Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  After they left, he stayed at the Strip for a while and had a few beers, just to cool down. He idly watched the dancers. A few people he knew came to talk with him, but he wasn’t really into conversation. He just sat and drank.

  When he’d had enough, he hopped in the SSR and drove home. He wasn’t surprised to see Leo and Patsy there, along with June, Kelli, and her new friend Mallory. Mallory, a stripper, was young and beautiful. She had long dark hair and green eyes; she didn’t look like Connie at all, but her natural, unaffected beauty attracted almost as many fans.

  She had just turned eighteen when Steve discovered her working at a fast-food drive-thru window. She was too young to work at the Strip without her parents’ permission because it served alcohol. A false signature and a fictitious address and phone number on a couple of never-checked government forms gave her a license to strip.

  Mallory’s good looks and matching ego rubbed many of the other dancers the wrong way at first. While many of them had abusive—or at least controlling—boyfriends, Mallory was blissfully unattached. She drove a Cadillac, had a lovely, two-bedroom, rented condo in downtown’s most fashionable neighborhood, and dressed in styles that had not hit Springfield before she brought them. The other dancers were jealous and they let her know it by ignoring her.

  Pretty well every biker and other man associated with the Strip had made at least some sort of pass at her. And her lack of interest led most of them to believe she was a lesbian. They teased her, but she wasn’t intimidated.

  Patsy eventually attached herself to the young girl and the two of them often went out drinking. When Patsy learned, to her surprise, that Mallory was doing coke, the pair became fast friends. Before long, Mallory started tagging along with Patsy and Leo to Ned’s house.

  Mallory and Kelli hit it off immediately. They had common interests, similar personalities, and both of them were profoundly lonely for someone else like themselves. Within a week of meeting, the two of them would often have nights out or hang at Ned’s house, usually by themselves, but sometimes with June, Patsy, and Leo.

  When Ned came home after dealing with the El Salvadoreans, he knew Mallory was there because the house was pumping techno music into the street at a tremendous volume. The front door was not just unlocked, it was ajar. In the living room, Kelli, Mallory, and June were dancing, while Patsy made out with Leo on the couch.

  Ned stormed in, shut off the stereo, and started yelling at Kelli for leaving the front door open. Mallory rolled her eyes and asked Kelli if she wanted to go to a bar with her. Ned looked at her sternly. Kelli smiled and told him they were celebrating and that she really wanted to go.

  Leo broke the tension by saying: “Let ’em go, boss; we have business to conduct, don’t we?”

  “No, no, we don’t Leo . . . just get out of here.”

  “So how’d your meeting . . .”

  “Just get out, all of you.”

  Ned went to bed.

  Johansson was pretty pleased with himself. Not only had the boss’s meeting in Newchester gone very well—a local outfit called the Death Vipers had agreed to crush the Sons of Satan’s local rivals in exchange for probationary status as Sons of Satan, Newchester—but he had let Johannson sit up front with him on the flight home if he promised to stay quiet.

  What Johansson didn’t realize was that Mehelnechuk only wanted him up there so he could complain about how the airline had canceled the direct flight to Springfield and put them on one that first flew to Martinsville and then connected to Springfield. The practice of flying into Springfield had never made sense to Johansson, who thought his boss would want to get to the Martinsville clubhouse as quickly as possible. He had always thought they flew into Springfield then drove to Martinsville because it was cheaper, but he was beginning to think there were other reasons.

  On the drive from Martinsville airport, Johansson asked why Mehelnechuk always wanted to fly into Springfield. “Good business decision,” he said. “I know all the airport security there and they’re cool—and I get to see my parents sometimes.”

  “Oh, and why are we doing all this traveling? To move product?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and paused for a very long time. “You know what my dream is?”

  “No.”

