by Layla Wolfe
“I did!” protested Roman, whapping the table with the blade of his hand, half-rising from his seat. He whipped his head to face Tobiah, his eyes flashing. “How the fuck do you know it was Riker who used the credit card? Maybe the same asshat who stole his burner used his credit card.”
Tobiah shook his head soberly. “No. We called on an associate of ours in Cottonwood to go on down there and review the video himself. It’s Riker. We all saw the video to confirm. It’s him.”
I cried out, without meaning to, “Does he at least have a fucking bandage around his throat? How can this fucking be?”
Ford stood, moving aside Tobiah to take over. “It’s fucking him, Gudrun. We all saw the video. And yeah, he’s got a bandage around his throat. We were thinking maybe you took out his voice box so the fucker can’t verbally taunt anyone anymore, but he’s walking around. Living to torture people another day.”
“Oh, Jesus Criminy,” moaned Roman, holding his head in his hands.
“This is a rough break,” marveled Slushy. “That fucker just cannot be killed.”
“Assmunch!” swore Knoxie. “Guys! Why the fuck can’t we get this guy? It’s like we all burned him at the stake in a past life or something and got reincarnated to fucking regret it!”
“I’d like to burn him at the stake,” murmured Lytton.
“Did he have a girl with him?” I asked. I figured if they’d seen the video maybe they’d looked at the gas pumps as well. “Was he driving a crappy old tan Volkswagen Golf?”
“He was on his bike, his same old Panhead,” said Ford. “But that’s another thing we discovered. Tobiah, tell them.”
Tobiah took center stage again. “While analyzing the call records, which were almost identical between the burner and Riker’s old regular cell, I found another pattern.” Now he looked directly at Roman. More angst for poor Roman? I even put my hand on his forearm in an affectionate, sisterly way. His face was utterly still like a beautiful Italianate statue. The rims of his hawk’s nostrils trembled barely perceptibly, like a man about to murder someone. His pupils were dots of black.
Tobiah actually looked like he pitied Roman now. “The number Riker’s been calling the most the past six months is registered to an Anthony Tataglia.”
I thought I could hear Roman gasp, although it was plain that name meant nothing to anyone else in the room.
Tobiah clarified for the rest of the men. “Tony Tormenta.”
An enormous wave of groans and moans came over the room. Men looked helplessly at each other, uttered “fuck!” and in general looked desperate. Who the fuck was Tony Tormenta? I didn’t have time to wonder much, though, because Roman shot to his feet.
“Look,” he roared, pointing a finger directly at Ford Illuminati, Prez of the mother chapter of The Bare Bones. “You can’t make me stick around this godforsaken airfield. You can only advise the best thing you think to do. But I signed up with The Bare Bones in order to get revenge on the man who fucking murdered my father. This is no big secret. You said you could always use fresh blood full of vengeance. Now you’re not even going to let me get on the road and track down some colossal asswad who tried to rape my stepsister, who abducted her friend, and who is in cahoots with the king nozzle who murdered my father?”
For lack of anything better to throw, Roman grabbed his tablemate’s notebook and slammed that down. “Mr. Illuminati. With all fucking due respect, you can’t stop me from tracking these motherfucking maniacs down. Slushy and Wolf can babysit Ms. McGill here. I’ve got more important things to do.”
He started storming off, leaving the meeting before it was adjourned, but Ford shouted above the general hubbub. He brandished some pages he’d grabbed off his printer.
“I’ve got your transfer papers,” he bellowed.
That made Roman pause for a split second, frowning. Transfer papers? Were we in the army?
“Right here,” roared Ford. “Birdseye sent this to me from his safe house in Tucson. It’s going to take months to rebuild your clubhouse, and even then it won’t be safe until we hit back at these assholes, get to the root of the matter, Tony Tormenta and the people over him, I suspect the Chinese. In the meantime, it’s been decided that you and Wolf are best off being transferred to our chapter. Wolf can work in the Illuminati Trucking parts shed. We’ll pay him more than Home Depot did. Gudrun can be closer to her father. It makes sense all around.”
