena.
She hadn’t even written “Love, Sheena.” No, it was just “Sheena,” like some delivery person who was forced to leave a package somewhere after hours.
Reading over my shoulder, Ormond uttered, “What…the…”
“That’s right,” Slushy said gently. “She left you her baby, Anson.”
My hand holding the card fell to my side as I looked at the infant girl again. I remembered meeting Sheena several times during this newborn period, and being afraid of dropping her. I didn’t dare touch this little creature now. I was sure I had something poisonous or noxious on my hands.
“We need Kenna,” Turk said.
“And all the other girls,” added Ormond.
It was Hobie who suddenly spoke up. “Hell, men! We can do this. Who says we need women? Don’t gay couples constantly adopt children?”
“Yeah,” agreed Slushy, “but they aren’t usually special needs children, like this one is.”
“Take her to the doctor,” Hobie commanded. “She might have special needs, but it’s nothing that can’t be overcome!”
“You’re right, Hobie,” said Ormond. “This is nothing that we can’t deal with. Turk, isn’t your old President’s old lady a nurse? Get her over here. In the meantime, get her r
ecommendation for a good doctor at Havasu Regional.”
“I’m on it,” said Turk, already wandering off while thumbing his cell. “Dr. Moog, tell us what you think.”
I was slowly drawing closer to the little infant. Babies scared me, but it was sinking in that this is my granddaughter. I was way too young to be a granddad, but so be it. How could I give this child away to anyone else? I had been begging to know my bloodline. Now here she was.
And the thing was, maybe I didn’t want to pawn her off on anyone else. Maybe Sheena had finally done a good thing, a smart thing. Maybe she was finally maturing, growing up. That sounds ridiculous, I know. How can leaving a baby in a basket on someone’s doorstep be a mature thing to do? But in her case, if she’d decided she wouldn’t be able to kick drugs, it was the best idea in the world.
“She was on meth, yes?” asked Moog.
“Yes.”
“Meth crosses the placenta easily. There haven’t been many studies on prenatal effects. If I recall, many of the effects don’t hit until later, school age. Hyperactivity, ADHD, stuff like that. This girl seems dehydrated, which is to be expected.”
“I have a seven year old girl,” Hobie said suddenly. This new shocker stunned everyone into silence. Hobie came forward, revealing the bottle tucked into the bedclothes of the baby carrier. “See? She came prepared.” He sniffed the nipple of the bottle, shrugged, and held it to the babe’s mouth. The babe eagerly clutched and suckled.
“I can do that,” I said, shouldering Hobie out of the way. “Got to learn sometime. How the hell did you get a seven year old kid?”
“Oh, mistakes,” Hobie said vaguely. “She lives in Phoenix. I see her about once a month.”
“More’n I ever saw my daughter,” I muttered.
Ormond was behind my shoulder. “You gonna keep her?”
I shrugged. “Can’t very well give away my own flesh and blood. I’ll try to find Sheena, of course. But I get the feeling she doesn’t want to be found.”
