The Biker's Brother

by Peter Edwards

  “Stay out of it,” Jamie says again.

  His tone has changed in a flash.

  Is he afraid I might be in danger too?

  Whatever the case, something about the look on his face makes me want to run and hide.

  Chapter

  18

  I haven’t gotten any sleep today so it’s going to be a tough night shift. I keep picturing Jamie in jail, trying to play it cool when he must be scared out of his mind. I’m beat, and I could use a break, but I don’t expect to get it tonight. At least I should be able to do some research on the Popeyes during my shift. The Sun-Sentinel has access to some really good databases.

  I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but I know I need to know more. Who is that big Popeye I keep bumping into, the one who makes the Annihilators so nervous? I’m also not sure how the Spartans fit into things. I can’t shake the feeling that they’re an important part of this puzzle. Their hometown, London, isn’t that far away, and while they might be a small club, they’re not timid.

  I’m trying to draw on what I’ve learned in football. Our coaches are big on getting us to define our goals. Then we map out a plan to achieve them. It’s not enough to want something. You have to work for it.

  What I want in life is so simple, but it feels so far away. Sometimes, late at night, I imagine that I’m the father in a family like Jake’s, a family where everyone is relaxed and loving and joking and where things don’t always seem on the verge of breaking into pieces. That’s my vision of success. Right now, though, I’d settle for my brother not being stuck in prison for the next quarter-century.

  I get to work early, and on my way in, I see Bill, who’s on his way out.

  “The prosecutor at the bail hearing said that there was some sort of police agent or informer,” I say. “I don’t get it. Why would they say something like that?”

  “You need to stay out of that,” he tells me. His face has changed since the last time we talked about this; I have never seen him so serious before.

  “But . . .” I’m sick of everyone treating me like I’m a kid.

  “Seriously.”

  He’s in no mood for an argument and he doesn’t seem to want to talk. He sweeps out the door, and a few minutes later, I’m at my workstation, ready to see what I can find on the databases. But there’s a note waiting for me, telling me to go and see the city editor. I haven’t talked to him since I was hired.

  As I walk into his office I can see he has his “serious editor” face on.

  “I understand you were at bail court,” he says. It sounds a bit like an accusation. I wonder if he’s also seen the photo of me at Trent’s funeral.

  “Yes.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  There’s something judgmental in his tone. I want to swear at him but instead I stare at a point on the wall, just above his right shoulder. He was a crime reporter himself long ago, I’ve heard, and I imagine he already knows I was at Jamie’s house when the arrest took place.

  “It’s going to be a major story around here.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll attract reporters from out of town.”

  “Yes.”

  “Shouldn’t you have told us about your conflict here?”

  “Conflict?”

  “Conflict of interest. Your brother’s charged with murder.”

  “Umm . . . It all happened really quickly.”

  Thanks, Jamie. Now I’m in trouble just for being your brother.

  The city editor’s tone softens. “You have a lot to deal with right now.”

  He’s trying to act more like a friendly uncle now and less like a school principal. It’s an improvement but still awkward.

  “Yes.”

  I’m surprised at how weak my voice sounds.

  “Is your mom okay?”

  Where’s this coming from? Does everyone know I have a screwed-up home life?

  “Yes, thanks.”

  I’m not about to open up to him. I can’t talk here about how Mom seems ready to freak, and how I’m barely holding it together. And I definitely won’t talk about Brenda. The Sun-Sentinel pays me but they don’t own me.

  He continues in a kind tone: “I think it might be best if you take a little leave until this cools down. Spend some more time with your family when they need you.”

  What does he mean by my family? All I have is Mom and she’s not home that much. But I’m not about to beg. I could use the money but I guess I can always do some construction work as a day laborer if things get tight. Right now, Jamie is my priority.

  Jamie and Trent. And Brenda. And Mom.

  And me.

  “I’m not firing you. It’s just a leave. There’s a difference. You understand that?”

  “Yes.” My tone clearly suggests that I don’t.

  “There’ll be a job for you here once this cools down.”

  If this cools down. And once football season starts, I won’t have time for this place anyway. If I turn pro someday, the Sun-Sentinel will be begging to interview me, not railroading me out of a job.

  He stands up, which is his way of saying the meeting is over. He leans over to shake my hand, which feels a little formal. I’m not sure what just happened. Was he trying to be helpful or was this just the first step in making sure I never worked here again?

  Chapter

  19

  The last couple of days haven’t been great.

  I spent the night in the police station, saw my big brother led into court in handcuffs to face a murder charge, then got placed on an indefinite leave from my job, which feels a lot like I just got fired. I also haven’t had a chance to talk with Brenda yet. And I imagine Mom will be a mess when I see her. The one bright spot is that I will get to bed earlier than I had expected. Pulling a night shift would have been brutal today.

  But when I get home, I have to park on the street because there’s a Harley in the driveway in my usual spot. It looks familiar. There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’m trying hard to ignore. As I walk into the house, I see a pair of silver-tipped black cowboy boots by the front door. I glance to the left and there’s Carlito on the couch, sipping a beer with his shirt partly unbuttoned.