Hands held out from his sides as though he held bombs, Roman was clearly aghast. He stuttered at first, he was so obviously appalled. Finally he spoke in a quiet, measured voice that was even scarier than his shouting. “Mr. Illuminati. I’m not a truant kid you can just transfer to another school. Since guitars rarely kill anyone, I know my only usable skill is my anger, my vengeance. And you’re not even using that skill. Why the fuck should I sit around here like an anusbrain with my dick in my hand when there are men out there who need to be killed, and I’m standing here perfectly willing to kill them?”
“Hear, hear,” said Knoxie, and a few men nodded.
“It’s not like that,” Ford said. “We’re not keeping you here like a child. We’re keeping you for your own protection. Everyone knows you’ve got it in for Tony Tormenta. Everyone knows he’s the one who personally shot your dad through the forehead when they worked together and had a falling out. We’re not saying that you’re not justified in your—”
But the door was already slammed against the wall, Roman was so eager to get out of there. One of the heels of his engineer’s boots squeaked, he was striding so fast. And I was directly behind him.
Wolf Glaser stood between Roman and the bright square of sunlight that was the outside door. Wolf was like a solid pillar, a regular rectangle of a man stupid enough to get in Roman’s way.
“Roman!” he barked, full of ego. “What’s this buzz I hear about us being transferred permanently to this airfield? Tracy told me she’s waiting to be escorted up to some far-flung pot farm in the mountains while we’re assigned guard duty—ooph!”
With one arm out like a battering ram, Roman strong-armed his Prospect. Just by jamming him in the chest as he strode by, the heavyset Wolf took flight through the air. He bounced like an astronaut sailing gravity-free through the atmosphere, bonking his head high up on the wall. I was too busy scrambling after Roman to give much of a shit what happened when Wolf came back down to earth.
Bam! Roman hit the heavy metal door like a bomb, like jailhouse gates opening after decades of imprisonment. He stomped down the rickety outdoor steps two at a time.
“Roman! Wait up! You can fucking talk to me, you know!”
His momentum apparently propelling him forward, Roman didn’t stop when he hit the asphalt. He kept striding toward where he’d parked his bike, which had been uninjured in the clubhouse explosion. I imagined his Limp Bizkit poster and his photo of Andrea had been destroyed. I sure hoped he had kept his guitars with his former bandmates. “The time is past for talking, Gudrun! We passed that exit months ago.”
“No, it isn’t! Listen to reason! If you run off half-cocked like some kind of maniac going off the reservation, you’re putting liability on the entire club. They need to do this methodically, not like some guy who can’t find his ass with both hands and a map.”
Reaching his bike, Roman twirled to face me. His eyes were crazed, like those cartoon vortexes that replaced normal eyeballs when a character had been hit with a heavy object. I cringed back, halfway expecting him to hit me. “Have these morons been able to find Riker since he buried their brother Ziggy? They only ran into him on that religious ashram property by accident, Gudrun. He happened to be driving a heroin delivery truck, that’s all. They’re just a bunch of guys who can’t find their hash pipes when smoke is coming out of their cuts. It takes a real pissed-off son of a bitch like me to nail down some elusive, tricky weasels like Riker and this Tormenta bastard.” He turned to whip his brain bucket from his handlebar, but he paused without putting it on.
Calme
r now, I said, “Listen. I know it’s your responsibility to find that Tony Torture asshole, if he really did put a bullet through your dad’s head.”
Roman closed his eyes patiently. “He did. My dad worked for him for many years. That’s how my mom met Slushy.”
“Okay. But don’t you think Riker is on the club? Riker iced their friend, their brother. Don’t you think it’s their right to get revenge for that?”
“He abducted you, Gudrun, in case you forget. He also knows where they’re stashing your buddy.”
That was all true. I, too, had been pretty gleeful when I’d heard that Roman had shot that disgusting pig through the throat. It may sound harsh, that I have no regard for human life. But that might actually be true, when the alleged “human” and “life” belong to people such as Riker. My modeling years had taught me that much. There’s no sense in having fake “regard” or “empathy” with people who may very well be plain old assholes who are breathing up perfectly good air. I was on the same side as Roman. Some people needed to be ended.
