The Biker's Brother

by Peter Edwards

  I don’t notice anything from the club.

  Frances gently taps her father’s arm, then kisses his cheek.

  “Hi, Dad,” she says.

  He smiles gently and his eyes tear up a little. Maybe he was having a bad dream. This isn’t the Ripper I’m used to.

  “I brought Josh,” she says.

  “Do you have a minute to talk?” I say.

  “That depends,” he replies. “Have you been talking to my doctor? She’s the expert on how much time I have.”

  Frances rolls her eyes. Same old Ripper.

  Ripper turns onto his side to face me and his eyes open wider.

  “Glad you could come,” he says, his voice a raspy whisper. “You bring me that coffee, finally?” He cracks a little grin. “It must be cold by now.”

  I don’t know how to answer this, and it doesn’t matter.

  Ripper lowers his voice, my signal to lean in a little closer.

  “Sorry again about your brother. He’s a solid guy.”

  I just nod. Ripper’s a class act. Here he is, full of tubes and sporting a bullet hole or two and he’s passing on his sympathies about my situation and trying to make me proud of my delinquent brother. No wonder Jamie likes him so much.

  “So you’re trying to help him?” Ripper says. “You’re a good brother. I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this but obviously things have gotten pretty serious.”

  I’m not sure if he’s talking about his situation or Jamie’s. Maybe he means that they’re connected. But if so, how?

  “You remember that guy Jamie was hanging around with at Trollop’s party? The Anglo guy from Quebec?”

  I recall Jamie introducing me to a husky guy who seemed to be keeping his distance from the other Quebec bikers, yes. He struck me as a bit of a throwback. Lots of tattoos on his arms and wild, long hair. He looked more like a partier than a master criminal.

  “Yeah. I didn’t really talk to the guy but I remember him.”

  “That’s Tom McCrae from the South Shore Popeyes in Montreal. You need to find him.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s Jamie’s alibi. He and Jamie were hanging out together in Guelph the night Trent was shot. There’s no way he could have done it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I kidded him about it. They had a bet. Your brother lost fifty bucks on that game. It was on TV in the sports bar where they were hanging. He picked the Argonauts to win, and Montreal took it. Last-minute interception.”

  Ripper smiles at the memory.

  “That’s great!” This seems too good to be true. “But how can we prove it?”

  “Tom took a selfie with Jamie after the game with the TV and the scoreboard in the background. He told me about it the next day on the phone. He was laughing. Jamie was teasing him and then the Argos blew it with a minute left. The Alouettes won it with a Hail Mary.”

  I like football as much as anyone, but I don’t particularly care about how the game was won right now, just that Jamie and McCrae went to it. If I can prove it, Brenda will know that it’s not just a theory that Jamie didn’t kill Trent. It’s the truth.

  “Get that photo and Jamie goes free,” Ripper tells me. “He couldn’t be in two places at once. You’ll need to ask McCrae in person, though. I don’t think he’ll trust you over the phone.”

  “Any idea how I’d find him?”

  “This is embarrassing. I’ve lost track of time. What day is it?”

  I update him.

  “There’s a party in Toronto tomorrow night,” Ripper says. “Friday. In Riverdale. You know the Spartans’ clubhouse there?”

  I know of the place, but I’ve never been inside. “I can find it,” I assure him quickly. I have other questions to ask. “Why wouldn’t Jamie have told the police where he was?”

  Ripper shoots me a look like I should know better.

  “He’s no rat. He’s not about to tell club business to the cops.”

  “But it’s a murder charge!” I exclaim.

  Ripper ignores me. “There’s a good chance McCrae’ll be at the party. He’s not the type of guy to turn down an invitation.”

  “I’ll go.”

  “Be careful,” he warns me.

  “I’ll just say I’m Jamie’s brother.”

  “Seriously. Be very careful. Someone obviously has it in for your brother. You don’t know who’s who in the zoo. No one does anymore. I sure don’t. Tom is a good enough guy but he’s pissed off some serious people.”

