Vulnerable (Barons of Sodom)

by Blake, Abriella

  It was early—she could tell from the flash of sunlight creeping through the open wall—but hadn't it been early when she'd fallen asleep? The heft of a hangover, that's what it was. She'd been drinking whiskey at a dive bar off the highway. She'd been fooling around with a biker in the moonlight. Oh, sweet Lord Jesus.

  “Athena...” Bridie started, amazed at how much she already sounded like one of the harlots in her aunt's beloved soap operas. “I didn't mean to...I mean, I didn't mean to get in so late. You must have worried.”

  “I don't worry, princess. You're the one who should be worried.” There was the lip of a threat under this remark, but Bridie pretended not to hear it. She had one friend in the universe. She wasn't going to fuck this up.

  “Tuck just drove me home late. That's all.”

  “You don't have to explain anything to me.”

  “There's nothing to explain!”

  “Hey,” snapped Athena, moving swiftly toward her toolbox. “I know Tuck. I don't know you. All I have to say about the matter is if you're here for your own protection, I'd be a little more careful how I spend my evenings. Not that I give a damn either way.”

  Bridie's stomach twisted at this. In the slimy morning light, she felt foolish and alone. She felt the teenage half of eighteen. I know Tuck, Athena'd said. Meaning, I know exactly how often Tuck likes to take a wide-eyed teenager out on one his midnight bike rides. Of course he was a ladies man. Of course he fooled around with girls on the back of his Harley. She ought to have known better, considering the company her own aunt had liked to keep. Men were trouble, wasn't that the bottom line? They used you, then they left you. Women couldn't keep power among men unless they were tough like Athena, unless they outright refused to take shit.

  Athena seemed to soften—very much in spite of herself—at Bridie's furrowed brow. As hard as it was to beat away images of whatever might have happened with Tuck and the PYT, she reminded herself of the stakes at hand: this girl was young. She was in trouble. Young women in trouble rarely knew better.

  “Put on some coveralls or something,” Sark muttered gruffly. “Today we're diving straight into Spivey's Evo. You'll want gloves.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  From the transcripts of Jericho County Courthouse,

  April 12th 1997.

  Conducted by Detective Wilson Ramirez

  In attendance: Oliver Moss, Esq.; Bridie Louise Calyer, Witness; Officer Randall Wilkie

  OFFICER WILKIE: Is everyone comfortable? I can get some more chairs.

  DET. RAMIREZ: That's fine, Seargent. Is everyone fine? Are you fine, Ms. Calyer?

  OLIVER MOSS: My client invokes her right to the Fifth Amendment.

  DET. RAMIREZ: So the record shows. You know it's going to be an awfully long evening if you keep this up, Ms. Calyer. The record already shows that neither you nor a Mr. Tucker LaRouche are currently suspected of a crime.

  OLIVER MOSS: My client directs the officer's attention to the statute of limitations on closed cases. My client also requests that the police department consider the circumstantial nature of any so-called evidence surrounding the alleged murder of Mr. Salvador Collins on July 3rd, 1971...

  DET. RAMIREZ: Bridie, are you really not gonna talk to me? We just have a few more questions! Like I said, no one's on trial!

  BRIDIE: It's alright, Oliver. Well, what exactly do you want to know, Detective?

  DET. RAMIREZ: I just want to know everything about the Barons of Sodom MC that you can tell me. We don't want Tuck. We don't care about Tuck. This kind of thing, it goes straight to the top.

  BRIDIE: You'll excuse me if I don't trust the police.

  DET. RAMIREZ: You're being hostile again. Cut tape—

  BRIDIE: Don't cut the tape, listen to my words: I don't trust the police. Not just Cannon. Not just the interrogators. And you shouldn't either, Detective. Think bigger. Start there.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Gil Cannon was prowling around the camp shortly after the day had broken, fingers curled around a cigarette. He wore a flat cowboy hat, an opaque pair of Aviator sunglasses, a crisp white shirt, and dark blue jeans hitched high on his waist. He stuck out like a sore thumb in this crowd of miscreants, that was for damn sure.