“I know. But the club can get vengeance for that, don’t you think?” His face looked so grim, so determined. I had to reach into the depths of my soul and dredge up things I wasn’t accustomed to, like soft, gentle feelings. The last time I’d had soft, gentle feelings for anyone, he’d wound up practically decapitated by a GPS system in a car. I couldn’t afford to feel those feelings anymore. But I knew there was no other way to appeal to Roman, so I had to go out of my comfort zone. “Listen, Roman. That’s not the real reason I want you to stay with me. I need you. I need you to look after me, Roman. I’m not comfortable with Slushy. I’ve spent about ten minutes tops with him my entire adult life. Besides, if he keeps coming to visit me in the officer’s housing, someone’s going to put two and two together. Riker and Torture know they want to get The Bare Bones and Slushy is a big part of that. But as far as I know, no one knows I’m Slushy’s daughter. Yet.”
Roman actually put his lid onto his saddle, that’s how much he was considering what I said. Tilting his head, he looked thoughtfully at me. “Wait. Say that again. Tell me what you said at first.”
I frowned. “I’m not comfortable with Slushy?”
He took my chin in his long fingers. There was some resonance between us, some compatibility of our cells. The energy between us was practically buzzing, it was so palpable. “Not that. What you said before that.”
I was so unused to expressing actual feelings, I had to think hard. “Oh. About how I need you? Well, I do.” I felt silly and ridiculous, immature and idiotic. But it was my last card, the only one I hadn’t played, to get Roman to stay put, to prevent him from going all rogue and cowboy on me. “I totally need you, Roman. I mean, Wolf is okay. He’s fine. But he’s not my stepbrother. I want someone to talk to. Maybe I feel dependent on you because you saved me once. But can’t you stick around, just for a week or so? Then run off chasing Riker and Mr. Torture?”
I was crestfallen when he lowered his hand. But he was smiling.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROMAN
Roman couldn’t believe his ears.
Gudrun was like a breath of air from another lifetime. Like Knoxie had just said—another reincarnation, one when things were simpler, easier, less dramatic.
He’d spent more than ten years in the rock lifestyle, touring, drugging, every night with different groupies. Clusterfucks of people, literally in each other’s faces, limbs everywhere, in such close proximity to smelly, real, vile people he used to actually beg for solitary confinement, just to ride a bus alone, unnoticed. Backstage was always Sardinesville, packed in like cattle going to slaughter, so many flashes going off in his face he thought he’d have a seizure.
Now, she was offering him the solitude of a genteel old building. The base was deserted. It had been turned over to the Corps of Engineers ten years ago to prepare it for civilian use, only no one had gotten around to it yet. So the airfield sat, unused, the asphalt cracking, roadrunners racing where jets used to land, owls burrowing in old ammo bunkers, coyotes making their dens in rusted underground jet fuel tanks. And the whole place was on a giant mesa surrounded by towers in varying shades of red and purple. The colors changed depending on the time of day, Roman knew from having been up here on a few runs, a few fish fries. Without the rumble of Harley pipes, it was so desolate a wheeling eagle sounded like the doomsday cry of a Cro-Magnon bird.
And now Gudrun was begging him to stay. In the past few days, he’d grown as fond of her as he ever had been over that backstabber Andrea. Only¸ Roman knew Gudrun would never betray him. He just knew it, somehow. Her round, innocent face looked sincere, if only in a cracked sort of way. She was telling the truth. She needed him. He’d just removed her from her family, from any sort of normalcy, even from her best friend, and he was going to leave her to dangle in the wind?
No.
“All right. I’ll let them track down Tony Tormenta, Riker or Alcatraz or whatever the fuck his name is. They can be the hero and find your friend and bust up this white slavery ring. They can even take Riker, since he’s their out bad brother. I just want a shot at Tormenta. Listen, you came in Slushy’s cage, right?”
“Yes, his Prius.”
