Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Sitting with his feet wide, balancing the bike, Andy watched as the light turned green again, and the rest of the bikers drove through the intersection. Some of these had ‘Prospect’ in place of the chapter rocker. They all raised a hand and waved at him, and as the last ones cleared the crossroad, he heard the distinct pop, pop, pop of gunfire in the direction they were headed.

  Opening up their throttles, they roared into the dusk, disappearing into thin air as if they’d never existed. “Fucking surreal shit,” Andy muttered, turning the bike to the right and motoring towards the lake. “Fuck me.”

  12 -

  Neutral territory

  Several days later, Andy surprised himself by waking up to yet another morning in Chicago. If he was going to stick here for a while, he needed to start looking for a job. Calling Watcher, he first checked on Carmela, finding out she was doing well in school and had stopped having nightmares. That was good to hear, because he knew that during the first months out of Mexico she had screamed the house down nearly every night, even with such a good disposition during the day.

  Andy casually brought the conversation around to Chicago, asking about job opportunities and clubs that didn’t mind someone who simply wanted to hang around. Watcher knew of a bar known to be neutral territory. They had ties with a garage where Andy might be able to look for a mechanic job. He told Andy to mention he’d been sent by Watcher.

  He’d gotten a lot of practice at it in Las Cruces, and across the country afterwards, and since he’d been picking up tools one at a time, he had a good assortment of things needed to wrench on bikes. Jotting down the bar’s name—Jackson’s—Andy wound up the call talking about Memphis, telling Watcher what had gone down and why he’d left.

  “No brothers for you to hang with in Memphis?” came the snarled question.

  “Nah, the clubs and members I met there all seemed to be looking out for themselves. Hell, one of the clubs didn’t even have a clubhouse, and they had church in the basement of the YMCA,” Andy said and laughed, but then quieted, listening to the telling silence coming from the phone.

  “Did they have MC patches, or RC?” Watcher finally asked.

  “I’m honestly not sure. What’s the difference, man?” Andy shook his head.

  “Sounds like a wannabe club; they probably had a single large patch on the back of their cuts, right?” he asked, and then Watcher yelled away from the phone indistinctly.

  Andy smiled at this audible reminder of Watcher’s home life; even long distance, it sounded like it was never dull. “Yeah, they did have just the one patch,” he replied.

  Watcher’s voice sounded confident as he said, “Riding club, then—RC. They gather wherever and hang out, pay dues. New members buy into their patches, so they’ll have someone to ride with on the weekend—no business, no real loyalty or commitment, just riding—not brothers.

  “You might see an MA; that’s a motorcycle association, and it could be a ministry or some other squeaky-clean group. Some are badasses, though, so don’t ever make a fucking assumption, Ice Man. MC, motorcycle club, is where you’ll see the brotherhood like we have out here in my Southern Soldiers. Patches are earned in equal measures by dedication, effort, and respect...never bought. Club business is sacrosanct, and conducted in church behind closed and fucking locked doors that even the prospects don’t breach.

  “Even here in my Soldiers, we have specific requirements for most members. Ideally, we want everyone to be retired military, because that gives us the mindset we’re looking for. The club might not be a fit for everyone, as you found out, but it works for us. We watch each other’s backs; we take care of business, love our families, and try hard to manage all the crazy that kicks in the doors. My Soldiers are completely independent, but a lot of clubs negotiate support agreements with other nearby clubs, which effectively extends their territory.

  “This bar that I told you about, it was the property of the Skeptics MC, but I heard it was recently sold to one of the Rebel Wayfarers members. It should still be a neutral location, because I heard Davis Mason bought it, and he’s a pretty straight arrow.” Watcher yawned.

  “I met Bones, the president of the Skeptics,” Andy said.

  There was silence on the line again, followed by a gruff, “You met him?”

  “Yeah, first day in town, a bunch of them pulled up beside me at a light, and he talked to me for a minute. Told me if any of his men bothered me, I was to tell them Bones said not to fuck with me.”

  “No shit, Andy?” Watcher laughed.

