Goose

by Hildreth, Scott

  I studied her for a moment. She was an adorable, innocent twentysomething. At least she appeared to be one.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Bullshit,” I said with a laugh. “Twenty-two, maybe. Hell, you could pass for eighteen.”

  “I’m thirty-two.”

  “What year were you born?” I asked.

  “I might be a thief, but I’m not a fucking liar.” She tossed me my items one by one. “If you’re going to treat me like one, or call me one, you can go fuck yourself, Goose.”

  “Settle down,” I said.

  She looked me up and down, and then shook her head in frustration. “I just proved that I trust you. You know who I am.”

  I was at the crossroads. I could either trust her, and keep her in my life, or deny that trust and allow her to escape. I wanted to trust her. Obviously, Ghost trusted her. If he ate breakfast with her for two months straight, he had to have trusted her. It was probably why he didn’t hesitate to tell her where I was from.

  “I’m single because I’m afraid exposing someone to who I really am won’t go well.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a thief.”

  She grinned. “You’re in good company. It’s the only life I’ve ever known. I came about it honestly, though. My father taught me.”

  “I’m a real thief.”

  “So am I.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Biggest take on a job.”

  “I don’t brag about my jobs,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I was told it was bad manners, and bad luck. What about you?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t brag about mine, either. But, let’s just say there’s not a crime I haven’t committed. I’m an outlaw. I carry a gun with me everywhere I go. A silenced Walther .22 caliber, just in case. I’ve been in shootouts with law enforcement and I’ve outrun the cops on more occasions than I can count. I’ve been beat up, tied up, cut up, shaken up, and blown up. Now I’m pretty much fed up.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed.” She said, her tone not very convincing. She either lacked interest or wasn’t impressed. She nodded toward my waist. “Were you expecting me to argue those points?”

  “I wasn’t. Why?”

  “Your hands on your hips tell me otherwise.”

  I narrowed my gaze. “What are you, a fucking psychiatrist?”

  “I know how to read people. I have to.”

  I put my hands in my front pockets.

  “Now, you’re disappointed with what you’ve done. Upset that I pegged you for being argumentative.”

  She was right. On both accounts. “How the fuck did you know that?”

  “I’m good at what I do.”

  I was convinced. That she was good at what she did, and that she and I just might get along. “So, you’re not scared about me being an outlaw?”

  “Scared? I’m not scared of you, what you do, or how you go about doing it. We’re one in the same. Granted, I haven’t been beat up, tied up, cut up, shaken up, or blown up.” She shrugged dismissively. “Maybe it’s just that I’m better at what I do than you are at what you do.”

  I scoffed. “Better? I seriously doubt that.”

  She picked up her can of beer. “I suppose time will tell.”

  I gave her a look. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” She sipped her beer. “I was just being a smart-ass.”

  “Well, stop it,” I snapped. “I’m trying to get along, here.”

  “We’re both criminals. Outlaws. Or whatever. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  “There’s a lot of shit I do that I can’t tell you about,” I admitted, coming clean, so to speak. “I’m kind of bound to secrecy by the club I run with.”

  In the midst of taking a drink, she paused. She seemed to digest what I’d said. She lowered the can. “Your gang or clique or whatever?”

  “Motorcycle club.”

  “That’s fine with me. I’m sure not going to tell you about all my travels.” She smirked. “What else you got, Goose?”

  I shrugged. “I think that’s it.”

  She sat down on the bench and glanced over her shoulder. “I’m supposed to run down the steps now? In fear for my life?”

  “I don’t know.” I sat down beside her. “I’m new to this.”

  “So am I.” She nodded toward the horizon. “How about we watch the sunset, then I’ll suck your pretty cock?”

  I liked her outlook on life. I reached for my beer. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  “So, what does all this mean?” she asked, still gazing at the beach. “We’ve admitted that we’re interested in each other?”

  “I find you interesting,” I replied. “I’m pursuing my interests. That’s all I can commit to.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” She raised her can of beer between us, in toast. “Let me know if anything changes. One way, or the other.”

  I doubted it would. I clanked my can against hers, nonetheless. “I will.”

  16

  Ally

  High-income home owners kept their money in the strangest places. Shoe boxes tucked away in the closet was a familiar hiding spot. In a Ziploc bag in the toilet tank was another. In the inside coat pocket of their favorite jacket was a common place to find ten thousand dollars in one hundred-dollar bills.

  I wasn’t looking for ten thousand dollars, nor was I in a high-income home owner’s residence. I was on a fact-finding mission in the home of one of SoCal’s wealthy residents. A home I was unfamiliar with.

  Protected by the blanket of darkness draped over the city, I walked gingerly through the master bedroom. Despite the night vision’s eerie green glow and limited view, it was easy to see the room was sparsely decorated and meticulously neat. It was an extension of the anal-retentive owner’s personality.

  Incapable of cleaning up or controlling his manner of living life, his spotless home became a substitute.

  Just as I expected, in the corner of the master closet, a very large safe was neatly situated. Based on experience, I guessed its weight at over a thousand pounds, empty. Moving it would be impossible.

