Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC)

by MariaLisa deMora

  Mason slung an arm around Andy’s shoulders. “Come back inside and have a beer; I’d like to offer you a job.” He turned them around and started walking back to the door of the bar. “Bingo will be out here for another hour, but he won’t fuck with your ride. He’ll simply lust from a distance.”

  Andy hadn’t heard anything after the word ‘job’, and he was wondering what kind of position Mason had available. Pulling a stool behind the bar, Mason gestured that Andy should sit there, his back to the wall. Nodding, Andy slid onto the seat, propping his heels on the rungs and leaning back against the wall.

  The waitress came up and stuck her hand out. “Hi, hon, I’m Merry, as in Christmas, not the mother of Jesus.” She laughed at his expression. “And you are?”

  He shook her hand gently, careful not to grip too tight. “I’m Andy, Andrew Jones. It’s real good to meet you, ma’am.”

  She looked past him to Mason. “He’s polite; I’ll give him that. Cure him quick, or he’ll be fodder to the masses.” She turned and picked up beers and glasses, filling her tray as she went back out onto the floor. Andy sat patiently, waiting for Mason to tell him about the job.

  Three hours later, he was still waiting, but at a look from Mason, he’d gotten up twice to settle altercations before they turned into full-fledged fights. Being behind the bar seemed to grant him some authority over these men, regardless of their club affiliations. Settling back onto his stool after standing and staring down another group, he was pleased; he hadn’t even had to take a step to calm them down.

  Mason walked up, wiping the bar. “We’re open ten to two, six days a week. I’ll need you here from three or four in the afternoon until we close, and then escort service for the waitresses to their cages.” Seeing the horrified look on Andy’s face, he chuckled and clarified, “Their cars, brother, fuck. Pay’s a grand a week, and there’s a room in the back with access to a shower if you need a place to crash for a while. Interested?”

  “What’s the job?” Andy quizzed him, not sure what was being offered.

  “What you’re doing, man—keeping everybody in line and stopping the place from getting trashed. I need an unaffiliated badass to keep the peace here. I haven’t owned the bar long, and I’m trying to keep it neutral territory. I’m pretty sure if I had one of my Rebels pulling this job, it could cause problems.” Mason shrugged. “I also called Watcher, and he vouched for you. That’s fucking rare, man. I have to ask, though—are you looking for a club? He indicated he has hopes you’ll go back to Las Cruces and join the Soldiers. He said you were rock solid during some business of his down in Old Mexico.”

  Shaking his head, Andy responded, “He’s a good man, and I’m proud he calls me Brother without me wearing his patch. The Soldiers are a good bunch of guys, and they take care of their own. I’m also proud they would have been happy to have me join the family, but New Mexico isn’t for me. I haven’t found my place yet.”

  Scanning the room, he noticed that the clientele had changed in the after-work hours, and there were now what looked to be some business executives scattered at tables around the bar. “What’s the deal with the suits? I’ve never seen a biker bar that drew in citizens like this. Is it because it’s not a club bar?” Andy saw not all of the men were limiting their interactions with each other; some of them were gathering at the end of tables filled with leather and colors.

  Mason grunted. “A few are RC members looking for a ride hookup; most are friends of ours. We own a few other businesses around town, and our garage is well known with the high-dollar weekend riders. They like the custom shit we turn out, and when they hang at the garage, they hear about Jackson’s and show up. They feel like it gives them an in with us when they spend 10K on a bike we build.”

  He folded his bulky arms across his chest. “It’s a good thing to have them see we aren’t always doing business. There’re lawyers and a couple of doctors in this group today; that guy talking to Bingo is a federal judge, and then we have Chicago’s lead homicide detective sitting at the other end of the bar. It helps keep our options open in some situations.”

  Andy nodded, understanding. “They’re not in your pocket, but know your face.”

  Mason swung his head to look searchingly at Andy. “Exactly.”

