Teddy hadn’t thought carrying a crap-load of C4 up there was such a good idea. What if somebody looked inside those bags—he damn sure would’ve if it had been Carlicci’s men coming to visit them. What if something happened and the stuff went off while Teddy was still in the room? He’d just been talking shit earlier in the day when he said they should think about a long term plan to short circuit Carlicci’s plans. He didn’t think Dub would run with it. But that’s exactly what he did. His eyes narrowed and he started riffing on what they could do and how they could do it. His big plan? Send some guys ahead and have them rush the rear of the compound commando-style a little while after Dub and the gang entered the mansion. What then, try and blast their way out? Sure death as far as Teddy was concerned, and Dub seemed to actually have been considering the idea, even though he had to have known they could never have pulled it off. Then the C4 was mentioned. They had a shit-load of the stuff in the armory; that and the hand-held rocket launcher, and all of a sudden Dub was wound up like a kid in his room playing some whacked out computer game. Except Teddy knew this wasn’t a game, and just because Dub said it would work, that didn’t mean it would work. He also knew he had to go along with whatever Dub decided, if he wanted to be around to see that hazy grey sky tomorrow. So he did the only thing he could’ve done: high-fived his commander-in-chief and set about orchestrating his demands.
Even though it made absolutely no sense to him.
Wipe out Carlicci so they could take over a town they already had well within their grasp? Why? So they’d be the only ones around to battle the army that surely would come when the world was brought back online? And things were going to go back to the way they had been—Teddy was sure of it. The world would go back and the army would storm the town, leaving The Devil’s Own and anyone else who dared oppose them crushed beneath their marching boots. Teddy’s last hours would be spent holed up with Dub, the biker-gang equivalent to Hitler, or Napoleon at his Waterloo, waiting for the ax to find them. He didn’t want to fuck with Carlicci. He damn sure didn’t want to when they got to the house to find the smell of prime rib wafting through the air and the old man offering them their own truckload of the stuff. Not to mention a piece of action big enough set them up for the remainder of their lives. But that wasn’t enough for Dub to call it off—not that they could have, with the C4 in the tote bags waiting to be found. So they did fuck with him. They planted the bombs and everything went just the way Dub said it would go. The bombs went off and the old man and his crew were gone, and now Teddy was safe and sound, back at the Ambassador watching Dub relate their accomplishments to the brotherhood, who had crowded around their leader and seemed to be delighted by the news. But Teddy wasn’t excited. He wasn’t so sure Anthony Carlicci was the limp-willed pussy Dub proclaimed him to be. Teddy wondered if Tony might show up tonight to extract revenge for the old man who seemed to despise him. If not for him, then to save face with his gang, who surely would be demanding vengeance by now.
Dub must have been thinking along those same lines, because he dispatched five of his men to round up four men a piece and head out to different points of the city, where they would sit, watching and waiting for Tony and his gang to come crawling down those dark streets. When the congratulations were over, the backslapping and kowtowing finished, Dub took an empty seat beside Teddy. Bert and Ernie were there, so were Ben and Claude, and Jet, with his bandaged face and his smoldering brown eyes. Spud was there too, leaning forward with his mouth open, his disfigured face half hidden by the head that had drooped sideways against his clavicle, a bottle of beer and an empty syringe on the table in front of him. He had done his job and collected his reward, and would have been as happy sprawled face-first in a dark alley as he was nodding out in the middle of the Ambassador’s lounge. Fast Freddie, having just given Dub another shot of his obligatory anthem, waved to him while he and his boys exited the stage.
Dub turned to Claude and said, “That thing I was talking about.”
“What thing?”
“Your road trip tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah.”
“You’re going down route sixteen to farm country and Jet’s haulin’ ass up the Interstate—you got that, Jet?”
Jet nodded, and Dub said, “I wanta see what’s happening out there. How bad is it? Worse than here? Better? Who’s left up there and what’re they up to? The crops dead, what about the livestock and shit?”