  The locking mechanism would need to be manipulated. My ability to do so was one of the many things that separated me from the masses of common thieves. Being cautious not to disrupt anything in the closet, I made note of the manufacturer and the model number of the safe.

  I needed a one-hour window to manipulate the lock. If things went well, it’d take fifteen minutes. My crappiest time to manipulate a three-number lock was when I was young—an hour and sixteen minutes.

  This was a fact-finding mission. I had roughly an hour before the home owner would return. Attempting to manipulate the lock, clear the contents, and vanish into the night’s darkness would likely get me arrested. I’d have to return at another date.

  The anticipation of that day’s arrival would be nearly as pleasurable as walking away with the contents of the safe.

  But not near as rewarding as the look on the owner’s face when he found it empty.

  17

  Goose

  Our clubhouse resembled a frat house living room. Sofas, a sectional, pinball machines, and a world-class kitchen were a few of the things that set it apart from the typical MC clubhouse.

  The kitchen was my idea. I was the designated cook and used the state-of-the-art equipment for preparing meals when our meetings ran well into the night. It wasn’t uncommon for me to cook a meal of comforts foods when we returned from a late-night job, either.

  The four of us were seated at the sectional. Baker was across from us, on the couch. I realized only one of our member’s was missing, but the room felt empty in his absence.

  Without our sixth member, the meetings would forever be a reminder. With my jaw clenched, I gazed into my lap.

  “Goose, Reno and I are going to Oceanside in the morning,” Baker said. “I’ve been busy with end-of-year accounting bullshit
for the last week. I apologize. I lost track of time.”

  “Oceanside?” I looked up. “I’m not going to fucking Oceanside. That’s your deal. I don’t know that son-of-a—”

  “You said you wanted to be involved,” Baker argued, his tone stern. “You’re going. You’ll agree to how we’re disposing of this problem, or we’re not doing it. That cop can sit on your roof from now until the end of time for all I care.”

  “Fine,” I huffed. “I’ll fucking go.”

  As much as I didn’t want to expose myself to someone I wasn’t familiar with, it was for the better. Left to their own devices, the club would do something half-assed. The results would loom over me like a fog for the rest of my life—or until I got nabbed by detective Barnes.

  “On to next order of business,” Baker said. “The job in Bakersfield.”

  “I’m ready whenever we’re ready,” Tito chimed. “I’ve hacked into his server a few times, just to check on him. He leaves for conventions twice a month, so there’ll always be a window of opportunity right around the corner.”

  Baker looked at each of us. “This one’s going to be huge, fellas.”

  “It’ll seem fucked up doing a job without Ghost,” Cash whined.

  “It’ll be fucked up,” Reno agreed. “But what are we supposed to do? Just dissolve the club? What would Ghost think about that? If we stopped pulling jobs because he wasn’t here, he’d be ashamed of us.”

  “Who’s going to drive?” Cash asked.

  “I’ll drive,” Baker replied.

  Cash’s eyes thinned. “You? There’s a big difference between driving that SUV full of men and gear than there is driving that little go-cart of yours on that track. When someone’s chasing you, shit gets real.”

  Baker shrugged. “I’m not going to argue that. But I’m the only logical answer.”

  He was the only logical answer. I expected in time, things were sure to change for the Devil’s Disciples. We were certainly going to be challenged if we ever got in a run-in with the cops. Ghost had a natural knack for driving, almost as if he knew what was going to present itself long before it happened.

  Hell, he earned his nickname “Ghost” because of his ability to elude and escape in a car.

  “I’m with Baker on this,” I said, glancing at each of the men as I spoke. “He’s our only option.”

  “Coming back from the Bakersfield job won’t be an issue,” Baker explained. “At least, it shouldn’t be. If he’s out of town for the weekend, the chances of us getting in a chase are slim.”

  “Agreed,” Tito said. “His home is on two acres of land or more. The odds of being noticed by neighbors will be miniscule.”

  Baker stroked his beard. “We’re sure this is going to be fruitful?”

  “By my records, he’s earned north of ten million,” Tio replied. “I’ve found no investments. There are records of cash out, but nothing’s been re-invested. I can’t find a trail of how he’s laundered one cent. He doesn’t pay taxes on it, either. So, he’s either turned it into cash and kept it, or he’s turned it into cash and taken it elsewhere. I’ve got no record of him leaving the country, ever. The logical answer is that he’s got in in that home.”

  Tito could easily land a job in LA as a model for a clothing line. Ally had joked that I was pretty, but Tito was the prettiest man I’d ever seen. His true strength, however, was computer hacking or anything to do with electronics.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Baker said.

  “What are we going to do when we do our next bank job?” I asked. “Or the next job where we’ve got to actually outrun someone? We’re going to be fucked. Ghost knew all the routes, roadways, the speed he could take exit ramps, everything. I’m not interested in getting hemmed up because we’ve got you trying to outrun a cop, Bake.”

  “Yeah,” Cash said. “Me neither.”

  “Same goes for me,” Reno said.

  “We’ll definitely need to be more selective with the jobs we choose,” Tito said. “Statistically speaking, most robbery suspects are caught in a car chase. We’re one pit maneuver away from a prison sentence.”

