Beale Street was chaos tonight, but that was nothing new. The street and clubs were all filled with tourists, and local celebrities who wanted to be seen and recognized.
Andy stood near one of the entrances to the bar, observing the patrons and keeping his back tightly to the wall. He’d learned to keep his eyes open when working security, and tonight was no different. He’d been lucky to get this job soon after pulling into town, and he had Watcher to thank. He called and talked to the man about once a month since he left Las Cruces, checking up on Carmela and making sure everyone was okay. When he mentioned he was going to Memphis, Watcher only had to make one call and he’d had a short-term security job lined up. One thing led to another, and after working a half-dozen events, he was hired on permanently.
The music crashed and peaked as the house band wound their set down. They were the warm-up for the night; there’d be about an hour break, and then the headline group would play. Andy didn’t remember who they were, but Ben had asked him to get an autograph when they last spoke. The kid was nearly seventeen, and music crazy. He thought Andy was the shit since he was not only in Memphis, but worked in a famous bar on Beale Street.
Still skimming his gaze over the crowd, he locked onto a face he recognized and groaned. Dammit, she wasn’t supposed to come here anymore; she had promised him the last time he saw her that she would stay clear of this bar. “Fuck me,” he muttered, because the bad vibe had just ratcheted up a dozen notches. He slipped through the crowd, weaving his way between the clumps and groups of people, taking care to stay in what should be her blind spot.
Stepping close behind her, his hand darted forward and clamped tightly on her bicep, pulling her away from her goal and leaving her intended victim unaware that his wallet had nearly been pickpocketed. “Edith, I’m so disappointed in you,” he said quietly in her ear, wrapping his other hand around her wrist and pulling it away from another patron’s pocket. Shaking his head at her and holding her firmly in his grasp, Andy started easing them back towards the door.
One of the few women he had never been tempted to sleep with, Edith Khole was a professional thief. She was damn good at her job, which was a problem for Andy, since his job was pretty much to prevent her from doing hers.
Short and thin, she sagged bonelessly into his arms, tilting her blonde head up to look at his face. He could see the blackbirds tattooed on her collarbone and neck, winging delicately up towards her hairline behind her ear. They were incredibly detailed; he could identify individual feathers on each wing.
She was having a good time, laughing soundlessly at his efforts to get her out the door unobtrusively. Dressed in a denim jacket, with a bright, flowery sundress over capri-length tights and flat ballet shoes, it looked like she should have about two places, tops, where she could tuck her stolen prizes. You wouldn’t ever think she had a dozen places to hide the things she lifted from her marks.
“Andrew, it’s good to see you,” she drawled, trailing the fingertips of one hand across the edge of his jaw. He reached down and pulled her other hand out of his front pocket. “Edith, stop it, dammit. You want me to call the cops in here, sweet pea?” He scolded her, knowing she avoided the cops like the plague. As far as Andy knew, she’d never been arrested, and her evasive moves were legendary when it came to killing a tail or investigation.
Stretching her arm up, she trailed her fingers through his hair, pausing at his ears. “These are new,” she purred, fingering one of his earrings.
“Fuck me,” he complained; he’d forgotten to take them out before starting work. Nothing like breaking up a fight and having one of the combatants rip jewelry out of your earlobe. Pushing her body to the exit with his, they finally made it outside, and he first checked for his wallet and keys before letting her go, stepping quickly away.
“Awww, Andrew, don’t you trust me?” She laughed. Her eyes flashed, and her gaze shifted quickly as he watched her determine the course of her remaining evening. “Ta, Andrew, be safe, baby,” she trilled, and then she was strolling down the Beale, bopping sideways into a group of German tourists. Apologizing to them as they helped set her upright again, she flashed him a quick glimpse of her white teeth in a grin. He knew they’d just lost passports, wallets, phones, cash, or something else of value. Damn, she was good.
Walking back into the bar, Andy gestured to one of the other security guys that he was taking a quick break. He headed into the employee-only area, needing to call GeeMa to check on Ben. Standing in the bathroom, he looked in the mirror while he waited for her to answer the phone. His hair was a couple inches too long again; it was time for a haircut. His green eyes gazed back peacefully, and he was stunned for a minute at how much older he looked than the last time he’d studied himself.