  “Hey bro,” he says, smiling like he totally belongs here, not bothering to stand up.

  I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just give him a brief nod. It’s all I can do to keep a lid on things. What the hell is he doing in my house, sitting on the couch like he owns the place?

  I’m trying to figure out how to handle the situation when Mom comes down the stairs—and everything clicks. She’s in a nightgown. Her hair is messy. She’s barefoot. She obviously didn’t hear me come in, and she jumps back a little when she sees me. It takes a lot to embarrass her, but I can see that right now, she’d rather be anywhere but here. I know how she feels.

  “You two know each other,” she finally says.

  Somehow this makes things even worse.

  “We do,” Carlito says. He sounds amused.

  I say nothing.

  “I should probably be running along,” he says after some awkward silence.

  He takes a final swig of his beer and puts the can down on the coffee table. He couldn’t look more pleased with himself.

  There’s an unwritten rule among bikers that prohibits sleeping with another member’s old lady. But there’s no rule that I’ve heard of against sleeping with another biker’s mother. Maybe no one—even in the biker world—ever thought it would be an issue.

  A minute later, Carlito’s slipping on his boots and heading out the door. At least there’s no show of affection between him and Mom as he leaves; I’m not sure I could take that. She just nods her head at him, and he gives her a smile and a nod.

  Moments later,
there’s the sound of his Harley roaring away.

  I don’t know what to say. She has never invited bikers into our home before—at least not that I know of.

  “Really?” is the best I can muster.

  “I thought you were working,” she replies in a weak voice.

  “I’m going to bed,” I say, a little sharply.

  Mom looks distraught, but I’m not up to a conversation. I don’t want to say anything I’ll regret. And that rules out pretty much everything I’m thinking. I’d like to kill Carlito right now, and I’m not the violent one in the family.

  The last words I hear from Mom as I head up to the attic are a plaintive, “Why don’t you want me to be happy?”

  I get it that Mom’s an adult and single and human.

  I get it that Dad is long gone from her life.

  I get it that they should never be together again.

  I get it that maybe they never should have been together in the first place.

  I get that I’m not perfect myself.

  I get all that.

  But Carlito?

  There’s no way that Mom can know about Carlito and Brenda—the history they obviously have. But Carlito didn’t seem at all surprised to see me here, so clearly he knows exactly who he was with tonight. Couldn’t he have stayed away from our mother?

  I stomp up the stairs to my room, grateful for the relative dark and silence of the attic. My mind is reeling. I can’t believe Jamie chooses to hang around with guys like this. Or that he would consider risking his freedom for them. What does he get from it? What do they give him that we can’t? And now it seems like my mom seeks them out too. Maybe she always has and I’ve just been too blind to see it. It’s like I’m the freak of the family for being sort of normal.

  I don’t know what, if anything, I can ever say to Mom about this. I also don’t know what, if anything, I can say to Brenda. But right now, I can’t let myself flip out. I need to focus on freeing Jamie. He’s still my brother and he’s still facing a murder charge. That can’t wait. And it’s not like I know what to do about the rest of it anyway.

  In the morning maybe I can hit the gym and try to burn this out of my brain, but I seriously doubt there’s a workout intense enough to get the job done.

  Chapter

  20

  Hoping you can make it to the captain/coaches BBQ on Sunday, July 30. How’s the rehab going?

  It’s a text from the team’s defensive coach and the first thing I read when I get up the next morning. That coach is the one who got me the job at the paper. I’m sure he asks the editor, his buddy, how I’m doing every now and then. I can only imagine what he would have heard if he asked today.

  That’s not what his message is about, though. Every year, the football team’s coaches and captains have a barbecue a couple of weeks before training camp opens. This one’s three weeks down the line. By then things might be magically sorted out with Jamie and I might be focused on football again. Or maybe they’ll have spun totally out of control and Jamie will be on his way to prison.

  Looking forward to it, I reply. It’s not a lie. More like wishful thinking. Rehab’s pretty much done. Back in the weight room pretty hard now. Doing some sprints too.

  Good man. Make sure you stretch a lot, especially before and after the sprinting. Don’t rush it.

  Thanks. I won’t.

  Many other guys from the team working out with you?

  My gym’s not so big with the guys. Jake’s there a lot, though. We work out together.

  How’s he doing?

  Bigger than last year. Quite a bit stronger. Working hard. Intense.

  The coach knows we’re buddies, but it’s true. Jake’s not lazy. I leave out the muscle-beach posing and the rest of Jake’s nonsense.

  Good. It’s the year for him to step up. Claim a starting spot. Tell him I said that.

  I will.

  We’re looking at subbing you in at fullback along with defensive end. It’ll boost our offense and give scouts another reason to look at you.

  Appreciate it. Can you email me an offensive playbook?

  Will do.

