Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle

by Jerry Langton

  “Well, thanks—and thank Grigori and Ludmilla too.” Ned paused. “I just thought of something. I rode out here on the Indian. How am I gonna get it home?”

  “That’s not important. Grigori wants you to get rid of it anyway,” Semyon said, with a long pause. “He says it makes you too obvious. He wants you to look like a young businessman, not a biker.”

  Ned let out an exasperated sigh. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, that is so,” Semyon answered sharply. “Didn’t you tell me you knew a guy who wanted to buy it?”

  “Yeah, a guy who works in the warehouse at Hawkridge.”

  “Then all is taken care of. You will wait there for ten minutes.”

  Ned hung up and reveled in the smell of new leather. He didn’t have to wait quite ten minutes. A new Ford pickup pulled in behind the Indian. Ned got out of the Lexus. Then he heard the unmistakable rumble of a Sportster. It pulled up in front of the Lexus. Ned recognized the Lawbreaker right away.

  The Lawbreaker nodded to the young man who was driving the pickup. “Give him the key,” the biker said to Ned. “He’ll take care of your piece of crap.”

  “Where are you taking it?”

  “It’ll be dropped in the parking lot of a place called Hawkridge. Now, don’t waste any more of my time.”

  The biker and the driver of the pickup loaded the Indian on the bed. The Lawbreaker looked at Ned. “Open the glove box in the Lexus,” he ordered.

  Ned did as he was told and saw an envelope. He got out of the car and was about to open it when the biker seized his arm and took it. He looked hard at Ned for a few seconds.

  “Okay, Johnny, it’s yours.”

  Without another word, Johnny and the Lawbreaker headed off in different directions. Ned felt a chill in the evening air.

  Heading into work a few days later, Ned saw the Swede and Dave waiting for him in the lobby. The Swede looked at Ned and told him that he could take the day off because Dave wanted to talk with him and that Katie would fill in for him. Dave was clearly angry, but the Swede gave Ned a warm-hearted-though-concerned look.

  Dave refused to speak in the car. When they finally returned to his office, Ned was surprised to see two uniformed state troopers there. The two men followed them in. Dave sat behind his desk facing Ned. Ned noticed that one of the officers was operating a small video camera on a tripod.

  After a short oath to tell the truth and to acknowledge that he knew the conversation was being recorded, Dave began. “I see you registered a new car.”

  “New to me, at least,” Ned responded. “It’s a 2008.”

  Dave shot him a hard look. “Yes, yes it is,” he said. “A 2008 Lexus RX350. Now that would run in the thirty-to-thirty-five-thousand dollar area, I would expect.”

  “Yes, I believe it would.”

  “And you presumably paid for this vehicle.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a receipt for this transaction?”

  “Somewhere. I dunno. I was never too good with paperwork.”

  Dave sighed and rubbed his eyes with his palm. “Where did you get that kind of money? I have no record of a loan or line of credit in your name.”

  “It was a private loan.”

  “From who? You have no family, no friends. Who would loan you money?”

  Ned thought fast. “The Swede. Against my salary.”

  “I can check that. And where did you buy it?”

  “He arranged it.”

  “Really, he just happened to buy you a very expensive car from a dealer who I happen to know has a severe drug and even more severe debt problem.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And did you know that this dealer just happens to have connections with people we believe to be involved with organized crime?”

  “No.”

  “Turn the camera off,” Dave said to the cop, who did. “Look, Ned, this is your life that’s at stake here. If you are out there playing gangster, tell me now and I can take care of you. These guys aren’t like bikers.”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about. All I did was buy a car.”

  “Fine, turn the camera back on.” Then he turned back to Ned, and said, “Ned Aiken—also known as Eric Steadman—it is my duty to inform you that while you are not currently under arrest, the FBI will conduct an investigation into this matter, which could lead to criminal charges and/or expulsion from the witness protection program.”

  Ned let that last remark sink in, and rubbed his face with his hands. “Am I free to go?”

  Dave turned the camera off himself. “For now,” he answered.