  “I’d love the job, man. Can I see the room in the back? Is there a place to park my bike at night so she’s safe? I’ve been taking her into my motel room,” he laughed, “but that doesn’t leave a lot of room to maneuver. You should know that I’ve tended bar, in addition to working security, so I can cover a shift or fill in as needed.”

  “Yeah, there’s room. Lemme show you; it’s back here. Merry, watch the bar,” Mason raised his voice as they walked into the back room. “It’s good to know about the expanded skillset, man. I’ll probably take you up on the bartending some days, when there’s club business to deal with.”

  “Down the hallway to the left are the private rooms for parties; there’re also doors from the main bar room into each of them. We get reservations a few times a week; they sometimes come with their own security, but we’ll know ahead of time so you can coordinate.” He paused for a minute to look at Andy’s face to make sure he understood.

  Satisfied, he continued, “On the right are the storerooms and our walk-in cooler. Shower and shitter at the far end, and the door on this side is where you can crash. There’s an outside door from that room, and it’s plenty wide to roll your bike through.” He pointed up and down the hallways. To Andy, it seemed the building was a lot bigger than it looked from the outside.

  “That gives us two doors from the back, and the one from the front to keep track of.” Mason pointed towards the centrally located door. “Employees park in the back. They come in that way, and they leave that way, no exceptions, and make sure the night girls don’t step outside without telling someone. It’s a rule, man.”

  Sticking his head into the doorway of the room he would soon be calling home, he saw it looked like the rooms he’d stayed in when he crashed with the Soldiers at their clubhouse—functional and sparse, but provided everything needed, with a bed, and a dresser to store his clothes. It was big enough to bring his bike in, and that made him happy.

  “Hey, Mason, do you mind if I run and grab my stuff from the motel and bring it back now? Then I can be here for the later hours, when shit is more likely to stir.” He looked back at his new boss.

  “No problem, take Tug and Bingo with you,” Mason instructed, and Andy frowned at him. Mason shook his head. “Seriously, fucker? Are you questioning my wisdom? You just beat in the heads of the Sergeant at Arms for the Milwaukee Disciples and the vice-president of the Chicago Dominos; I think you might want someone on your hip.” He laughed at Andy, who had blanched. “Consider it a courtesy to me and fucking say, ‘okay’.”

  Andy nodded, walking back towards the bar. He grabbed his jacket and walked out to where the two greybeards were sitting, letting them know what Mason had volunteered them for. Without any argument or discussion, they stood, finishing their drinks. Aiming a chin lift at Mason, they turned to leave the bar with Andy. This was the kind of thing he had missed in Memphis, the feeling of brotherhood, and the security of knowing people around you would help as needed. This is what he’d been looking for.

  He thought to himself, I could get comfortable here, as they kicked their bikes to life and motioned Andy to pull onto the street first.

  13 -

  Becoming

  He liked varying his sitting location night-by-night. It made it easier to spot the troublemakers, who looked for patterns in his position. He’d gotten good at clocking them when they walked through the door, and was seldom taken by surprise with eruptions of violence anymore. It had been weeks since any furniture was broken, and he thought his boss was happy about that, for sure.

  After nearly three months of working for Mason, this bar had become his home, and the regular citizen customers and Rebel members were his family. Individually, he’d gotten to kn
ow them well enough to recognize when something wasn’t tracking right, or when something was going on at home that had bled over into club business.

  Not that he was in the club…yet. Mason always added that ‘yet’ when they discussed anything to do with the club and his application for membership. Andy believed he had found his home, that this was where his compass had been pulling him all his life. He wanted it, but was worried about the dangerous side of being a club member. After seeing how ugly and nasty things could get when he was hanging around the Southern Soldiers, he wasn’t sure how to rationalize intentionally pulling that kind of shit into his life.

  Mason was still on a campaign of clean up; he had taken over his old club by coup several years ago, and had formed the Rebels out of the remnants. Some of the older members still missed the easy money from more illegal aspects of the old club’s businesses, though. Mason had outlawed certain activities, so the Rebels didn’t run any girls, only did non-military, light guns, and wouldn’t touch heroin. While that left a lot of money to be made with gun sales, blow, and pot, compared to what the club made in the past, to some members, it looked like they were leaving too much money on the table.