  Shaking his head, Andy responded, “I shit you not, man.”

  “That’s fucking interesting. You watch your six, brother. Call me if there’s need, okay, man?”

  He realized his forehead was a mass of wrinkles; Watcher had thrown a ton of info at him. “Um...thanks, brother. I will.”

  ***

  Pulling into the side lot of Jackson’s, Andy backed his bike into a parking spot at the end of a long line of other bikes, looking at the shining paint and chrome with pleasure. He was glad he’d taken the time to polish up his girl a couple days ago; a few days on the road could put a layer of grime on things, and he liked it when she shone.

  Taking his time putting gear away in his bags, he surveyed the rest of the lot. He noted that the bar seemed to have brisk business for an early mid-week afternoon.

  Taking a breath, he realized he was nervous, which threw him a little. He’d been doing this kind of thing for a long time, and wasn’t sure why he was suddenly anxious about walking alone into a bar. Pulling the door open, he stepped in and to the side, letting the door close as his eyes adjusted to the interior lighting. Shrugging out of his jacket, he saw an empty stool at the bar, laid his jacket over it and sat down.

  The music was low, background noise, and there was a swelling murmur of sound from the booths as the conversations interrupted by his entrance began to resume. Tapping out a faint beat against the bar top, Andy used the mirror on the bar back to check out the other customers seated at the bar.

  He saw many rough faces covered by scruff, and beards of various lengths. Most were wearing leather vests, and almost every one of them was using the mirror for the same thing he was, but they were all looking at him.

  The bartender strolled out from the back room and saw him right away; he walked over to lean on the bar across from Andy. “You in the right place, man?” came the puzzling question.

  “Yeah, I think so. Watcher from Las Cruces said I could find a cold beer here.” Stopping his thumbs from tapping, Andy cocked his head. “Was he wrong?”

  Barking out a laugh, the man pulled a frosted mug from the slide-top freezer behind him. “Nah, Watcher knows his fucking shit, that’s for sure. He tell you to use his name?”

  Andy nodded. “He did.”

  Drawing the beer into a mug, the man slid it across to Andy, saying, “Buck-fifty, no tabs.” He stood wiping his hands with a bar towel while Andy pulled a bill from his wallet. The guy was tall and heavily muscled; he had a Harley stocking cap on his head, and his hair was barely long enough to curl out from under the back. With a couple days’ worth of growth on his face, and a closed-off expression, he didn’t let any emotion show through, even when he laughed.

  Taking the cash, he turned to the register, and Andy saw he was wearing a cut. It had a central patch with a skull wearing a black paisley bandana, the head framed by handlebars with a three-pronged skeleton key clenched in its teeth. The top rocker said Rebel Wayfarers, and the bottom one indicated that Chicago was the mother chapter. He turned away from the register to face the bar again, and Andy saw the President patch above the man’s heart. This must be Mason, the guy whom Watcher talked about.

  He had nice-looking art on his hands and arms, with a striking tattoo of a brilliantly colored bird wreathed in flames climbing up his arm. Most of Andy’s ink was covered by his shirt, but the man fixed his gaze on the words showing on his shoulder and pointed to it, asking, “Lose somebody?”

>   “It’s for my little brother; he’s back in Wyoming, but I watch out for him as best I can from a distance,” Andy explained. “Have to watch out for our brothers, right?”

  Nodding, the man moved away and efficiently mixed a few drinks for the lone waitress to distribute to the booths and tables. Then, he wiped down the bar top, and served the patrons at the bar as needed.

  Andy was quietly sipping his beer, keeping track of movement in the mirrors. There were two greybeards coming over from across the room, and the bikers on either side of Andy suddenly abandoned their stools, standing and walking away. Andy sighed, locking eyes with one of the men in the mirror as they sat down.

  He turned his head first one way and then the other, acknowledging them with a chin lift each, then he picked up his beer and took another sip. The man on his left had long white hair tied back with a bandana, and wore a thermal shirt under his cut. He sported a heavy chain that dipped in the front underneath his shirt collar, and his long mustache was dark, contrasting starkly with his hair.

