The Handler (Noir et Bleu Motorcycle Club #2)

by D. R. Graham

  I stepped around her, and she tugged my arm.

  “Cain, if you get yourself killed, Huck will be devastated.” Her eyes filled with tears and she choked out, “And I will be, too.”

  I closed my eyes and hesitated before glancing at her. “I have to go.”

  Her fingers dug into my arm desperately. “Even if he is in Oslo, it’s not a good idea. What if he comes after you before you have a chance to call the police?”

  I didn’t answer, but she could obviously tell I was angry enough to do whatever it took.

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

  “He’s done more than two wrongs. He set my parents on fire—in front of Huck.”

  “I know, but you won’t be able to live with yourself if you become like them, will you?”

  “He killed my dad.”

  “I know.”

  “He blew up a bus with us in it.”

  “I know.”

  “He had Huck kidnapped.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s not going to stop. He’s going to keep going after the people I care about, which includes you.”

  She blinked slowly, and her cheeks blushed. “There must be some other way to handle it.”

  “He’s an outlaw biker. This is how one percenters do things.”

  Her face contorted. “Is that who you are?”

  I stared at the floor so I wouldn’t have to look at her expression. “You need to handle things with Hal and the tour until I get back. Make sure either Tim, or Aaron, or Stan is always with you. Okay?”

  After a long hesitation, she agreed. I kissed her forehead, then turned and left the room without looking back because I was pretty sure the expression on her face would have killed me. The ride down in the elevator seemed long. I had to force myself not to think about Hal or Huck or Lincoln so I could focus on finding Fireball.

  I went outside and stood on the sidewalk, half-hoping that he would be in plain sight. The only bikers around were Mug and Kaz.

  “What’s the plan?” Mug asked me.

  “Find him,” I muttered.

  Kaz glanced both ways down the street. “He’s either holed up in a hotel room or already headed to the airport. Digger sent some local members to watch the flights. He’ll call if they find him, but they won’t. He knows we’d watch the airport.”

  I turned and looked up at the hotel. “You think he’s still here?”

  “In this hotel, no. In Oslo, yeah. My guess is he’s laying low in a hotel somewhere he wouldn’t stand out.”

  “Well, that narrows it down. How many hotels are in Oslo?” I mumbled as I paced.

  Kaz did some mental calculations and said, “Within a two mile radius of here, around twenty-five.”

  I exchanged a How the hell does he know that? look with Mug, which Mug responded to with a baffled shake of his head. “So, should we split up and check?” Mug eventually asked.

  “No,” Kaz said as the criminal hamster continued to run on the wheel in his head. “Even if I felt like doing that, it would take too long.”

  “I have an idea to narrow it down,” I said as I pulled out my phone and loaded a map of the city centre of Oslo. I told them my plan and showed them which areas I wanted them to cover.

  We split up, and I hailed a cab.

  “Take me to a biker bar,” I mumbled to the driver as I slid into the back seat of the cab.

  He looked over his shoulder and eyeballed me. “Which one?”

  I leaned over to show him the map on my phone. “One in this area of town.”

  Without saying a word, he turned and drove.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The cab driver dropped me off in a busy part of downtown and pointed across the street to a windowless place that was painted black. At least twenty bikes were parked in front of it.

  I took another deep breath and crossed the street. The bar was packed, and it took me a while to spot the bikers sitting at a booth in the back. Strippers were giving them private lap dances. I sat on a barstool and watched for a while to get a good look at their faces. Eventually, I caught a glimpse of their patches and realized they were from the Oslo chapter of the Noir et Bleu. Fireball wouldn’t have visited a bar that was frequented by N et B, so I stood up to leave.

  One of them obviously noticed me studying them. He pushed the stripper off his leg and got up. I avoided eye contact as he walked over and leaned his hand on the wall close to me. “Hva vil du?”

  I shook my head to indicate that I didn’t understand.