  “I want to see nothing but Sons of Satan patches from coast to coast—and in other countries, too,” he said intensely. “I don’t want to see Lawbreakers, or Death Vipers, or Devil Dogs, or anyone else.” He continued. “I want this to be our country again; I want to see the Italians, and Mexicans, and Blacks, and every-fuckin’-body else working for us or buying our product. I don’t just want to make money; I want to fix a lot of things that are wrong with this world.”

  Johansson took a moment, then said, “Yeah, me too.”

  Mehelnechuk chuckled and went back to his book.

  Feeney hated to wait, but he knew he had to. He knew the Satan’s Favorites were dying in Hagerstown and he had to do something quick before Mehelnechuk pulled the plug on the plan. He was waiting for the man who he thought would be the Satan’s Favorites’ savior. Kevin Burman wasn’t much to look at, but he was valuable property. As one of the few meth cooks the Sons of Satan had who wasn’t either crazy or dead, Kevin was a commodity to be protected. Feeney knew that and, before he could borrow him from the Martinsville Sons of Satan, he had to pay off a number of people, and make assurances to many others.

  He needed Burman. Satan’s Favorites hadn’t sold a single ounce of drugs in Hagerstown and Feeney was desperate to put something positive in the ledger to keep his little gang alive. Convinced that Hagerstown was too hick to appreciate the drug deals the Favorites were offering, he decided to switch to meth—the white trash drug. Burman could cook pounds of meth, quickly and safely, from ingredients found at drug and hardware stores. Unlike many meth cooks, he’d never had an explosion, and he’d never gone completely mental. He was eccentric, sure, but that went with the territory.

  So Feeney waited in a cheap-ass, nondescript car that looked like a rental. And when Burman—skinny, shaved head, covered in tattoos—finally came down, Feeney greeted him as though he was early. He even opened the passenger door for him and threw his stuff in the trunk.

  Feeney drove at exactly the speed limit. He wanted to go faster, because Burman was driving him nuts talking about how great the Florida State football team was. Feeney didn’t care much about football, and knew even less about Florida. But this was not the time to get stopped for speeding, so he simply smiled, nodded, and grunted agreement with all of Burman’s emphatically stated opinions.

  Feeney had planned to transfer Burman to another car at a fast-food restaurant halfway between Springfield and Hagerstown, in case he was followed into town. He pulled into a spot between two minivans and, just as he opened the door, he felt the cold ring of a gun barrel against the back of his neck.

  “Freeze before I blow your head away, motherfucker!”

  He knew it was cops. If it was a hit, he wouldn’t have heard a thing. But cops—who aren’t supposed to actually kill you—like to be loud about their threats. Feeney slumped forward and put his face in his hands. Burman tried to run but got a big cop’s forearm in his face and went down like a sack of potatoes.

  In the back of the police car, Feeney thought about his options. He’d been in jail before, for a felony, so no matter what happened, he was going to prison. But Burman—despite being a meth cook, small-time thief, and genuine lowlife—had never been arrested before. Sending him to prison would be a huge blow to the Sons of Satan—and to Feeney’s own reputation. Feeney knew what he had to do. He had to take the fall.

  The cops found twelve unregistered weapons, hundreds of rounds of ammunition, and eight Satan’s Favorites jackets. Feeney admitted to it all, plea bargained, and got six months. Burman walked.

  Ned’s knuckles hurt. He’d had to discipline a recalcitrant bar owner and his punch caught teeth instead of jaw. Besides the normal bruises a bad punch can cause, he was a
lso dealing with multiple lacerations. He debated going to the hospital, but thought it’d be better to go home to see Kelli, have a nice chicken dinner delivered, and a couple of bottles of wine.

  But when he got home, he found a note. It read:

  Mal got a diamond necklace from some old guy, so we’re celebrating. It’s a big girls’ night out at June’s. Come if you want, but it’s gonna be all girls ’cept you!

  Ned crumpled up the note and threw it in the recycling. Then he stepped out of the house and into the SSR. He drove downtown and went to a bar he’d never been to before. He just wanted something that was not on his route. He didn’t want to run into Kelli and Mallory, and he definitely didn’t want to see any of his contacts, or dealers, or collectors, or anyone involved with the Springfield drug trade.