“Don’t you think they would be?” Ben said.
“I don’t know, but I’m damn sure gonna find out… And Claude: be careful. I already sent a couple of screwball motherfuckers up there and they didn’t come back. Maybe they decided to keep going; maybe they found something a little better up the line and said fuck it. I don’t know… could be trouble found them and they couldn’t come back. Bottom line is: be careful and make damn sure you get your asses back to Dodge to let me know what’s out there.”
Claude nodded his head.
“Damn right,” said Jet.
Teddy thought it was a dumb idea. The whole world was fucked-up and everybody knew it. What was the point of sending these guys out to verify it? But everything Dub came up with lately seemed stupid to him: taking over the town and governing the son of a bitch, sending an army of Q’s against representatives of the United States government and sending Dub’s generals with them, thereby sending them to their graves. While Dub did what, sat back and watched, and then saved his own ass when the shit hit the fan? And the shit was going to splatter, high and wide and all over Teddy and whoever else their illustrious leader pushed out into the trenches.
He knew these things but he said nothing. He drank his beer and stared out across the floor at the bikers and Q’s, the drunks and druggies and the hangers-on, all the sleazeballs destined to make up the new world order Dub seemed so intent upon creating.
Bert said, “You think Carlicci and his men’ll come tonight?”
“Actually, I think he’ll show up sometime tomorrow ready to strike a deal. I mean, I did everything but come right out and say ‘hey, I’m taking your old man out so you and me can work together’. What do you think, Teddy? You heard him. He was dying to get his old man and those goons of his out of the picture, wasn’t he?”
“That’s what he said.”
“That’s why I told those guys to reel it in at daybreak—no confrontations. I want the road clear so he’ll feel safe coming in. I told him we’d welcome him with open arms, and we will. The guy’s not stupid. He knows it’ll be easier on ‘em to throw in with us, easier on all of us. We’re not going to sit back and let them ransack the city without tossing us a cut—we just need a better deal. He’s probably already come up with a bullshit story to grease the way towards making it happen. I want the road clear but our guys posted where Carlicci’s boys can see them. So they know we know they’re coming.”
Dub took a drink of beer and sat the bottle on the table, pulled a bag of coke from his pocket, looked up and said, “Well, look at this shit.”
Tina and Karen were coming through the crowd toward them, Tina still in her black mini, Karen in a pair of jeans, a beige halter top and a pair of white Reeboks, her auburn hair falling neatly across her narrow shoulders. She had on a trace of eye shadow but no other makeup, a stark contrast to Tina, who never left her quarters without a full array of cosmetics covering her face. She was carrying a tote bag identical to the one Mariah had been given. When they got to the table, Dub said, “Well, well, looks like you made it after all… congratulations.”
Karen shrugged her shoulders, walked around the table and stood beside Ben, who smiled and put an arm around her waist, an act that immediately took her back to the dusty street, the bike and Ben’s thighs rubbing against her. She had hitched her wagon to some kind of Hell’s Angel, a violent street thug who respected her. She hadn’t wanted to. To stay alive, she had to.
“Well, well, well,” Dub said.
“Well indeed,” said Teddy.
“What can
I tell ya,” Ben said, shrugging his shoulders as Dub emptied the bag’s contents onto the table, and Bert pulled his knife and cut a few lines from the pile. Teddy fired up a joint, and Dub said, “Figured to see you in the square when I got back. I’m impressed.”
A half empty twelve pack of Rolling Rock beer sat on the table, a couple of ashtrays and a fifth of tequila beside it. Tina drew a bottle from the carton, twisted it open and took a drink. “Karen’s very impressive,” she said.
“Karen, huh? Carve her out a line, Bert.”
“No thanks,” Karen said.
“No, go ahead.”
“No… thanks, really.”
“What, you think you’re too good to get high with us?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just… I don’t get high.”