  Tuck watched the officer from his window. The other Barons were up and about already, attempting to douse their hangovers in spring water. A small circle of men in lawn chairs had already cropped up in the clearing. Tuck watched trails of their collective cigarette smoke move high and intermingle with the trees.

  Leaning back in his cot, he thought about New Orleans. He missed it there. The elegant, Old World feeling of the streets. A certain magic quality in the air—the whispers of old voodoo religion, of deep, significant history. Unbidden, he found himself imagining Bridie there with him. She'd be wearing a white dress, something lacy and thin. She'd trot among the cobblestones in front of his bike, illuminated only by the beam of his headlight. They'd go dancing on Frenchmen Street. He'd kiss her sweaty skin in the dark corners of Creole restaurants. They'd wake up together, naked and entwined and with nowhere to go, in one of those posh little hotels on Bienville...

  With a muscular effort, Tuck made himself snap out of it. He went to the little sink and doused his face and hands with cool water. He was getting fucking soft.

  Returning to the window, Tuck watched Cannon remove a little notebook and pencil from the back pocket of his jeans. He bent low in the ground and started making markings in the dirt with the tip of his instrument. Something fishy about that son of a bitch, another thing he knew FOR DAMN SURE...Goodness. Apparently, this was going to be another confusing, grating morning at Casa Barons.

  There came the sounds of wheezing and creaking on the stairs up to the annex. Spivey's shadow appeared in the doorway, his sweaty mug already burnt in the morning sun.

  “Tuck. Better come quick. God wants to talk to ya.”

  The Lieutenant thought back to the lamp light in the big house earlier that morning. The anonymous shadowy figure, who'd so likely seen him with Bridie on the bike. Only a few Barons had access to those rooms—the puzzle seemed to solve itself.

  “Don't make me repeat myself, bitch. Get dressed.”

  With uncharacteristic dread, Tuck tugged a pair of ratty jeans over his bare ass. He plucked his MC vest off its resting place on the lampshade and made sure to tug the lapels so his Barons crest was visible.

  “I'm coming,” he said slowly. Spivey turned and led the way.

  Elbow-deep in the cylinders of a dismantled Evo engine, Bridie began to feel like her old self—if such a person could be said to exist. The Texas sun grew hot and heavy, and soon the garage was rank with the smell of oil and grease—but something about hard work made her feel peaceful. Perhaps it was the fact that she'd been so idle all that time in the trailer. It was nice, working side by side in silence with Athena. The mechanic was a sight to behold, with her big bushy hair pulled back in a kerchief, her nimble hands working quickly around the cogs and rods. Athena clearly loved her work, and that was contagious.

  “I like this one,” Bridie finally ventured after a long silence. “It's more complicated than the Shovelhead, but easier on the eyes than the Twin Cam.” Athena rolled her eyes, but puffed up with a bit of pride. She clearly liked having a protégé as much as Bridie liked having a mentor.

  “Is that the Sport, or the Big Twin?” called a voice from the far side of the garage. Bridie shaded her eyes to the light and took in Officer Cannon, looking like the Marlboro Man with his dangling cigarette and pristine white hat. In spite of herself, the girl felt a quickening in her heart. But then, her nerves still tingled with a raw sensuality after last night—this morning—on the bike. The feel of a man's hands...the scratch of a man's stubble. Bridie had fooled around with townie boys before (distinctly boys, of course) but always out of boredom, never out of true interest, or passion. The Barons' camp had what her aunt would have called an “animal magnetism” to it. Tucker LaRouche had an animal magneti
sm.

  “I wonder if Mr. Charles Reginald was any good with engines. Bridie?” The officer had ventured into the garage all the way, much to Athena's disgust. Yet she let the man stay, clearly curious.

  “Charles. Reginald. You know who I mean.”

  Bridie swallowed.

  “Sure, officer. Of course, I only met him the one time.”

  “Of course you did. Pretty girl like you. Tell me, Ms. Calyer—how did you get yourself pocket money around the trailer park?”

  “Hey!” called Athena, rallying at last. “This is my garage. And aren't you supposed to be here for the girl's protection? We're all of us supposed to be protecting her, isn't that right? Officer?”