  Instead, he drank. He drank and drank. He ordered a plate of clams and pasta, but he didn’t eat it. Four hours after he’d gotten there, Ned settled up his bill and laughed at nothing in particular. He walked out the front door towards the parking lot where he’d left the SSR, but realized he was too drunk to drive.

  He was mulling over his options as he walked home when he heard the low rumble of a customized V8. He looked behind him. It was a bright silver pickup with exterior pipes coming at him at an outrageous speed. He started running as best he could. As soon as the pickup passed him, the driver slammed on the brakes. The truck skidded ninety degrees to a stop that blocked Ned’s escape route. Three men jumped out of the pickup’s bed and grabbed him.

  He tried desperately to defend himself, aiming his blows at knees, eyes, and balls, but was too drunk to be effective against even one of his assailants. They pinned him to the bottom of the bed as the truck sped away. Nobody said anything until they got to the beach. Before the truck came to a stop, Ned was thrown into the sand. It was dark and he couldn’t see his assailants at all, but he could tell they were big and smelled of beer and leather.

  “You’re Aiken, Aiken the dealer,” one of them said. After a few seconds, Ned realized it was a question, but he still didn’t offer an answer. He got a kick in the ribs.

  “You gotta remember something,” said another voice. “This here is a Lawbreakers town.”

  Ned tried to give them the finger, but wasn’t sure if he managed it.

  He took about a half dozen more kicks before he heard anything else. “Tell your boss this is a Lawbreakers town,” someone said. “Unless you want to die, you’re gonna stop selling in our town.”

  That last thing Ned heard before he blacked out was laughter.

  The bikers from the Black Knights had never seen anything back in New Aberdeen like the spread Mehelnechuk had put together at Johnny Reb’s. Not only was there a free bar, a huge buffet, and a live band, but there must have been three dozen strippers. Stan Bly, president of the Black Knights, had told his men that the Sons of Satan were the “Big Time,” and now they all believed it.

  Mehelnechuk was shaking hands and making small talk when Johansson rushed into the bar. Obviously drunk, Johansson walked up to Bly, mumbled something about money he owed him from back in Stormy Bay and punched him in the face. Bly flew back about ten feet. Mehelnechuk rushed to the scene and grabbed Johansson. The big man was about to shake him off until he realized who it was. His eyes met Mehelnechuk’s and he fled.

  Mehelnechuk spent the rest of the night trying to repair the Sons of Satan’s relationship with Bly and the Black Knights. After a while and a lot of drinks, it was cool; they all started drinking and having a good time again. It all stopped at two-thirty in the morning when one of the Black Knights found Bly’s cold body outside Johnny Reb’s front door.

  Just as all the Black Knights were coming towards Mehelnechuk looking for answers, one of his prospects yelled at him. Mehelnechuk couldn’t make out what he said, but screamed “not now!” at him. But the prospect was adamant. “Ivan, Ivan!” he shouted. “Marvin’s just been arrested for murder.”

  Chapter 9

  A couple of days after she’d left, Kelli came home. She looked awful—her hair was a mess, her makeup smeared, and her face puffy. She was wearing some of Mallory’s clothes and had that snickery look and stumbling gait of someone who wasn’t quite high, but wasn’t quite sober either. Even though she had a key, she rang the doorbell.

  “Where’ve you been?” shouted Ned as he opened the door. He was still in a great deal of pain from the beating he’d gotten from the Lawbreakers. And he was pissed they’d stolen his gun—the one André had bought him—and almost seven thousand in cash. He was even more pissed off to see that Kelli had brought Mallory, Connie, and Patsy in tow.

  “Just partyin’, Nedley,” Kelli explained. “Just having a good time. It’s not like I have anything else to do around here anyway.” The other women joined in her laughter as they sat heavily upon the couches. Kelli got up to get them drinks.