“And you’re with him?” Teddy said, laughter erupting throughout the table as he passed the joint to Jet. Karen said nothing. She stood beside Ben, arms at her side while Ben snorted a line, and the smoldering joint made its way around the table.
Dub slid a bottle of Rolling Rock her way. “You can drink a beer with us, can’t you?”
“Sure,” she said, smiling. She screwed the bottle cap off and dropped it to the floor, took a drink and held the bottle by her side.
“You know,” Dub said, “if you’re useful around here, things can work out pretty good for you. You help us when we need you, we’ll keep you happy. Look at ol’ Tina there…” Dub nodded at the short redhead—she was bent over the table, grinning and huffing up a line of cocaine. “She looks pretty happy, doesn’t she?”
Karen didn’t think so. Holding the straw in place, she reminded Karen of her own long and desperate slide down to the cold and heartless city streets, to the gutter she eventually found herself in. She didn’t think Tina looked happy, but she wasn’t stupid, either. She shrugged her shoulders, nonchalantly nodding her agreement as Dub set about explaining his new world order, and how Karen would fit into it, his plans for Bert and Ernie and Ben, and the citizens he had nicknamed the Q’s. Dr. Nurse, he called her, and laughed. She had saved her gunshot victim and that was good enough to pronounce her the camp’s healer. They would need her to tend to the wounded if someone stupid enough to step up and challenge them got in a lucky blow or two. The Devil’s Own was in charge now, and they would destroy anyone who rose up against them, a foolish notion Karen could hardly believe anyone at the table was buying. If the city came back online, the army or somebody like them would show up, law and order would prevail, and The Devil’s Own would disappear into whatever hole they’d crawled out of before this whole thing started. She wasn’t stupid, and as she looked around she could see that she wasn’t alone in her thinking. There was an air of skepticism behind the eyes surrounding her, from Jet to Teddy, all the way down to Claude and Bert and Ernie, the Neanderthal henchmen who sat nodding their heads in total agreement. Ever so slight, but Karen could see it. She wondered if Dub noticed. Maybe he saw it but reveled in the fact that they would go along with whatever he told them, even if it put their lives in jeopardy.
Finished, he leaned back in his chair and said, “You in?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’m in.” What else could she have said, no, and end up one of those poor, pathetic creatures calling out from the cells? She didn’t want to find out what would happen if she did say no, and she damn sure wasn’t going to give them reason enough to nail her to a tree.
“Well, what’dya know, another need taken care of.” Dub grabbed the piece of straw Tina had left on the table, leaned over and huffed up a thick line of coke. He shifted the straw and filled the other nostril, tossed the straw to the table and said, “What’dya think, boys? Grab some bikes and see what we can get into?”
“Why not,” Teddy said.
“Not me,” Jet said. “I’m gonna hang here a while, shut it down for the night and get an early start in the morning.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Claude. “It feels late.”
Dub took a drink of beer and sat the bottle on the table. “C’mon, Ben,” he said. He stood up and so did Bert and Ernie. Teddy stood but Ben remained seated. He took a drink, leaned back in his chair and held the bottle against his thigh.
Dub said, “Ben.”
“Actually, I thought I’d—”
“Huh uh. You’re coming with us.”
“Sure, Dub… sure,” Ben said, and to Karen, “Tina’ll take you ‘round to my pad, get you settled in for the night. I’ll be along directly.”
Karen stepped back and Ben stood up. Moments later he followed Dub and his boys across the lounge and out the door, leaving Tina and Karen alone at the table with Jet and Claude. Spud, still dead to the world, remained in his chair, spittle drooling down his chin as Karen said, “Let’s go, Tina.”
“What’s your hurry?”
“Yeah, what’s your hurry, Dr. Nurse?” Jet said. “Stick around and we’ll have us a little party. Tina likes to party. Don’t ya, Tina?”
“You betcha.”
“No thanks.” Karen took one last drink of beer, sat the bottle on the table, backed away and said, “Really, Tina. I’m ready to go.”