  Ned was so concerned with the day’s events that he did not see Semyon’s car outside. As soon as he parked the big Lexus, he heard his friend shouting at him jubilantly. “Hey, hey!” he shouted. “Do you love it? It’s beautiful. Could use a little color, though.”

  “Yeah,” Ned said brusquely. “But it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “Waddaya mean?”

  “A—uh—a cop came and asked me about it,” Ned answered. “Said something about how the dealer was involved with drugs and ‘organized crime.’ ”

  “Don’t worry about cops,” Semyon assured him. “Aren’t you gonna invite me in?”

  Once inside, Semyon did his best to calm Ned down. He told him that he knew what was going on. The car dealer was a guy named Adrian Blake who had a bit of a coke problem. He fell deep into debt with a friend of Grigori’s and was allowed to pay off much of the balance by selling cars at sweetheart prices to those he owed. “I think we ended up paying five hundred dollars for yours,” Semyon said. “He puts it in the books as a thirty-two-thousand-dollar sale and when the bank comes asking for their money he says he doesn’t have it. He goes bankrupt and starts all over again with the cash in his pocket. It works out for everyone.”

  “The dealer,” he continued, “this Blake character, is man who takes way too much powder up his nose and now he doesn’t want to pay for it. In any other country he would be dead, but here he just loses his business and goes through American bankruptcy. For one year he lives like a poor man, then he goes back to where he started from—or maybe he’ll go to an American jail for six months for fraud. Either way he is lucky, very lucky.”

  Ned, sick of hearing how “the rest of the world” does things, just glared at him. The look on Semyon’s face made it clear that he had no idea what Ned’s problem was. They talked about Ned’s new car and about the old Kia and how he’d be much better served to live in a better place in a better neighborhood. He was considered one of “the friends” now and deserved to show off a little.

  Ned lightened up and smiled. While it was true that his organized crime connections had gained him the luxury car, it was unlikely Dave could connect the two enough to stand up in court. And if he was any good as a cop, he wouldn’t be babysitting guys in the witness protection program. He asked Semyon what was up.

  “If you worked the weekend at Hawkridge, how much would you make?”

  “I don’t know, a few hundred bucks, why?”

  “How would you like to make twenty-five hundred and maybe more.”

  “Sounds good,” Ned said. “What would we have to do?”

  Semyon smiled. He knew his partner was in. “Super easy. All we have to do is deliver a package from the port at Elizabeth, New Jersey, to Roman in Long Island,” he said with a shrug. “It’s a special package. Grigori says he gets them from time to time and that it requires special care.”

  “What’s so special that it needs two men to escort it?” Ned asked. “I mean, this is a guy who sends heroin through FedEx. What could be so valuable that he needs us to transport it?”

  “My guess is that it’s art. These guys—these rich guys—all have lots and lots of art,” Semyon said. “They really like to collect beautiful things.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The port at Elizabeth, New Jersey, looked depressing and uninviting. It was flat and full of low, wide, gray
buildings. Power lines were everywhere. Signs of life, apart from parked cars and the ubiquitous gulls, were absent. Off in the distance, Ned could see an iron bridge that looked like the skeleton of some giant snake. The asphalt was searing under the oppressive sun and the lack of trees and grass made the oppressive heat seem far worse. The walk from the car to the office was truly miserable.

  Semyon was droning on, complaining about something, but Ned wasn’t listening. He was thinking instead about how he had already called Dave twice to get permission to take another trip and had gotten no answer. Ned knew that if he was caught out of state without authorization again, the shit would truly hit the fan.

  Once inside the office, Ned and Semyon were greeted by a small, dark man with deeply set eyes who appeared to know Semyon, but not well. He led them to and up a ship’s gangway. It was a sturdy and large ocean-going freighter. Ned did not recognize the flag the ship flew, but the crew all appeared to be Indian or Bangladeshi. The small man led them across the deck into a hatch on the ship’s bridge.