A combination of road life, where the wind and sun played havoc with his skin, and the weight of all the things he’d seen and experienced had aged him. He’d been gone from home for about two years, but it seemed like he’d matured a decade more than that. Leaving a voicemail, he clicked off the phone, sliding it into his pants pocket. He removed his earrings, zipping them into one of the smaller cargo pockets; now he was ready to go back to work.
Exiting the bathroom, he entered the hallway in the middle of a group of musicians on their way to the stage. Caught up in the flow of people who were all acting either drunk, high, or both, he moved along with them until he reached a door that gave access back to the bar, turning and cutting out of the group there. Covertly acknowledging the other security personnel, Andy walked into the back of the main performance room. He watched as the band moved on stage to warm up and tweak the set-up done by their roadies.
He knew from talking to GeeMa that Ben had started playing guitar, and wondered if he was any good. He’d heard him singing in the background a couple of times, and the boy could carry a tune, but what kind of job would that get him in the long run? Especially in Wyoming, forget for a minute that they lived in Enoch, think about just fucking Wyoming. He worried about Ben, and was glad he’d gotten the money set aside for college for the kid.
Scanning the room, he caught sight of a familiar blonde head for the second time tonight and cussed under his breath. Edith was back, and he was sure she was up to no good. Pressing his way through the crowd as the band began their set, he pushed between patrons as he angled towards her, watching as she worked the room. There was a sudden roiling in the crowd near her, and then she was gone from sight. She’d probably clocked him the minute he’d come into the room, and had used the crowd’s movement as a distraction. She was good and smart, a deadly combination. Still, something felt off to him.
About halfway through the first set of songs, the band sounded pretty good. They had a loyal, local following too, and the room was packed with kids all rocking out. He shook his head, feeling so much older than these kids out partying like their life depended on the next exciting adrenaline high. Life was so much more than this; they simply didn’t know it yet.
Restless without knowing why, Andy stood near the door to the back alleyway he thought Edith might have exited through, and he decided to check it out and make sure everything was okay. Pushing open the door, he looked left and right without seeing Edith or anyone else. There were dumpsters pushed up against the far wall of the alley at intervals, and someone could easily use them for cover, but he didn’t see anything moving.
Listening as much as he was able with the raw sound pouring around him from the bar, he wasn’t able to pull anything from the night. About to let the door swing closed, he glanced down beside one of the dumpsters and saw a red pile of rags. Lifting his eyes to the newest addition of graffiti on the wall, he jerked his gaze back to the pile of fabric, recognizing the floral pattern of Edith’s dress.
“Fuck me,” he muttered. He strode quickly across the alley and stooped down; gently touching her neck, he felt for a pulse. It was faint, but there as he pulled out his phone and dialed 911. His hands were shaking as he waited for an answer. After giving the
operator instructions, he hung up and called Darryl, the head of security for the bar. He stayed on the phone with him, talking through the events of the night as Darryl and a couple other security team members rushed through the winding warrens of employee hallways, and Andy slowly stroked Edith’s contorted limbs.
Sirens were getting closer, echoing oddly in the winding alleyways that ran between the buildings on the Beale. Andy saw the flashing lights reflecting on the brick as Darryl squatted down beside him. “How is she?” His eyes took in the devastating injuries that had been dealt to the woman lying on the cobblestones in front of them.
“It’s not good,” Andy replied as he moved around to the top of her head. “She’s bleeding internally I think; her arms and legs are getting cold too fast. She’s also broken all to shit and back. Look at her fucking face, man. She’s gonna take a long time to heal.”
Darryl stood and stepped back, getting out of the way of the emergency medical team from the ambulance. He said dispassionately, “If she lives, Andy. This shit is bad.”