“Yeah,” Jet said, “you go on and get nice and comfortable. We’ll swing by a little later and bring the party to you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dub and Teddy climbed in back of the black Escalade and Bert and Ernie took their places in front. Ben fired up his Harley and followed them down the dark and deserted city streets. Ben didn’t think much of Dub’s plan about becoming the ruling party of the region. He considered it, in fact, to be the ravings of a power-hungry lunatic. But what was he going to do, strike out on his own? If he did he would have to leave the city and never come back, leave behind the few friends he had left in the world and never show his face around these parts again. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea, though. Maybe he should take Karen and light out for greener pastures. Anyplace had to be better than here. But what if it wasn’t? What if they took off and the next town they came to had a vicious gang of its own running things? Maybe it wouldn’t be brother bikers in charge but a band of countrified rednecks, a pack of good old boys just dying to get their hands on a Hell’s Angel and his mate. Maybe leaving wasn’t such a great idea after all. He didn’t have it so bad here. In fact, he had it pretty good. He’d just have to keep his eye on things and act accordingly, squirrel away as much loot as he could and be ready to bolt when the time came. And the time was coming, maybe not now, maybe not next week or next month. But the end was on its way; that much had been made clear tonight. Gather an army and take over, rule this part of the country. The fuck’s he think he is, Hitler? Pol fucking Pot? Dub the Great… The end was coming, all right. The writing was on the wall for anyone with half a brain to decipher.
They pulled up in front of the jailhouse. Dub’s hog was parked out front, Bert and Ernie’s, too. They moved up the steps, past a couple of armed bikers who stood looking out at the dark streets beyond the tanker truck. More guards were stationed atop the jailhouse, two on each end of the roof. They walked through the glass doors, down the hallway to the lobby—bustling with activity a few hours ago, the room now stood sparsely populated: a biker snoring in one of the La-Z-Boy chairs; down from him a guy and his scantily-clad mate snuggled into each other on one of the plush leather sofas. On the far side of the room, several people had gathered in a circle around a man and a woman who were fornicating beneath another couple performing the same act on the big screen television above them. Ben wondered who was next; because that was the way it went at these things. A woman pulled from her cell and tossed to the wolves would lie screaming and squirming beneath one guy after another until her voice cracked and her sanity left her, then she would just lie there like this one, motionless, staring silently up at the ceiling while one guy finished and another took his place.
They went downstairs to the basement, to the Armory, where Dub selected five sets of night vision goggles, and a high powered rifle outfitted wi
th an infrared scope. Minutes later they were back up the stairs and into the hallway, headed for a dark stairwell where a flick of a switch would put them into an eerie, phosphorescent world where nothing and no one could escape their scrutiny, a mesmerizing place that took Ben straight back to the dusty slums of Iraq, to the nightmare landscapes of blood and sand, disfigurement and mutilation. Many a night he, Claude and Spud had swept through bombed-out ruins to find blood-splatter stains on the concrete walls revealed as dark, inky Rorschach patterns through the goggles they wore. Through sandstorms and bullets they had gone, followed by brothers in arms who feared their next step would be their last, and many times was. Until their time was up and Claude and Ben were back home, waiting for Spud, who had been scraped raw and bleeding from a dusty building in a dark corner of the desert, blown apart not from ‘eating a grenade’ to save his unit, but from a premature explosion while wiring up a safe in the home of an Iraqi general he and his boys had gone to work on with pliers and knives, wire cutters and electric current.
Up the stairs they went—one floor, two. On the third floor landing Dub said, “Should’ve had these this afternoon, might’ve caught that son of a bitch.”
“Oh yeah?” Ben said.
“Hidin’ in the dark like he was, we’d have gone straight to his ass. I could feel him out there, just didn’t know where.”
“Damn right we would’ve,” said Bert—no great surprise to Ben, who knew the behemoth would say anything, do anything to keep the smoke blowing up Dub’s ass.
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