  They traveled down a circular staircase into a corridor with a number of hatches on each side. A couple were open, and Ned could see a number of bunk beds inside one and a small kitchen in the other. At the end of the corridor was a small room with a cot. On the walls were crude drawings of sea creatures, including an octopus and what appeared to be a dolphin. As they entered, a young girl, perhaps ten years old, emerged from behind the door.

  “That’s the package,” said the small man. “Don’t worry, she is absolutely untouched,” he added and smiled lasciviously. “Roman will be very, very pleased.”

  Ned was dumbstruck. Semyon recovered more quickly. “Thanks,” he said. “Is it already paid for?” The small man nodded, and Semyon handed him a small wad of bills for his trouble. He then leaned down and spoke to the girl in Russian. She shook her head and started speaking in a language that sounded kind of like Russian to Ned, but that he could tell was somewhat different. She said a couple of words that sounded like ar mesmis over and over again. Semyon sighed in frustration, shrugged and rolled his eyes at Ned and gestured to the girl to follow him off the ship. She indicated she understood and grabbed a small bag from under the cot before following him out. Semyon instructed Ned to be last in line.

  When they reached the car, Semyon opened the right front door and stepped in. Ned opened the right rear door and gestured for the little girl to hop in. She seemed utterly confused and Ned had to secure her seatbelt. She flinched when he brushed against her.

  Ned closed her door and started to drive without saying anything. He glared at Semyon who attempted to smile, shrugged again and looked out his window. The girl, wide-eyed and silent, looked around the car and out the window. She seemed terrified, but also excited.

  They were almost on I-95 before anyone spoke. Finally, Ned shouted, “What . . . the . . . fuck?”

  Semyon shrugged again. “I guess this is the package we have to deliver to Roman,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’m not actually all that surprised. I’ve heard things.”

  “I repeat . . . what the fuck?”

  “She is a prize—for Roman,” Semyon replied. “You know—to do women’s work.”

  “I’m pretty sure ‘women’s work’ doesn’t mean cooking and cleaning.” Ned was shouting so much he felt like he had to pull over to the shoulder, but he realized that Semyon had vodka on him for sure and certainly a few weapons and that they also had an undocumented minor in the car. Even if he told on every Russian he knew and then some, he would be looking at prison time. Instead, he took the next exit, Wilson Avenue, into Newark. He’d always heard Newark was a shithole, but it didn’t look that bad—certainly no worse than Elizabeth. They stopped at the deserted corner of Wilson and Rome. Ned looked Semyon in the eye and angrily demanded, “What is she, fucking nine years old?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Ask her!”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s from Georgia.”

  “What?”

  “Not Atlanta, Jawja, y’all.” Semyon was getting angry himself. “It’s not far from Chechnya. They call themselves Kartveli, but English and Americans call it ‘Georgia’ after some king or something. Assholes.”

  The little girl seemed to notice the word “Kartveli” and perked up.

  “So? You’ve talked to all kinds of . . .” Ned was at a loss for words, “. . . Khazaks, Tajiks, Estonians and all kinds of others . . .”

  “Yeah, but they all spoke Russian.”

  “And she doesn’t?”

  “She was probably born at least a dozen years after the Georgians kicked the Russians out.”

  “So, the languages can’t be that different.”

  “Stop being an American! The Georgian language is like none other in the world!” Semyon was shouting. “Their word for mother is dede and their word for father is mama! It’s totally crazy.”

  On hearing two more familiar words, the little girl started chattering nervously. Ned looked back and he could see that her eyes were still wide enough so that he could see the tops and bottoms of her irises and that she wasn’t quite focusing on anything in particular. She tightly held onto her small bag of belongings. Semyon shushed her. He smiled at her and made some funny faces and hand gestures. She didn’t exactly laugh, but she did do her best to put on a little smile. He put both hands on his chest and said “Semyon” a couple of times. She got the message and similarly introduced herself as “Sopho.” Semyon grinned broadly and smacked Ned. “Macnair!” he shouted in obvious mock anger. Sopho did her best to laugh. She tried to pronounce Macnair and came nowhere close. Semyon laughed. She seemed to appreciate that.