Sweating from the heat of the night, he watched the EMTs look her over and then bundle her up for transport to a hospital. “She wasn’t out here more than five minutes, D. This was vicious and fast.” Andy scrubbed his face into the crook of his arm; his hands were too bloody to touch his face. “She was in the bar earlier, and I tossed her like we normally do. I wonder why the fuck she came back; that’s not her normal MO.” He shook his head helplessly. “She had to have pissed off the wrong person, D.”
Darryl cleared his throat. “Ling,” he named one of the biggest drug dealers in Memphis, “Edith owes him big for blow.” He turned to walk back towards the bar’s back entrance, sidestepping Andy’s hand as he tried to catch his arm. “She’s a thief and a drug addict, Andy; don’t romanticize this shit. She will live and pay Ling off with some non-existent wad of miracle cash she has somewhere, or she will die—either at the hospital tonight or in another alley on another night. This shit don’t wash off, man, and it leaks. Be careful where you step.”
Andy stood in the alleyway, watching Darryl walk through the door back into the darkened halls as the ambulance’s flashing lights pulled away, disappearing down the alley. Clenching and unclenching his bloody fists, head bowed in anger, he realized he was staring at the smears of blood on the bricks where Edith had lain. He couldn’t conceive how such a beautiful, vibrant woman had come to this, looking like a discarded pile of rags in a dirty alley behind a bar. She was likely going to die, and would die alone. “No one will give a shit,” he muttered. “Fuck me.”
***
Darryl slapped the door closed before Andy could walk back out. “What the hell, Andy? Are you quitting on me? No warning, no notice, no fucking howdy-do?”
Andy scrubbed his hands over his face exhaustedly, and ran his fingers through his just-cut hair, rucking it up every which way. It had been over a month since Edith died on the way to the hospital, and he hadn’t been able to sleep much since then.
Andy’s apartment lease was terminated as of this morning; hell, he’d even remembered to have the utilities cut off. It had been bizarre to have to consider such mundane things, since he’d never had his own place before. He’d liked the space, but wasn’t sad to be leaving it. He needed to be in the wind, and there was no way Darryl would ever understand. “Sorry, D, I just...I just gotta go, man. Time for me to be moving on. This is the longest I’ve stayed in one place since leaving Wyoming, and I have itchy feet.” He shrugged, turning to face his former boss.
Darryl stared at him for a long moment, neither of them speaking or moving. “Sit down for a minute, Andy.” He walked behind his desk and dropped into his office chair. Andy dragged a chair back from the front of the desk, angling it so he could see the door and the desk, and sat down. Darryl opened a drawer, pulling out a bottle of Dalmore and two glasses.
Watching him splash the expensive whisky into the glasses, Andy arched an eyebrow, picking up one of the them and swirling the amber liquid before taking a drink. He waited patiently, knowing Darryl wanted to make a point, or at least had something he felt needed to be said. “Andy, is this because of what happened to Edith? You know there was nothing you could have done, right? She had made her own bed, with both eyes open.” He opened his eyes wide, emphasizing his words.
Andy shook his head slowly back and forth. “I know I couldn’t do anything, since I didn’t know she was in danger. I don’t lose sleep about her dying, D.” He tossed back the rest of the whisky and carefully set the glass back on Darryl’s desk.
“I lose sleep, because she died alone, man. She had no one, not a single person to give a fucking shit about her. No one had her back; no one told her she was making a mistake. She was fucking alone in the world, and that ain’t right. A stranger like me shouldn’t have to pay for her cremation, and then her ashes shouldn’t be turned over to that same goddamn stranger.”
Standing, he pushed the chair back a few inches, “I don’t want to be Edith in ten years. I don’t want to be alone, but I won’t settle just anywhere. I haven’t found my place yet, D, but I need to. It’s like a pull in my blood, and I have to answer that call.” Drawing in a deep breath, he ran one hand through his hair, and then smoothed it back down. “I’ll know it when I’m there, when I find my place...but it ain’t here.”
Darryl stood and walked around the edge of the desk, holding out his hand in a traditional handshake. Andy grinned and grabbed his forearm in a warrior’s shake, pulled him close for a one-armed hug, and thumped his back hard three times. Turning in place, he heard from behind, “I hope peace follows you, Andy,” and he lifted one hand in a wave as he walked through the door.