  One thing going for the club was the number of legit ways for money to flow into it, all owned by Mason, but ran by Rebels. Eventually, Mason wanted to get entirely out of the drugs, but needed to ease some of the brothers into the business side of things.

  Jackson’s was his title business, in a way. In addition to this bar, there was a strip club, three garages with attached parts stores, half-dozen bars, two restaurants, and a motel up north. Andy had been sent on errands to all of them and introduced to the managers and workers. He knew where the backrooms were, and had used them to take care of a couple of problems for Mason along the way.

  The Rebels didn’t have any grief with other clubs in the area, as long as those clubs respected the territory lines. In some cities, those lines might be fluid, going back and forth as clubs rose and fell in power, but not in Chicago—not with the Rebel Wayfarers. Their shit was solid, and their space was defined and defended.

  Knowing what you want, and being brave enough to grab it by the balls are two different things, Andy mused to himself as he watched two Rebel members play pool. Tug pulled a stool up beside him, and he tipped the tall wooden chair back against the wall in a lean Andy could never manage.

  “We got a run in the morning, Andy, and I’d like you there,” he said as he folded his arms and watched the pool game.

  Shaking his head, Andy responded, “That sounds like club business, Tug. Not sure your Prez would be pleased with taking a hangaround on a run.”

  “You did this kinda shit for Watcher and the Soldiers; I know you did. I’ve talked to him, and he said you exhibited proper loyalty and respect each time, that you were happy to help. Not for us though, I guess. Do you have less respect for the Rebels than you did that Las Cruces club?” Tug’s voice was tight and angry. “You’re going to have to make a decision soon, Andy. You can’t ride this line forever, wanting the security and company of a club without shouldering the responsibilities that come with it. It’s disrespectful to the club, the members...me...Mason...and that shit don’t fly.”

  Not giving Andy a chance to respond, Tug let his stool fall back onto four legs with a bang; he stood and stalked away and snarled at a bar regular who spoke to him. That made Andy feel like a shit. The worst of it was he knew Tug was right. He was coasting, and it wasn’t like him. He’d been a hardworking caretaker all his goddamn life, never one to shirk duty simply because it was fucking hard or distasteful.

  This was no different. If he wanted this—if he wanted the brotherhood and knowledge there were people who he would happily die for, and would die for him...and he did want it…dammit, he did—then he needed to ante up, get in the game.

  Looking across the bar, he saw Tug had sat down next to Mason in a booth with Tats, Red, and Wheels. He spoke, and Mason sent an annoyed look over towards Andy, then turned back to Tug and responded. These men were all officers in the Rebels, and they would be the first jury for him to convince he was worthy of becoming a prospect. Pitching his voice to carry, he called out across the bar, “Tug,” and waited until the irritated old man looked up. Andy continued, “You’re right, friend. I’m in.”

  Mason cocked one eyebrow up at him, questioning. Andy nodded at both him and Tug as he walked across the floor and stood nearer the table, asking, “What do I need to do to app as a prospect?”

  Tug laughed, thumping Andy on the shoulder. “You just did, kid.”

  ***

  Andy missed Bingo, who’d left a couple weeks ago to move home to Indiana. There were a few members who were from there originally, and they’d gone with him to open a Fort Wayne chapter of the Rebels. He thought Bingo’s absence was why Tug wanted him along on this run, and he was kinda glad he’d been cornered into a decision, finally, to become a prospect.

  Tonight, he rode between Tug and Red, alongside a kid named Dirty Dan, who was three months into his prospect period. His road name was clearly a reflection of his personal hygiene; everything he wore looked like it had been dragged through the mud.

  There was money trouble at the strip club. From what Andy knew, there was always trouble of some sort there, but it was normally a profitable business, and the cash always balanced all the hassle. Pulling up at the business, they looked at the full parking lot, and found the bike parking across the front was nearly full too. They carefully parked at the end of the row, with scarcely enough room for their four bikes.