  “Who’s angry at him?”

  “Who isn’t? Some Spartans. Some Popeyes.”

  “Why?”

  I can’t believe I’m asking—outsiders aren’t entitled to inquire about club business—so I’m even more surprised when Ripper answers.

  “Tom’s going around trying to talk people on all sides out of the merger. He doesn’t think the Popeyes should join with either the Spartans or the Annihilators.”

  “Why does he care?”

  “He’s old-school. He’s not so big on the business. He doesn’t like how corporate the Popeyes are becoming. He wants fun. He wants it to be 1967 forever. He likes the idea of small clubs and big parties.”

  “So shouldn’t he be keeping a low profile? That guy from the Nomads keeps sniffing around—Baker the Undertaker.”

  Ripper raises an eyebrow at that. I can tell he’s surprised that I even know the guy’s name, but I’m past caring. And I guess he is too, because he keeps going.

  “You’d think. But no. McCrae’s the type of guy to run at a problem, not away from it.”

  There’s a long pause as Ripper sips some water from a straw. “He didn’t ride his bike down here, though. He’s driving a white F-150 with a rabbit’s foot hanging from the mirror. With Quebec plates, obviously.”

  All at once, Ripper sounds tired. Frances gives me a look that say it’s time to go.

  I thank Ripper for the lead, feeling a bit light-headed as I stand to leave. It’s been a busy day—cops and lawyers and now Ripper. So much has happened, and although I don’t want to get my hopes up, I feel closer to freeing Jamie right now than I have since this whole mess started. I just have to find Tom and see if he’s willing to admit being with my brother the night that Trent was killed. One more day and the drama could be over.

  I say my good-byes and head for the elevator. On the ride down to the main floor, I think of calling Jamie’s lawyer and filling her in, but decide to hold off. Nothing’s definite yet, and I hear lawyers bill you in fifteen-minute blocks, every time you call. Besides, I get the feeling she already thinks I’m a little naive and I don’t want to reinforce that.

  I text Brenda when I get to the car. Heading out of town for a little while.

  This time, she replies instantly.

  Where? Why?

  Toronto. Hoping for new info.

  Seriously? You have to go?

  Yup.

  Be careful. Promise.

  It’s not the first time she’s sounded nervous about something I’m doing, or worried about me. I could get used to this.

  For sure.

  Going to be quiet around here. Carlito just headed out of town too.

  Great. I wonder where’s he going, and what for? Just one more thing to worry about.

  Chapter

  37

  The Spartans’ clubhouse in Toronto is a grubby local landmark of sorts. I’ve never actually been inside but I’ve seen it on the news. Every Christmas they stick a big sign on their roof with Santa on a Harley hauling his sled.

  The two-story brick house is in an area that used to be pretty tough, I’ve been told, but it looks like the neighborhood has gotten trendy. There are Audis and Volvos in the driveways of newly renovated homes, and $2,000 bicycles locked up outside restaurants and storefronts on the ma
in streets.

  Sometimes guys from this club ride down to Annihilator parties in St. Thomas, so I know a few of them a little bit. Luckily, one of them is on the street dismounting from his motorcycle as I pull up outside.

  “Hey bro, sorry about your brother,” he says when he spots me.

  “Thanks, appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome to party with us tonight.”

  And with that, I’m allowed inside. There are black leather couches and a huge TV in the living room. On the walls are framed club photos. There’s also a cuckoo clock that an engraved sign tells me is a gift from some club in Germany.

  To the rear of the house is a bar that leads out to the fenced backyard, and that’s where most of the party seems to be going on. I also see a door to what must be a VIP room, shielded by a black curtain and marked “Members only.”

  The bar is long and made of hardwood and has the club crest carved right into it. The Rolling Stones’ “Miss You” is playing at top volume. It’s a little sad and a little sexy and seems to fit the mood. There’s a stripper pole near the bar and a woman is spinning around it, doing her best to interpret the song. She’s wearing black workout gear, though I’m not sure how long that will last.