  “What is your problem?” he asked with a heavy Norwegian accent. He was bald and wore glasses that were kind of nerdy, but he looked like he could snap someone’s neck with one hand.

  “Nothing. I’m looking for someone who wouldn’t be here.” I took a step to leave, and he pushed me in the chest to make me stop.

  “Why are you snooping here if he would not be here?”

  “I didn’t know who owned the bar. The guy I’m looking for isn’t a friend of the Noir et Bleu, so he wouldn’t be here.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he looked me up and down. “You are American?”

  “Canadian. I know Digger.”

  “You are a member?”

  “My dad, Southpaw, was.”

  He turned and whistled to a gray-haired guy who was sitting at the booth. He waved him over, and they stood on either side of me with their massive arms crossed over their chests. “You have ever heard of someone named Southpaw who was riding with Digger?”

  The gray-haired guy rubbed his scruffy beard before he answered with an American accent, “Yeah, he was a founding member. I met him when we did a prison run in Arizona. That was probably twenty years ago, though. Why?”

  “He claims to be his kid.”

  He shrugged as if he couldn’t have cared less. “Probably is.” He turned and lumbered back to the booth to watch the strippers dance.

  “Who are you looking for?” the bald guy asked me.

  “I don’t know his handle, and he’s from a club that doesn’t have a chapter here called the Boomslangs.”

  He laughed. “Good fucking luck. Why is it you are wanting him?”

  “He murdered my dad.”

  “Do you know what he is looking like?”

  “Yeah. About six feet tall, dark hair, a crooked front tooth, and a scar down his left cheek.”

  “Digger knows you are here?”

  It wasn’t clear whether he meant here as in Oslo, or here as in the bar asking questions. Digger did know I was in Oslo, so I said, “Yeah.”

  “Okay, I will be keeping my eye out to watch for him, but he won’t be at any of the bars on this street. We are owning everything around here.”

  “Where might he be?”

  “Try a hotel called the Scandinavian. Solos hang out at the bar there. Or the Destruction Den. Sometimes Nomads will be bringing in members from other clubs if they are having business.”

  “Thanks.” I shook his hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Axel. And you?”

  “Cain.”

  He nodded, then went back to sit at the booth.

  I left and called Mug to send them to the Destruction Den. I caught a cab to take me to the Scandinavian. It was an old building that looked like a sleazy rooming house. Ten bikes were parked out front. I stood on the sidewalk for a while working up the nerve to go in. Two girls walked by me and went in, so I convinced myself it probably wasn’t a total snake pit inside. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  There was no bouncer at the door, just a tall, stunning, blond hostess showing a lot of skin. She smiled. “Hei.”

  “Hi.”

  “Ah, you are American?” I glanced past her into the bar. When I didn’t answer, she asked, “Will you be liking a table?”

  “The bar will be fine.”

  She turned, which made her tiny skirt flip up and show her ass. “Come,” she said and headed toward the bar. I followed her and felt eyes watching me. She patted a s
tool and put a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me. “Lars will get you drink.” She pointed at a blond, six foot, three hundred pound guy at the other end of the bar. Her arm slid across my shoulder, and her chest pressed against me. She leaned in and whispered, “If you are wanting something else, let me know. I give you something else.” Her hand slid down my arm before she turned. I watched as she walked away.

  Lars wandered over and stared at me without asking what I wanted to drink. Eventually, I said, “I’ll have a beer.”

  He reached up to take a pint glass down from the rack. Then he filled it from the draught tap and slid it on the bar in front of me. “What else do you want?” he asked in perfect English.

  I took a sip and then said, “My dad was killed, and I’m trying to find his brother to let him know. He was seen in Oslo recently.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He wouldn’t be using his name.”

  He nodded. “Well, sorry I can’t help you.” He grabbed a towel and dried some glasses before sliding them onto the overhead rack. When I checked over my shoulder, a couple of bikers with no vests on stared me down. Lars eventually went to the other end of the bar and had a conversation with two guys in full patch vests from a club I wasn’t familiar with. They all looked at me, and I tried to ignore them. I was completely outnumbered and obviously unwelcome. Fireball wasn’t there, and it was obvious none of them would tell me anything anyway, so I finished the beer, dropped money on the bar, and got up to leave.