  The other man had a long, full, and bushy beard streaked gray and black. His lengthy, gray hair was braided into a single tail, wrapped with leather to midway down his back. He took off his sunglasses, parking them on top of the baseball cap he was wearing. His cut was worn over a long-sleeved, white, button-down shirt, and he had on a western string tie, with a huge piece of turquoise at the clasp.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes until the bartender returned to their end of the bar, and a conversation started up as if it had never been interrupted.

  “Don’t know why you are dragging feet, Bingo. Fucking own that shit and start a chapter,” said the man with the bandana.

  “Mason don’t want no more chapters, and you know that, Tug. I’ll have to go nomad if I go home.” The man with the string tie must be Bingo.

  The bartender looked at Bingo with narrowed eyes, and said harshly, “I never told you that, motherfucker; don’t fucking put words in my fucking mouth.”

  Bingo grew pale. “You told BamBam no more chapters in church last week, Mason. What the fuck am I supposed to think?”

  “Goddamn well ask me, brother. Fort Wayne isn’t that far, and I told BamBam no for Lauderdale. Different fucking thing—he’d be too far away to control without chapters scattered between. If you need to go home, fucking go home. If you have brothers who want to go with you, then you fucking better be willing to chapter up, asshole.” He slapped the bar top hard, rattling the bottles and glassware.

  Tug sat back, grinning. “Own that shit, Bingo.”

  “Church tomorrow, Mason, can we talk about it with the members?” Bingo fiddled with the brim of his hat for a minute. “I gotta be there for her, brother. I got to go home; she’s the only sister I got.”

  Mason reached across and clasped Bingo’s wrist in a tight grip. “Then go the fuck home and take care of family. I want you to figure out a revenue stream fast, though; I won’t support more than twelve months of fucking around.”

  Andy had first tried to ignore the conversation that flowed over and around him, but gave that up when they clearly didn’t care if he listened or not. This seemed like the type of shit Watcher deemed private—club business—and he felt awkward they discussed it so openly in front of him.

  His eyes followed the back and forth chatter, and when they stopped, he realized they were all looking at him. He swallowed nervously, and looked in their faces for a moment, then picked up his beer to drain the mug. “Round’s on me,” he said, sounding bolder than he felt, and pointed to the men on either side.

  All three men burst out into laughter, and Tug thumped Andy hard on the back, knocking him forward into the bar’s edge as Mason went to pull four beers.

  “Fuck me,” Andy muttered as he pulled another bill out of his wallet. After he set the mugs down, Mason pointed to his own chest and introduced himself. Then, he confirmed Andy’s understanding of the names for the other men. Taking a deep drink from his beer, Andy nodded and said his own name, acknowledging the introductions with a nod.

  “What did Watcher send you here for, kid?” Mason asked. “You aren’t wearing any colors, so you better not be affiliated. Jackson’s is neutral, but we don’t fucking tolerate anon shit.”

  “Nope,” Andy said, popping the ‘p’, “Watch said you might be able to point me to someone needing a wrench for a bit. I’ve been traveling and need a place to sit a while to earn some cash. I can tend bar too, but I fucking love tuning and stroking chrome.”

  “What do you ride, man?” That question came from Tug, leaning his elbows on the edge of the bar.

  “My baby is a ’47 Indian Chief Roadmaster flathead. She’s a fine, pretty little thing,” Andy said fondly, grinning at him.

  “Holy fucking shit, this I gotta see. ’47 Chief? No shit? Holy fuck,” Bingo shouted, standing from the barstool and grabbing hard at Andy’s arm. Pulling back sharply to get his arm out of Bingo’s grip, Andy quickly slid from his stool, turning it over in his haste as he took two large steps backward, adopting a defensive stance.

  Mason reached out and smacked the side of Bingo’s head. “You don’t go grabbing strangers, Bingo. What a fucking moron. Sit back down, kid, or take him outside so he can stroke off to the Indian. It’s a secret fantasy of his.”