He handed her his brain bucket. “Then put this on. I’ll call Ford to get an idea where this officer’s housing area is, and we’ll take a tour. How does that sound?”
The way she lit up let him know she didn’t get out much. Her life in Tucson was probably just one long drone of work, home, work, home, with stops in between to score drugs from dubious sources. Roman had already obtained a bottle of Percoset from a brother, and it was burning a hole in his pocket. He was strangely eager to see the elated look of joy on her face when he presented her with the pills. He realized with a shock that he wanted to please her.
After Gudrun climbed on his pussy pad, Roman started off in the direction Roman told him. At first he drove over potholed nail-strewn streets where sewer and water lines were being ripped up by construction equipment. Then there were neat red-roofed condos where apparently enlisted men lived. There were no fences here, and children’s wheeled vehicles were propped against pine trees. Around a few more roundabouts and the genteel homes of the Cordoban Housing Area began.
Roman could dig this. It was almost like being a rock star again. He felt like he was in the Hollywood Hills riding serenely past the dignified red-roofed structures with second story wrought iron balconies. The viridian green lawns were tidily mowed, so maintenance men must come by, although only a few scattered cars were parked here and there, like Ford had promised. The best part of town was almost a ghost town.
There were no fences here, either. You could see right into everyone’s backyard. Maybe the army had been afraid of someone building a bomb in their backyard. The landscaping got better and better as Roman proceeded up the plateau, around roundabouts that sprouted palms, pines, and spruces, all trimmed into bonsai-like shapes. Almost every home had a flower garden out front, with a preference for calla lilies and yellow daisies in immaculate beds. Ford had told him to head uphill toward the officer’s housing—only Coast Guard, Army, and Navy men were left on this base.
This was an ingenious hiding place, actually. Ford had an inside man, a Corps of Engineers guy who was overseeing the facilities of the base. For a few bucks and some A-1 meth, Reg Eastwood had agreed to look the other way after handing them the key to a couple of these gems. Roman turned into Calle de Rio, a court with only four of the stately homes, all with the best and grandest views. Eastwood lived in the old General’s home, so Roman set his kickstand and told Gudrun to wait while he knocked on the carved wooden door.
“I was told to expect you.” Reg Eastwood walked out like an SS man, his short silver hair buzzed into a military style. He had that authoritative, stern, in command look of a military man, although Roman knew he was just a civilian, some engineer playing army. Roman took an immediate dislike to him, although he didn’t know why.
&nbs
p; “You’ll like it here,” said Eastwood, going down the front walkway toward Gudrun. He held himself erect, upright, as though parading in formation with hundreds of others.
“We won’t be here long,” Roman was quick to say, but Eastwood was already shaking Gudrun’s hand. He didn’t like this one bit. Could this guy be trusted? If he’d been bought off with an eight ball of meth, how easily could Tormenta’s Chinese cartel buy him off?
“You’re right down here,” said Eastwood, handing Roman the key. “Let me show you around.”
“Where can we go to buy food?” Gudrun asked Eastwood.
Roman caught his breath. He wasn’t sure how much Eastwood knew. Did he know that no one was supposed to be seeing Gudrun? Roman butted in. “The gals from The Citadel can bring us food. Or I can make whatever runs we need. Is everything we need inside the house? Pots, pans, that sort of thing?”
“Oh, yeah,” Eastwood said with confidence. “No one took anything with them. It all belongs to the military. You should have wine glasses, rugs, couches, sheets—my house even came equipped with a stocked wine cellar and some bottles of Coeur de Lion 1955 Calvados.”
Roman was irritated that he had no clue what the fuck that was, although he had used to run in exalted circles where something like that might’ve been floating around. He rattled the key in the lock. “Maybe we’ll get lucky too,” he groused.
It was like being in an old adobe church. The light that shone through the high rectangular windows displayed wrought iron chandeliers and a winding staircase to the second story. The furniture was simple and plain, Craftsman style solid workmanship. Their boots echoed, hollow, on the wooden floorboards as they moved back toward the dining room, the kitchen with its black and white tiled floor.