  Something caught then in Cannon's gaze. He pulled his Aviators down his straight nose, so he could peer over the tops of the lenses.

  “I am protecting her. I just want to know what Ms. Calyer's life was like before she became our little Rosie the Riveter. I want to know everything she knows.”

  “We didn't have any money, Officer Cannon. Aunt Caroline and I were always broke.”

  “Pretty funny then that you were hosting a well-known drug lord on the night your aunt died. Seems to be that those types often go in search of a bit more than a home-cooked meal.” Cannon lit a match. He held the open flame precariously close to a gas can for a split second, before bringing the fire to the end of his smoke. Then he smiled, a little cruelly, and ambled back toward the light of day.

  Bridie struggled to fight back angry tears, but Athena steadied her arm.

  “He's just trying to get a rise out of you, sweet pea,” the mechanic said. Her grip was gentle. “Don't give him the satisfaction. You want to know how to be tough? This is how.”

  Gulping, Bridie rose. She spoke to Cannon's retreating back. “I don't know what the hell you're talking about,” she said. “And I don't have answers for you. All I know is my aunt died and a man named Mr. Reginald died with her. You talk to the police if you want anything else from me.”

  The officer—who now seemed so slimy, so dangerous in his bright white plainclothes—cracked another sinister grin as he whirled on his heels. “I am the police, little darling. Just don't you forget.”

  Then he turned on his spurs and strode fully back into the sunshine.

  “That's it!” yelled Athena to his disappearing footsteps, tossing her wrench down onto the concrete with a clang. “This is too fucking weird. They keep leaving clues...”

  “Who?”

  “Everyone! The newspapers, this creepy Cannon nonsense...it's too fucking weird. Something's not right.” Emphatically, Athena ran to her bedroom corner and started shuffling a few old papers on her vanity. She returned to the garage with an armload of print.

  “Just who was your aunt, Bridie? Would there be any reason for the police to suspect her of a crime?”

  “You mean, something other than doing crystal three times a day?”

  “Something bigger than that. Was she pushing meth? Do you know anything about this so-called drug lord? What about that man who died last night at Dixie's? Why did he have her picture in his wallet?”

  Bridie was puzzled. It was too many questions. Lord knew what her addled Aunt had done before she fell down the rabbit hole, but life with her in the aftermath had been like living with a ghost. Caroline had done little but lose a job, make terrible dinners, and entertain the occasional guest. Or the gentlemen callers, as she called them.

  “She had a lot of men,” Bridie said finally. “I mean—they'd come to the house. Different ones all the time. She'd ask me to go out and play when they came through.”

  “And did they stay the night, these men? Did you ever hear them—going at it?”

  “Oh, yuck.”

  “I'm being serious!”

  Bridie thought. “No. Not once. No one stayed the night.”

  Athena began to lay the newspapers out along the floor. Each was dated from sometime in the past week—from Trailer Park Massacre to FBI Suspects Local Police.

  “It's a real pity no one reads the paper in these parts,” Athena said slowly. “Look at this.” She pointed to the bottom of yesterday's article, where Bridie was mentioned by name. “The young girl is currently reported missing, having escaped police interrogation. Any information regarding Bridie Calyer's whereabouts will result in a reward.”

  The garage felt utterly silent now. Even the dull thrum of the fans seemed muted.

  “I'm guessing you never spoke with the FBI. Or possibly even the real police.”

  “Couldn't it be a coincidence? They want to cover for me, right? They want to put me in hiding—what better way than to say I'm missing?”

  “That doesn't make sense, babe. If the whole state of Texas is out looking for you, there's nowhere you can hide—right? I mean, besides the one place the law isn't supposed to touch. Right. Here.”

  “But what does it mean? What do you think all those men were doing with my aunt?”

  “I'm guessing not canoodling. She was probably a waystation. Someone who held or moved drugs from one party to another. Did she have a real job?”

  “She got fired.” The truth had a nasty way of showing itself suddenly, awfully—becoming a fact one couldn't ignore. Of course, Bridie realized. Of course Aunt Caroline had been involved in Waco's drug scene. Why else would there have been so many dealers? Why else would there have been so many evenings unaccounted for?