  “Enough,” Baker growled. “I’m just as upset about Ghost’s death as the rest of you. There’s nothing we can do about it. For now, our focus needs to be getting rid of this cop’s body.”

  I’d agree with Baker on getting rid of the cop’s body being priority.

  Agreeing that anyone was as upset as me about the loss of Ghost wasn’t going to happen.

  Now, or ever.

  18

  Ally

  Goose’s home in La Mesa stood out from all the other homes in the area. While his neighbor’s yards were decorated with cactus and rocks, his was landscaped with beautiful shrubs, flowers, the occasional ornamental tree. The result was one that would rival any local botanical garden.

  The interior of the small home was meticulously cared for, fitted with the essentials needed to entertain a few guests. Seated across from him at the kitchen table, I gazed at the selection of food he’d placed in front of me.

  A hint of garlic and fresh tomatoes lingered. My mouth salivated. I drew a slow breath and couldn’t help but smile. “It smells so good.”

  “Hopefully it tastes good.” He gestured across the table. “There’s an eggplant cutlet and artichoke salad, chicken parmesan, and fettuccine carbonara. Dig in. Before it gets cold.”

  “I can’t believe you make your own sauce.” I reached for my fork. “From scratch.”

  He chuckled. “I can’t believe anyone would buy pre-made sauce.”

  Having Goose invite me into his home to share a meal—one that he prepared especially for us—changed my view on our relationship. There were a lot of things a man could to do to garner my interest but cooking for me caused my heart to swell.

  After a momentary struggle on what to start with, I chose the fettuccine. “Holy crap,” I exclaimed upon taking the first bite. “This is good.”

  He looked up. “You like it?”

  “It tastes so fresh. Even the peas.”

  “Everything is fresh.”

  It was obvious by the attention to detail he took in preparing the food that he enjoyed cooking. There was a big difference between enjoying it and being good at it. He was good at it. I took a bite of the salad. The breaded eggplant and red onions were warm, which wasn’t at all what I expected. I was astonished at the flavors that came from what seemed to be a rather simple salad.

  “What’s on the onions?” I asked. “Holy crap. I could eat a bowl of those things.”

  “I roast them after drizzling them in a balsamic vinaigrette. It’s on the artichokes, too. A little on the salad afterward sets it off.”

  “It sure does.”

  A sample of the chicken parmesan followed. The chicken was tender and juicy, while the breading was crisp and flavorful. “Where in the world did you learn to cook like this?”

  “A lot of practice. I’ve been cooking for the club since we were kids.”

  “You guys moved here right out of high school, right?”

  He nodded. “I keep forgetting you spent two months talking to Ghost. You two must have become pretty close.”

  “We talked every day until the day of the accident.”

  “Did you see him the day he died?”

  “I did,” I admitted.

  His gaze dropped to his food. “He uhhm. He didn’t come around as much as normal after Abby died. We all figured he just needed some time and a little space. When we did see him, he was in good spirits. At least he seemed to be. I guess he was just hanging out in the diner, huh?”

  I sipped my wine. “He spent a lot of time there.”

  He nodded. “I’m glad he had someone to talk to during that trying time. Losing her had to be tough on him.”

  When my father died, I hated being asked about it. Although people gave condolences out of kindness and with sincerity, the constant reminder that he was gone did more damage than good.

  I hate
d to ask, but I also hated more not to.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m okay.”

  He wasn’t. I could tell it was eating him up from the inside out. “He thought the world of all of you guys. You know that, right?”

  He picked at his food. “We thought the world of him, too.”

  “It gets better as time passes,” I explained. “I know it’s tough. All I had was my father, and when he passed, I was alone. It wasn’t easy, but I got through it. I still think about him today. Every day, actually. I guess the difference is that I smile now when I think of him instead of crying. Crying is required to heal, though.”

  “I’m not a crier.”

  “Just this once, you should try it,” I said. “It’s part of the healing process.”

  He continued to flip the back of his fork through his salad. “According to you. I need time to pass. That’s all.”

  “Our eyes are the vessels through which our soul weeps,” I said. “There’s only one way to relieve the pressure building up in your soul, and that’s to shed a few tears.”

  He slowly raked his eyes upward until they met mine. “Who said that?”

  “Said what?”

  He cleared his throat. “Our eyes are the vessels through which our soul weeps?”

  “I just made it up.”

  His gaze fell to his food. “I like that.”

  While he picked through his salad, I ate my food—slowly, for once. Midway through my chicken parmesan, he spoke.

  “Ghost went to the cemetery every Sunday following Abby’s death, without fail. He texted me from her gravesite on the day he died, and I didn’t respond. It’s uhhm. It’s been eating me up. I was out in the yard, doing my Sunday cleanup. He probably sat there and waited for me to respond for thirty minutes or so, knowing him. Him waiting on that response caused him to be late. Being late put him in front of that drunk driver. If I would have taken time to respond, things would have been different. Five minutes would have made all the difference in the world. I keep thinking about that. If I would have texted him five minutes before he left, he would have left five minutes earlier.” He looked up. A tear clung to the corner of his right eye. “And, he wouldn’t have died.”