  Ned marveled at the power Semyon had. Here was a little girl, kidnapped (or sold by her family), thousands of miles away from home and about to be sold into slavery, almost feeling comfortable. Ned had always known that Semyon had a degree of charm, but when he realized that part of the reason he had such a good rapport with Sopho was that he had children of his own. That actually enraged him. “Semyon, you bastard,” he said. “How can you do that? You know where she’s going. What if she was one of your kids?” Sopho looked at Ned with fear. He realized that he had made himself look like the bad guy with his outbursts, and had, by extension, made Semyon look like the good guy, her potential savior.

  “She isn’t one of my kids, thank God,” Semyon said. “Listen, you can’t think that way, you can’t get soft. This is Roman’s property, we can’t ask, we can’t judge.”

  “Ours is not to reason why . . .”

  “What?

  “Nothing,” Ned’s head was in his hands. Sopho was still chattering, eyes wide open, almost certainly aware that neither of them had any idea what she was saying. Ned sighed.

  “So, do you know any more Georgian?”

  “Kartveli,” Semyon corrected. “Just a few swearwords . . . oh, and hello is gamarjoba and good-bye is nakhvamdis.”

  “Gamarjoba!” said the girl brightly.

  Ned grinned. “Gamarjoba,” he said sadly, then turned to Semyon. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Just as he was about to turn the key, he heard his phone ring. Semyon shot him a serious look. Despite his better judgment, Ned hoped it was Dave. It wasn’t. It was Katie from the office. Her upbeat tone angered Ned. “Hey, Eric,” she said in a sing-song voice. “How are you?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she giggled, even though nobody had said anything remotely funny. “Just a couple of things here at the office . . .”

  Ned regrouped. “Really? What’s up?” he asked in as close to normal a voice as he could muster.

  “Nothing really,” she said. “We got twice as many coils from Romania as Steve ordered . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I sent some of the extra ones up to Mr. Andersson.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Andersson, he’s at a trade show at
the Jacob Javits Center up there in Manhattan,” she said. “I thought he could use them to show his customers.”

  Ned felt cold run through his veins. He collected himself and asked, “Which half?”

  “The second half, I think. I’m not really sure,” Katie replied, paused and added an insincere giggle. “And there were some men here looking for you.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, a couple of guys,” she said. “They didn’t say much—just that they wanted to see you . . . in person.”

  Ned breathed deeply. “Fine,” he said. “What did they look like?”

  “Big guys,” she said. “Lots of tattoos. One of them had a tattoo of a spade—you know, from like a deck of cards—on his wrist. Anyone you know?”

  Ned sighed. He didn’t know anyone with such a tat, but he also knew that the Ace of Spades was a very important part of Sons of Satan imagery. He knew that, in all likelihood, any pair of men visiting him at work were either cops or bikers, and cops generally didn’t tattoo their wrists. “I’m not sure,” he told her. “Did they say anything?”

  “Not much, really, just said they wanted to see you and when I asked them what they wanted they said it wasn’t related to Hawkridge,” she said brightly. “Are they friends of yours?”

  “Probably.”

  “Anyways, I thought you should know.”

  Ned thanked her and said good-bye. He could feel his blood pressure rise. He turned to Semyon. “I gotta see the Swede.”

  “No way, we’re headed east to New York,” he snapped. “Not back in time to Delaware.”

  “No, no, it’s cool, he’s in Manhattan—at the Javits for a trade show,” Ned answered. “We can see him after we take care of Roman.”

  “Now you’re talking sense.”

  Ned started driving. Sopho finally stopped talking and started to look out the window. Semyon thanked Ned again for coming to his senses. They were approaching I-95 when Ned noticed two Harley-Davidsons behind him. They were bikers. Ned could tell immediately. Their faces were too small in the rear-view mirror for him to even try to recognize, and they weren’t wearing any colors, just orange-and black Harley jackets—but he could tell they were bikers.