  I buy a beer and head out to the backyard. Jamie’s supposed alibi, the Popeye named Tom, is nowhere to be seen, and I didn’t see a white Ford truck on the street. I don’t know what to do other than wait for him to show up.

  The music’s pretty loud in the backyard too, but I imagine the neighbors know better than to complain too much. The bikers were here before the yuppies moved in.

  I recognize two more guys in the backyard and nod in their direction.

  “Sorry about your brother,” one of them says.

  My brother’s bad fortune seems to have given me a certain status.

  I sip my beer and try to relax. The guys here seem pretty loose tonight. There’s a lot of laughter ringing out, and some good-natured kidding going on. I wonder why Tom hasn’t shown up yet. Could he have feared some sort of ambush at the party or was he just not interested? Maybe he’s at home in Montreal and I’m wasting my time. But it’s not even midnight yet, so there’s a chance he’ll still come.

  I can see inside the clubhouse from here and notice that the woman on the pole is considerably less dressed than she was when I passed through. There are a half dozen other women mingling in the crowd who look like they might also have polished a pole in the not-so-distant past. Some guys on a couch are snorting something and giggling crazily.

  I turn around and drift farther into the backyard. I’m doing my best to fit into the party vibe but I don’t want another beer. The last thing I need is to be drunk if Jamie’s friend shows up, and anyway, I’m an athlete, not a biker.

  Besides the Spartans that I’ve spoken to already, there are a dozen or so guys from other clubs that I recognize. There’s also a dorky-looking guy wearing a brand-new vest that announces him as a member of the Roadrunners, a club from Barrie, a small city north of Toronto. He’s strutting around with his chest puffed out like a bantam rooster.

  “Hey bro, can you get me a beer?” one of the Spartans I spoke to asks him.

  “Do I look like your waiter?”

  The Roadrunner’s words hang in the air, clear and crisp and defiant and begging for a reaction.

  “Excuse me?” answers the Spartan.

  Whenever a biker gets ultra-polite, there’s a very good chance things are going to get dangerous.

  “I said, ‘Do I look like your waiter?’”

  With that, the dorky biker smiles at two women standing nearby. One of them smiles back. The smarter one looks down and away.

  Everyone seems to be listening now. There are a couple of nervous giggles and plenty of people trying not to stare.

  The Spartan and the buddy he’s standing with are enjoying the audience. They whisper back and forth and then one of them leaves the backyard in a rush. His friend smiles to himself for a moment and whistles into his empty beer can, still standing uncomfortably close to the back-talking Roadrunner. Then his friend returns with a length of blue nylon rope in his hands. That can’t be good.

  “Come over here.”

  It’s the Spartan who asked for the beer, addressing the rooster.

  It’s not a request, but it’s ignored nonetheless.

  “I said, ‘Come over here,’” he repeats.

  Still the smaller man ignores him, so the Spartan gets right in his face, smiling in a crazy narrow grimace. He grabs the uppity Roadrunner around the waist, cool and confident, as if this is the most natural thing in the world, then pins the man’s arms to his side.

  That’s when the second Spartan forces the rope around his neck from behind.

  Neither Spartan is smiling now, and the Road­runner looks terrified.

  I’m terrified too, and I’m just watching.

  Next, the rope is thrown over a low-hanging tree branch and yanked tight.

  The gasp from the Roadrunner is the most sickening thing I have ever heard.

  Now the two friends are hauling on the rope, hoisting the smaller man into the air. It’s like they’re doing a farmyard chore. The Roadrunner tries to free himself, but the rope is cutting tightly into his neck. He’s flapping his arms like a real rooster and his face is a sickening shade of purple.

  It seems like someone should call 911, but I’m too shocked to move. Instead, I just stare. It’s the first lynching I’ve ever seen—or even heard of—in the biker world, and it’s enough to cause the Roadrunner to wet his pants.