Before rolling out, he stopped at a shop in Germantown, where over the past few days, he’d gotten a start on a tattoo. This would be his last two-hour session, drawing in the crisp details of feathers on the blackbird now inked on his right shoulder. Captured in flight, the large bird soared without fear, carelessly losing feathers with its tail spread in the wind. It looked the way he felt when he was riding his bike.
***
Andrew bypassed St. Louis in favor of going straight up towards Chicago. Looking at the map, Lake Michigan seemed impossibly huge, and he wanted to see this lake that was as large as some inland seas. Rolling up I-57, he pulled into the outskirts of town, watching the overhead signs closely and taking the exit towards 41, which ran right up along the edge of the lake for miles. He planned to drive the lake, and then find a motel for the night.
Since being inside the 294 loop, he’d seen several groups of bikers heading each way. He still felt a thrill when they acknowledged him, waving low in that gesture of brotherhood. Idling down the ramp for his exit, Andy heard the unmistakable sound of motorcycle pipes coming up behind him. Pulling to a stop at the light, he put his feet down and looked over his shoulder to see about sixty bikes bearing down on him.
Since he was already stopped, he couldn’t easily move out of their way, so he sat at the light, looking cautiously left and right as the bikes stopped close to him—really close—way too close for comfort, as in right up alongside him. Fuck. He cut his eyes to the side again, and seeing one of the bikers on his right give him a chin lift, Andy returned it. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was for being caught up in the middle of a club riding on what was clearly an official run, and all the men on bikes surrounding him made him nervous.
On his other side, the biker’s head was shaved, and he had a helmet tattooed onto his skull. The guy had on a black leather vest with several patches sewn onto the front lapels, including a red diamond patch with ‘1%’ embroidered on it, and one that said ‘President’, with ‘Bones’ right below it.
He had full tribal sleeves, and a small, black goatee. Lifting one fingerless-glove-covered hand for a fist pound, he grinned at Andy and yelled, “Sweet fucking Indian. Jesus, she’s a beaut.”
Nodding, Andy grinned in return, bumping his knuckles against the guy’s fist. “Thanks, man. S
he’s my baby.”
The guy’s face turned serious suddenly, and he looked down one of the side streets, and then turned back to Andy, saying harshly, “I need you to sit the fuck here and let my club ride around, man. Respect. Then you turn, and you go a different fucking way. Keep clear of any blowback. Any brothers get in your face, tell them Bones said don’t fuck with you.”
The light turned green, and the biker named Bones nodded at him, pulling away without another word. Andy sat there stupefied, not even able to nod or wave at the bikes as they moved. He waited, watching the bikes flow around him like water around a rock in a riverbed.
There was a top rocker patch that said ‘Skeptics’ on nearly every man’s back, along with a large middle patch of a skull with one bony finger against its cheek, and a smaller MC patch beside it. Every rider had a bottom rocker that said ‘Chicago Chapter’. None of the riders had women with them; there were a few doubled-up, but they were all men.
The light had turned back to red before they were all through, and the remaining fifteen bikes pulled up all around and on either side of him, just as the first ones had. On Andy’s right was an older dude with a lean face, sporting a short, white Vandyke, sunglasses, and an army cap on his head. He had intricate and colorful tattooed sleeves covering nearly all the skin on both arms, and was wearing at least a dozen neon-colored Mardi Gras beads around his neck.
Looking at Andy’s bike with delight, he pointed to his own Indian and offered his fist for a bump. “Goddamn, that’s a pretty Chief. Yes, sir, that’s a pretty ride.” He laughed, looking across Andy at the man on the other side. “Six-Pack, you see this shit?”
Andy turned to look at the other man, who was a little tubby around the waist, thinking, ‘Six-Pack’ must mean his drinking preferences, not his physique. The man pulled off his bandana to wipe the sweat from his face and neck, and then tugged it back down over his balding head. He had on a mechanic’s shirt under his vest, and the name ‘Walt’ was sewn over the pocket. “Fucking fringe gets Shades hard every time,” Six-Pack called with a laugh.
Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Page 13