  Although he knew he should say or do something, Ned was just too sore to get into it. Instead, he slunk away to the bedroom.

  “You might wanna stay up,” Patsy yelled after him. “Leo’s coming over in a few minutes.”

  Mehelnechuk wore his best Armani suit as he accompanied Phil, Marvin Bouchard’s lawyer, into jail. He knew that the only way to talk to Bouchard without anyone listening was to discuss it in front of a lawyer and claim attorney-client privilege. He had never met Bouchard’s lawyer before, but he knew anyone who’d represent such a miserable fuck must know how to play ball.

  There was some media presence outside the jail, but nobody took his picture. Mehelnechuk, careful to keep only the right side of his face toward the media, blended in with the other lawyers making their way in and out of the jail. To them, he was just a short-haired, clean-shaven white guy in a nice suit, not what they expected a criminal to look like. While the security guards did pat him down, Mehelnechuk was not required to show any identification, so he signed in as “Hugh G. Rection.”

  Inside, he saw Bouchard relaxing with a bunch of other prisoners waiting for their visitors. The moment he saw Mehelnechuk, Bouchard straightened up. Three guards took him into an interview room so he could speak with his lawyers in private. Bouchard and Mehelnechuk sat across the tattered old desk from one another. The lawyer sat on a couch behind them. Mehelnechuk stared at Bouchard for a long time before calmly asking: “Do you realize what a fuck-up you are?”

  “Look, Ivan, you left me in charge of Martinsville . . .”

  “Yeah, but I did not give you permission to risk everything I have spent years building up,” Mehelnechuk’s voice sounded threatening. “Why do you constantly have to be in the public eye—I read about you in newspapers, I see you on TV, every time I look around there’s a picture of your stupid shit-eating grin.”

  “But that was the plan; everyone sees me so they don’t see you.”

  “I know what you were trying to do,” Mehelnechuk scolded. “But you pushed it too far. I wanted you to be well known among our people, not Public Enemy No. 1—you got that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I took a look at your lawyer’s notes and they actually don’t have shit against you. Thank Christ you followed procedure. You’re only here by reputation, so you’ll get off on lack of evidence before there’s even a trial if your lawyer is any good.”

  “I’m the best defense att . . .”

  “Didn’t ask you,” Mehelnechuk snapped. “Anyway, we gotta take care of this mess.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So who was the triggerman—who actually shot Vanden Boom?”

  “Stinky.”

  “Holy shit, I never realized he had it in him.”

  “Yeah, wanted to earn his stripe.”

  “Earned more than that, my friend,” Mehelnechuk chuckled. “And who did he report to?”

  “Shithead.”

  “Shithead Ingram? That fuckin’ drunk? It’s amazing they pulled it off at all.”

  “Yeah,” Bouchard started laughing.

  “Well, you know the drill—try to keep yo
ur fuckin’ mouth shut for a change and we can get you outta this,” Mehelnechuk said. “But you are gonna owe me big-time again, brother.”

  “Understood.”

  Ned was relieved to hear Leo was on his way. He hoped that, with his help, he could get the still-partying women under control.

  He emerged from the bedroom when he heard Leo arrive and was surprised by what he saw. Leo looked like a bum; he was unshaven, unwashed, and smelled terrible. He looked nervous and out of balance. And he kept scratching himself all over.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” asked Ned.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “I was jumped by some fuckin’ Lawbreakers while you were out partying with these whores.”

  “We’re not whores; we’re strippers,” Patsy said. “Oh wait, I am a whore.” All the women laughed.

  When Leo joined in, Ned couldn’t take it anymore. “Get the fuck out! All of you, get the fuck out!”

  Leo gathered up the women and led them out. “Come on girls,” he said. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

  “Not wanted? I threw you the fuck out.”

  Kelli stopped at the door and looked beseechingly at Ned.

  “Me too?”

  “Maybe just for a day or two.”