  The two full patch guys came up from behind and stood on either side of me. “You’re looking for someone?” the one with tattoos up his neck asked.

  “Yeah, my uncle. He doesn’t know that my dad got hit.” I looked them both in the eye and tried to will my heart to slow down.

  “He’s American?”

  “He was living in the U.S. before he came here.”

  The alcohol on their breath mixed with the sweat from their bodies was nauseating. The shorter guy with long crazy hair lit a cigarette, and after a pause that felt like fifteen minutes, he said, “Good luck.”

  I nodded and turned sideways so I could squeeze between them. I needed a different plan. Even if Fireball had been hanging out in a biker bar while he was in Oslo, it would probably get me killed to keep searching for him in them. It wasn’t likely going any better for Mug and Kaz. There was a good possibility they were getting shit kicked at the Destruction Den if anyone noticed their N et B club tattoos. My eyes locked on the door as I made my way across the bar. Just as I was about to push the handle, hands grabbed my jacket, pulled me into a dark corner, and shoved me against the wall.

  The hostess smiled and leaned her body against mine. Her grip was freakishly strong. “Leaving already?”

  “The person I’m looking for isn’t here.”

  Her hand ran over my waist and down into my back pocket. “No need to rush off.”

  “I need to find him.”

  “Why?” She squeezed my ass.

  I wedged my hands against her hips to move her back. “He’s my uncle, and I need to tell him something.”

  “Maybe I see him. What is it he looks like?”

  I knew she was only asking so I wouldn’t leave, but I decided it was worth a try. It was a long shot, but in case he did come in, she might call me to let me know. “He’s my height, and he has the same hair color and eyes, but he’s older and heavier.”

  “He has crooked front tooth and scar?” She ran her finger down her cheek on the same spot that Fireball had his scar.

  My heart sped up as I realized that she had seen him. A group of people came in the bar, so she pushed me farther around the corner.

  “If I tell you where he is you will come back for party with me?” She arched her eyebrow and licked her bottom lip as her other hand moved across my chest.

  “You’ve seen a guy who looks like that here?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long has he been in Oslo?”

  She held her palm up to indicate that she was going to need cash for information like that. I gave her an American one hundred dollar bill, and she said, “I do not know. He came in earlier today. He said he is coming from California, but he is speaking with a French accent.” She touched my face. “He is really your uncle?”

  I stared at her trying to decide the best way to answer the question.

  After a while, she smiled. “Never mind, I do not care why you are wanting to find him.”

  “Where is he?”

  She grabbed the collar of my jacket and pulled me in until our lips were nearly touching. She winked and said, “That information will be costing you.”

  “I already gave you a hundred.”

  She shrugged with indifference. I gave her another hundred dollar bill. She leaned back against the wall and twirled a strand of her hair with her fingers. “You are going to be killing him?”

  I half choked and forced a fake laugh. “Why would I kill my own uncle?”

  She arched her eyebrow again and checked over her shoulder. She slid her fingers across her cleavage and pulled a matchbook out of her bra. She flicked it at me. It was from a motel called Klover. She pointed. “Five minute walk that way. He asked where he could get room. I sent him to there. Maybe he went. Maybe he did not.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “He told me it is Frenchie.” She chuckled and tucked the bills into her bra. “You are not knowing your uncle’s name?”

  “I was just making sure we were talking about the right guy. Thanks.”

  “Thanks to you.” She tapped her chest where the money was stashed and returned to her hostess podium. I ducked back around the corner into the lobby and pushed the handle on the door. The sidewalk was busy, so I slipped out, crossed the intersection, and mixed with a group of girls who entered a coffee shop on the opposite corner. I sat at a table where I could see out the window but wouldn’t be noticed if someone looked in. I wasn’t sure whether I could trust the hostess, so I waited to see if the bikers were going to follow me.