  Under normal circumstances, this would be amazing news. I’d brag to Mom and Jamie about being one of the few kids playing both offense and defense. But today, it doesn’t seem to mean that much.

  How’s other stuff? Your brother? You okay?

  There it is. I was hoping we could get through this chat without Jamie coming up.

  It’s nice that he’s concerned, but I can’t chitchat with him about this. I don’t like small talk at the best of times, and it’s impossible to talk about this in a casual way. A murder beef is hard to joke off.

  Not as bad as it looks. It sounds lame but what else can I say? No fun though.

  It’s your time to focus. Next few months determine a lot.

  I know he means well, but today I’m easily irritated. I don’t need him pressuring me.

  I know. I’m working hard.

  I’m serious. We all make our choices. Step away from this. We need our captains to be focused. Everyone looks to them for direction.

  What is this about? Step away? Did he just give me a pep talk or deliver a threat?

  His words just hang there for a while. You can’t tell your coach to mind his own business. But still . . .

  You’re a winner. Keep it that way.

  Is that a shot at Jamie? If so, he can take his concern and stick it . . . Or maybe I’m getting too sensitive. It hits me that except for Jake, no one from the team has contacted me about my brother and the jam he’s in. I’ve tried not to think about it too much, but it’s still in the back of my mind.

  Thanks for info about BBQ, I text him tersely. See you there. Gotta go. Bye.

  I put my phone back in my pocket and take a deep breath.

  Chapter

  21

  How have you been?

  It’s a message from Bill Taylor at the paper.

  I’ve barely finished with the coach and here we go again. How do I answer? Fine, except my brother is charged with murdering the brother of the girl that I can’t live without? Or perhaps: Today I learned that my mom is sleeping with the biker who used to sleep with my girlfriend and I’d like to kill him? How about: Fine, except that I suspect my girlfriend—okay, she doesn’t know she’s my girlfriend—might be using that biker to find out who killed her brother? Well, okay, maybe I don’t have any evidence of that, and it’s a little paranoid to be so suspicious. But there was something about what I saw between Brenda and Carlito at the funeral that bugs me, that’s not paranoia.

  And what about the idea that was tossed out at the bail hearing about a potential rat in my brother’s crowd? Rumors like that get people killed. And turn others into killers. Maybe that’s happened already.

  Do I tell Bill how what’s left of my family would fall apart if my brother goes to prison? Or do I just keep my game face on and try to hang on to some pride?

  Fine. And you? I reply.

  Wondering how you are.

  At this point, figuring out who killed Trent isn’t just important for Jamie and his future; it will help hold my life together too. Right now, I need to be lost in something. Alcoholics drown themselves in booze to escape reality. I’ll immerse myself in the work of finding answers.

  There’s a guy from the Popeyes who showed up a while ago, I reply. I think he has something to do with my brother’s mess.

  Do you really want to get into this?

  He’s talking to me like a source, warning me.

  I have to. I don’t see how things can get worse.

  They can. Trust me, they can. These guys are good at that.

  I’m not about to ask him what he means by that. Instead I type, I don’t believe my brother did it. But it looks like he did. He’s an easy target.<
br />
  Okay.

  My brother’s no angel but he’s not some gangland killer. Wouldn’t I know that?

  I’m sure that prisons everywhere are full of people whose families think they were framed or got misled by bad apples or were in the wrong place at the wrong time—but still, I just can’t believe Jamie did what he’s accused of.

  So what can I do?

  If you can just ask around with your sources. It’s a good story, isn’t it?

  Sure. I’m doing that now anyway and will keep on it, but please don’t get yourself in a mess. This isn’t football. This is really rough. There’s no referee or penalty for not playing nice.

  I don’t know how to reply. I know this isn’t a game, but football doesn’t seem like a game to me either; when I’m training or on the field, it’s serious. And it’s the only thing I really know, my only basis for comparison.

  Let’s talk soon, he types. But be safe. You don’t owe me anything.

  I get it. Talk soon.

  He’s a smart guy and I know he wants to help, but I don’t think he gets it. I can’t just walk away from this.

  Chapter

  22

  Bill’s story appears around noon the next day on the Sun-Sentinel’s website. The headline reads: “Biker takeover feared as police probe hanging death.”

  The article draws heavily from biker and police sources; a few of them are identified but most are not. It begins:

  Local police and bikers alike are on edge with the arrival in town of members of the Popeyes, an international motorcycle gang with a history of high-level drug trafficking, extortion, arson, and murder.

  That’s old news to me but not to most people in our town, I suppose. The surprising part comes about halfway through the story:

  Certain members of the St. Thomas–based Annihilators Motorcycle Club and the Spartans, based in London, met out of town recently to discuss a strategy for dealing with the Popeyes.

  “The meeting was very hush-hush and was held in Guelph, an hour or so down the highway,” a source close to events said. “It was apparently held there in an attempt to avoid detection by the Popeyes or members of the Annihilators and Spartans who are allied with the Popeyes or favor an alliance.”