  “And your Mr. Reginald. Perhaps he was some kind of inroad into a big hunk of the black market.” Athena looked like a cartoon character with her brow furrowed. She studied the papers for a long few moments, before walking back to sit on an upturned bucket.

  “So what does this mean...do you think...for me? Now?”

  Athena sighed. “I think it means, don't trust anyone. They—whoever they are—have got some reason for holding you here. All I can think is you're a suspect. Or you really saw something you shouldn't have seen.”

  With the timing of a bomb, both women heard the flop of the morning paper against the garage wall. Athena stood slowly and then made for the noise. Bridie felt the very walls of the space constrict around her—like that scene in Star Wars, which she'd watched with her aunt on their grubby couch in their grubby trailer...

  “Bingo,” Athena whispered. She slid the paper's front page toward Bridie so the cover story faced up. A picture of the chalk outline from last night's murder was the center photo. The headline read: OFF-DUTY POLICE OFFICER SHOT AND KILLED IN BAR BRAWL.

  Bridie looked at the broken engine on the ground. It seemed an apt metaphor for this epic mess.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do now?” the girl managed. Athena cut her eyes.

  “Get. Tough,” she said. “And we'll go from there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Up at the big house, Zuzu answered the door. She wore a thin silk robe and nickel-sized pearl earrings, the picture of some New Orleans Madame circa 1890. Tuck only interacted with the woman on special occasions, as she rarely seemed to be upright. As the chief's best loved consort, Z was often in or on her way to his bed.

  “I'll get him, sugar,” she drawled on the threshold. “You pop a squat in the parlor, now.”

  Tuck ventured into the “parlor” (AKA, the room where all plastic-covered furniture came to die) and paced in front of the non-working fireplace. He ought to show strength, he figured. So he wouldn't sit. He'd look the Chief in the eye and explain: “I wanted the girl, I took my reward. It was like you said.”

  He heard God coming down the stairs before he saw him. As usual, the man looked surprisingly frail and powerless without his band of followers in the clearing. He looked like someone's grandpa, in fact. Cigar clenched in his teeth, dirty flannel shirt falling out of the folds in his belted jeans.

  “Lieutenant. Thanks for making the time. Pop a squat, won'tcha?”

  “I'm fine up here, sir.”

  “I'd really prefer it.”

  Tuck popped a squat.

  �
�Great. I just wanted to check in. How are things with the men?”

  “Still restless, as usual. They want a mission of some kind.”

  “I heard they saw a little action last night. People are talking about a bar brawl at Dixie's.”

  “I didn't see a brawl, sir. There was a stiff in the parking lot, but I think a sharp-shooter got him first.”

  “Huh,” said the chief, easing into his own grimy armchair. “Funny how rumors get started.” He smirked then, and chewed for a moment on the unlit end of his cigar.

  “Look, now. I'm not dumb; I've heard the rumors, too. And I called you here today because I wanted your opinion. The boys respect you, don't they?”

  “Some of them, sir,” Tuck laughed, briefly imagining Spivey “respecting” anyone. “Let's just say, I can make them respect me. When absolutely necessary.”

  “Hmm. That sounds like a morale problem to me. That's one thing I've learned at the top, Lieutenant. A Rider is nothing without his club. A man is nothing without his brothers. If we don't believe in that, what do we have? You follow?”

  Zuzu, who had been lurking in the shadows by the portico, now came over to the Chief as if on cue. She rubbed his spotty old head with her long fingers, bending low so her heavy breasts grazed him.

  “I know how I like to boost morale,” the Chief said, gazing up at his concubine. “I never underestimate a good woman. One night can change a man. I believe that, too. Don't you?”

  It might have been a trick of the light, but Tuck imagined that he saw God's eyes flicker toward the open window. Had he been the one in the lamplight this morning? Had he seen Bridie, naked and prone on the back of his bike?

  “And it comes down to a matter of convenient timing. We've got this beautiful little piece of ass who needs a good breaking and all these men with nothing to do. So I got to thinking—why not start a little friendly competition?”