  Some of the tension left Andy’s body as he saw Bingo look first at Mason, and then him. “Oh man, sorry. Sorry, didn’t mean to overstep. Respect, man.” Bingo seemed genuinely apologetic, and righted Andy’s stool; he picked up his jacket and draped it across the back.

  “It’s okay,” Andy muttered, still somewhat uncomfortable with their lack of serious reaction to the near scuffle. “If you want to see her, that’s fine. Let’s go.” He moved towards the bar and reached out to pick up his mug to drain it, and then leaving his change as a tip, he grabbed his jacket and turned towards the door.

  There were mirrors mounted alongside the doorway, and he saw Mason give a signal up the bar as he stepped around the end to walk with Tug and Bingo. Andy pushed the door open, and then quickly stepped towards the side lot where he’d parked, moving past his bike. He turned back towards the men who walked his way, trying to keep everyone in view.

  “Fucking fringe,” Bingo moaned as he stood and looked at the bike with longing on his face, “there’s fringe on the fucking seat. Oh God, look at those fairings. She’s so fucking pretty.”

  “Goddammit, Bingo. I was kidding when I told the kid you’d get hard,” Mason said and laughed.

  Andy smiled tightly, still uncomfortable, and asked the men, “What do you ride?”

  Mason pointed to a bike barely visible around the back corner of the bar. “That black and white panhead is mine, Tug has the solid black Road King down there,” he shifted to point to a bike far down the row, “and Bingo has this Fat Boy with the low-rise handlebars,” he gestured towards a gorgeous bike only two down from Andy’s Indian.

  Andy’s mouth watered when he looked at Bingo’s bike—flames on the tank and shiny chrome, and a tiny little tail seat on the back fairing. “All very nice, man. That Fat Boy is pretty.”

  A low roar came from the front of the building, and Mason spat a curse, taking running steps back the way they had come. Andy followed him, and he rounded the corner just as the door burst open, and a dozen fighting bikers wearing colors from several different clubs spilled onto the street. He quickly zeroed in on the only two participants who seemed focused on doing real damage with their fists. He maneuvered himself around the edge of the group towards the two men.

  Mason was wading into the group; he yelled and smacked with an open hand as needed to get their attention. His voice was enough to drag most of the activity to a halt, but the two men Andy tracked were locked in their own bubble, and they didn’t seem to hear Mason or anyone else.

  Looking back at Andy, Mason said, “Come break these fuckers up, man.”

  Without questioning, Andy stepped forward and watched for a pause in the action. Seeing an opportuni
ty, he grabbed the backs of their heads and cracked their foreheads together, dazing both men before he pushed them apart into hands willing to hold them back. Stepping back, he shot a look at Mason, “How’s that, boss?”

  Bending over and putting his hands on his knees, Mason laughed hard for a minute. “Pretty fucking priceless. That was classic, man. You are a hard-ass.”

  Andy shifted so there were no bikers at his back; he didn’t want to get ambushed if he’d been jockeyed into some trouble. The movement wasn’t missed by Mason. “No motherfucker here will put a hand on you for this,” he said, raising his voice. “You fuckers hear me?”

  There was a grumbling acknowledgement from the men on the sidewalk, and Tug broke the silence with a laughed out, “I need a beer,” and pulled the door open to reenter the bar.

  Andy lifted a hand in a casual goodbye, walking towards the side lot. He’d had enough excitement for the night, but damned if he wasn’t sorry to leave the bar. It had felt pretty comfortable. “Where the fuck are you going, man?” came from behind him; Mason was calling from the doorway.

  “Headed out, thanks,” Andy tossed over his shoulder as he rounded the corner to see Bingo still standing in front of his bike.

  Sharp laughter came from behind him, and he turned to see Mason had followed him. “Bingo, what the fuck are you doing, brother? Your girl is going to see you cheating on her, and she’ll take her revenge…you know she will.” He laughed again.

  Bingo looked up at Andy. “She’s beautiful, man. I’d give a fuckuva lot for one just like her; cherry red, virgin white, fringe on the seat, chrome so bright—that poetry nearly fucking writes itself.”