  Andy shrugged his shoulders, settling the black leather vest across his back. Mason’d had a cut ready for him. Andy had no idea how long it had been waiting in the drawer behind the bar, but it felt good to wear it, and to be part of this club he had come to love.

  Walking into the building, the four men surveyed the area in front of the stage, where two girls were working the main pole in a synchronized dance. The customers were mostly facing the entertainment, but Andy saw with surprise that a number of them had chairs turned around, watching the entrance.

  Andy realized Tug and Red had noticed it too, while Dan was still looking around. “Tug, this feels off; those aren’t all Rebels,” he said quietly, and saw a nod in response.

  “Let’s find Delilah; she’ll have the ledgers that Tats needs,” Red said, and they all started walking towards the office at the back of the room.

  The music drew to a close, and there was a brief, desultory smattering of applause for the girls, who stooped and picked up their discarded clothing as they made their naked and nonchalant way back to the dressing rooms. The speakers boomed as a voice announced the next act as Little April, and some kiddy music came on. Andy saw a girl who looked like she couldn’t be more than fourteen come onto the stage, stutter-walking towards the pole, squinting against the spotlights that glared down mercilessly on her.

  Taking a position outside the office, Andy stood alongside Dirty Dan, and they turned to watch the room carefully, while Tug and Red went in to have a chat with the strip club manager, Delilah. They had made this unannounced visit, because for the last couple of months, there had been a significant amount of money missing from the accounts each week. It was unlikely to be anyone other than the manager, and they were here to get to the bottom of the problem quickly.

  “Indian.” Andy heard the name called from across the room. He looked up to see Bones, the president of the Skeptics, walking towards him.

  He called into the office quickly, “Tug, Skeptics Prez is here; need an officer out here ASAP.” He knew protocol dictated that as a prospect, he should not speak to another club’s members, much less their president, without an officer of his own present.

  “Indian,” Bones said again when he had gotten close enough to speak comfortably, “you prospecting into Rebels, I see. Tough luck for me—you’d have been a fucking winner in the Skeptics. You got balls of steel, motherfucker.”

  Andy nodded at him, relie
ved when Tug stepped out of the office, and he was granted a reprieve from responding. “Bones, how you doin’, man?” Tug asked, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Tug, good to see you.” He swept a mocking bow.

  Damn, this felt tense to Andy; they were not using the word ‘brother’, and there was no handshaking or backslapping. “How’s Mason doin’ with his cleanup? That shit’s hard to rub out once it gets hold in a club.” Bones laughed. “I should know; I don’t fucking try it’s so ingrained in the Skeptics.”

  In a singsong voice, he continued, “Plus, we make a lot of fucking money on it.” Here his voice lowered and became rigid, “So Mason’s Rebels can kick that trade to the curb all fucking day, and I will sit and suck up that money.”

  Andy heard voices from inside the office; it sounded like Red was making a call. Tug pulled at one ear thoughtfully, asking, “That wasn’t disrespect I heard, was it, Bones?” The corners of his mouth pulled his mustache down morosely. “Because disrespect for my club would make me unhappy.”

  “Nah, man, no disrespect intended,” Bones said. “We had a sit down not two months back; it’s all good.”

  Tug looked at Andy, and then back at Bones. “So, how do you know my boy here?”

  Bones laughed, slapping his thigh in amusement. “This motherfucker has balls of steel—no...no...fucking titanium. He has balls of fucking titanium. He’s sitting at this fucking red light, like a good little boy, waiting on the green. Him and his Indian are in the way of a Skeptics run. I got sixty brothers at my back, and he just fucking sits there, middle of the road, just...waiting on the green. He had all the time in the world, waitin’ on the green.”

  He laughed again as he kept going. “We pulled up all around him, crowding him like he was fucking honey and we were the big, bad bears, and he never…even…blinked, just leaned over and gave me a pound when I complimented his ride. The motherfucker sat there through another light until my crew had all cleared. Balls of fucking titanium,” he chortled again.