  There were five text messages from Tim on my phone. He wanted an update on what happened and asked where I was. I replied with a vague: Lincoln’s with Stan and Aaron because I had no idea how long I was going to be gone, or if I was coming back, for that matter. I called Mug to see if he and Kaz had found anything at the Destruction Den, but he didn’t answer, which wasn’t a good sign.

  Twenty minutes later, two guys exited the bar and got on their bikes. They didn’t ride in the direction the hostess told me the hotel was, so I assumed I could trust her.

  When another group of tourists passed the coffee shop, I exited and blended with them to make my way to the Klover hotel. It was easy to find because the sign was a gigantic Vegas-like neon shamrock. The parking lot was crawling with druggies and prostitutes. The doors were open to three of the fifteen rooms. Hookers negotiated with guys leaning against the doorframes. Two rooms looked vacant since the curtains were open and it was dark inside. The rest of the rooms had lights on inside, but the curtains were drawn. There were no bikes parked in front, but a brand new black sedan was in front of room twelve.

  “Kjonn.” A scrawny woman staggered toward me on bright pink high heels. She had on a short, mangy fur coat, and it appeared that was all she was wearing since her legs were bare. I ignored her and hoped she would go away. She pulled out a cigarette and raised it to her lips. “English?”

  I moved to lean against a street lamp.

  She inched closer. “You want sex?”

  “No.”

  She held up the cigarette. “You have light?”

  “No.”

  “You want drugs?” She pulled a bag of pills out of her pocket and flashed it at me.

  “No.”

  “You are police?”

  “No.”

  She studied my face as if I intrigued her. “What is it you want?”

  “To be left alone.”

  She stared at me for a while. Then she shrugged and stum
bled away to ask a tourist for a light. I stood there for so long I got asked to buy drugs four times and buy sex six times.

  I called Mug. He still didn’t answer, so I left a message to tell him where I was. Eventually, a cop car pulled up and all the street people scattered like cockroaches. I didn’t move, and the cops rolled down the window to talk to me. They initially spoke in Norwegian, but when I didn’t answer, they repeated themselves in English. “No loitering.”

  “I’m waiting for a ride.”

  The driver waved his arm out the window to shoo me along. “Wait somewhere else.”

  “I told them I’d be here.”

  The cop in the passenger seat leaned over and asked, “What are you doing in Oslo?”

  “Visiting.”

  “This isn’t the best part of town to be visiting.” The driver tilted his head at the bottom feeders that swarmed around.

  I didn’t say anything.

  The cop in the driver seat might have hoped I would be confrontational. When I wasn’t, he seemed to get bored. “You better be gone when we circle around again.” He rolled up the window and they pulled away from the curb.

  As soon as they turned the corner, I called Cisco, and he answered.

  I lowered my voice and said, “I need to talk to Digger. I think I found a place that serves Fireball whiskey. I’m standing outside the hotel right now.”

  “Where?”

  I turned my back because a homeless guy with a wagon full of junk was making his way toward me. “A hotel called Klover spelled with a K.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I glanced over my shoulder at room twelve. “I still haven’t seen for myself, but I think I had a pretty good source.”

  “Who?”

  “A chick who works at the bar.”

  “That’s not exactly what I would call a reliable source. You need to see it for yourself. Hold on.”

  He passed the phone to Digger and he grumbled, “What?”

  “Does the name Frenchie mean anything to you?”

  “Frenchie Dewalt from Montreal?”

  “I don’t know. I only got a first name.”

  “Jesus Christ. Okay, kid, listen to me. I want you to get the hell out of there.”

  “Why? Who is he?”

  “Just do what I say.” He hung up, and I stood with the phone pressed against my ear until the police cruiser turned back onto the street. The cruiser lights flicked on, so I ducked into an alley and crouched behind the dumpster.