  After what seems like an eternity, the two Spartans let go of the rope and the Roadrunner collapses to the ground. No one rushes up to see if he’s okay.

  A few seconds later, he starts to gasp and sputter, and I feel an enormous sense of relief. It’s a miracle that his neck isn’t broken.

  The two Spartans look in his direction and smile. Then they look at me.

  I decide it’s time to go. It’s late and it’s pretty clear Jamie’s friend isn’t coming.

  He must have gone back to Montreal. If I want his help I’ll have to follow him there.

  Chapter

  38

  In biker circles, Quebec is known as the “Red Zone.” Red’s the color of heat and the color of blood and it seems fitting that the Red Zone is the home base of the Popeyes, whose members love red vests.

  They don’t play around in Quebec. Bill says that the sky’s the limit here for anyone smart enough or tough enough to take advantage of the smuggling potential that the city’s ocean access and proximity to the massive New York market afford.

  I drive overnight to Montreal in search of the white Ford F-150 and Tom McCrae, and get to the clubhouse, in the city’s suburban South Shore neighborhood, around seven in the morning. It’s pretty hard to miss since it has a Popeyes flag flying from the front gate.

  I don’t really have a plan for finding Tom but the clubhouse seems like the place to start. It’s surrounded by a wrought-iron fence topped with razor wire and is set back from the street on a little hill. Anyone without a battering ram will need to be buzzed inside.

  I’m too dozy and tired to make any decisions, so I pull into the parking lot of a nearby chicken restaurant and spend the next four hours sleeping in the car. When I wake up I’m a little more alert, so I take another pass of the clubhouse. Still nothing promising. I think about waiting for a bit and then driving by one more time, then decide against it. There are security cameras covering the area and I don’t need to arouse suspicion.

  But I didn’t drive all the way here to sit around and wait. I tell the butterflies in my stomach to settle down as I slowly ease my car up to the intercom by the gate. I roll down the window and press the button.

  “Oui?”

  “Bonjour,” I reply. With that, I’ve pretty well exhausted my Fre
nch vocabulary, unless I can work “deluxe” or “bon” into the conversation.

  “Hello,” the voice tries again. He’s heard me say one word and can already tell I don’t speak the language.

  “Hello. My brother is Jamie from the Annihilators in Ontario. I need to find a friend of his, Tom McCrae.”

  “Wait there,” an abrupt voice orders.

  Five minutes later, a Cadillac coupe comes down the hill from the clubhouse. It’s a fine car, a two-door sporty CTS model, but I reckon there’s still room in the trunk for a body or two. The man getting out of the driver’s side can’t be more than thirty. He looks plenty tough but he’s not wearing club colors, so maybe he’s just a prospect. They get most of the menial grunt jobs, but they’re also often the most violent and unpredictable, since they’re constantly trying to prove themselves. He’s clearly wary of me.

  “Your brother’s name?”

  “Jamie Williams. St. Thomas Annihilators.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but do you have some identification? Something to prove you are who you say you are?”

  I pull out my wallet, which I open to show my driver’s license. My hand is a little shaky when I pass it to him.

  He nods.

  “Take off your jacket and hand it to me.”

  I oblige. I wonder what he’d do if I said no.

  Part of me—a big part—just wants to run.

  “Turn around.”

  I know that bikers sometimes keep their handguns in the small of their back, tucked into their jeans. He’s checking for that.

  “All the way around.”

  I obey and he seems more relaxed.

  “Hop in.”

  I climb into the passenger side of the Caddy, and in a minute we’re at the clubhouse. He buzzes at the door. It’s metal, painted red, with a couple of cameras over it and a little peephole drilled in at eye level. An aggressive buzz answers his and he opens the door. It makes a heavy thud when it closes behind us. I won’t be getting out until somebody decides I should be getting out. Hopefully, I’m still in one happy piece when that happens.