Midnight Obsession: A Midnight Riders Motorcycle Club Romance Part 4

by Olivia Thorne

  Everything started to click into place. That kung-fu shit she pulled on the ass-grabber at the Veils last night… angling for a job in my club… shacking up with Jack within days of getting into town…

  If she wasn’t on the PI website, it was possibly because this Abrams guy didn’t want people to know she existed.

  Fuck.

  This girl was trouble. She was smart. Good in a fight. She had PI training and a game plan, which she’d executed perfectly up until now. And she was determined to find her cousin’s killer.

  She didn’t just have a dog in the fight, she had a goddamn Rottweiler.

  What the hell do I do?

  Options popped up lightning-quick, and I shot them down just as fast.

  Kill her?

  No. She’d probably told people where she was going and what she was doing. A drug addict getting shot in an alleyway is one thing, but a PI – and a relative – going to investigate and getting murdered? Beyond coincidence. Not even Peters could protect me if that shit got to the Feds.

  Make her ‘disappear’?

  No. Same problem. Plus, the media do love themselves a pretty little white girl who mysteriously goes missing. The story practically wrote itself: Los Angeles Woman Disappears While Investigating Cousin’s Death. Couldn’t take that chance.

  Let her know that I know, and threaten her?

  It would take her out of action temporarily, yeah, but it would just let her know she was on to something. And she’d know I was in on the murder. I didn’t see her giving up just because she couldn’t work undercover anymore.

  Expose her to Jack?

  Same thing. It would solve the immediate problem, but it wouldn’t necessarily break her. And it might raise some nasty questions with Jack.

  Jack.

  That stupid motherfucker, bringing a mole into the middle of my operation. The shithead didn’t even know what he’d done. Goddamn ignorant cocksucker was unfit to be the president of –

  And just like that, the solution came into my head, wrapped up with a bow on Christmas morning, pretty as you please.

  I just about jumped up from my chair.

  Peters stared at me in alarm. “Lou? You okay?”

  I must’ve looked like I was off in another world. In fact, I was. My mind was already assembling a checklist for everything that had to be done.

  “Hm? Oh – yeah, I’m good, Dan.”

  I started for the door.

  “What about this PI bitch?” Peters asked.

  “Don’t do a thing. And don’t tell a soul about her.”

  Peters got that familiar look on his face – a cross between a stricken conscience and lip-licking greed. “You, uh… you got plans for her?”

  “Yeah, but nothing illegal.” I thought of Jack, and chuckled. “Haven’t you heard? The Midnight Riders are legit now. We work inside the law.”

  Motherfucker. Jack wanted to live by those words, he could die by them, too.

  29

  First thing I did after I left Dan’s office, I made a phone call. It was a tough negotiation, but I got what I wanted: a delivery in exactly two hours.

  But first I had to go get the payment for that delivery.

  Out in the desert was an old ranch I’d picked up for pennies on the dollar. A county tax sale that Dan clued me into. Place was a ramshackle mess, but it had a barn and a house and it was isolated as fuck. Perfect for what I had planned.

  Ever see that show Breaking Bad? About that high school chemistry teacher who starts cooking meth and goes from Joe Schmuck to Scarface? One of my regular pieces of ass started raving about it and would not shut the fuck up, so I sat down and watched the first episode with her on Netflix after I banged her one night.

  I ended up watching the whole series in one week.

  Not because I liked it. I mean, it was good about half the time, except when it got slow as FUCK. But that wasn’t the reason I watched it.

  Other people saw a television show; I saw a business plan.

  Back in the day when the Riders were running meth, I’d relied on a bunch of dipshit idiots to cook for me. Guys with no front teeth, fuckheads with sixth-grade educations. Meth cookers routinely blew themselves up, so it wasn’t exactly the job your valedictorians were drawn to.

  I’d heard the Mexican cartels had slick operations with chemists and shit, but I’d heard Arab sheiks had harems with a thousand hot bitches in them, too. Sounds great, but it’s too far away and not something I’m ever likely to see in my lifetime. Plus I got my own meth operation and my own little harem at the Seven Veils, so what the fuck do I care?

  And then I saw Breaking Bad and realized it was time to step my game up.

  This all happened a couple of years into President Jack’s Reign of Boredom And No Fuckin’ Money.

  Why not have some fun and make a shit-ton of cash at the same time? But do it quiet, and do it smart.

  I found a local kid with a masters in chemistry, a mountain of student loans, and a father who owed thirty grand to loan sharks.

  The kid was stressed out. Imagine you’re a squeaky-clean college boy, your dad is about to get both arms and legs broken, and suddenly a biker comes knocking at your door.

  Little did he know, I was his guardian angel. I stepped in and made peace. Paid off the loan sharks and got his father banned from any more gambling, at least in Richards.

  For a price.

  The kid was ‘morally flexible,’ shall we say, which worked out to both our advantages.

  You ever seen that show Breaking Bad? I’d asked him over a drink in a bar.

  He had.

  Can you do that shit he does? Cook meth the way he does, and not blow yourself up?

  He said he could figure it out, if he had the right supplies.

  Music to my ears. I’d clapped him on the shoulder and said, Then you’re gonna be my own private Heisenberg.

  I called him Einstein, though. Heisenberg was just too many fuckin’ syllables.

  30

  I turned off the highway and rode down a dirt road half a mile through scrub brush and sand. As I got closer, the kid came out of the barn, which was a couple hundred feet away from the main house.

  Einstein was the all-American boy next door with a touch of nerd – clean-shaven, short blond hair, rimless glasses. Well, underneath the gas mask and Hazmat suit he was wearing, anyway.

  “Lou,” he greeted me, pulling off the mask.

  “What the fuck?” I barked as soon as I cut the engine. “You just walk out of the barn anytime you hear a bike ride up?”

  He looked flustered. “N-no – I put up surveillance cameras on the road. I saw you on my computer when you turned off the highway.”

  “Huh,” I said, truly impressed. “Wish half my crew was that fuckin’ smart.”

  He smiled in relief. He was a pussy, for sure – but he was a smart fuckin’ pussy, and he was going to make me millions over the next six months. Tens of millions over the next few years.

  I’d funded the whole shebang by mortgaging my house for a couple hundred grand. We’d been hoarding all the meth he’d cooked until Rodrigo made his move, at which point I was going to unload what we had so far for a couple million. After that, it was gonna be nothin’ but expansion, expansion, expansion. I was gonna be the Starbucks of meth. Fuck, maybe even Walmart.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Really well. I fixed the titration problems I was having, and I upped the purity another two percent – ”

  “It was more of a general ‘how’s it going.’ I don’t need to know about every little fuckin’ thing.”

  “Oh. Then… it’s going well. Do you… need anything?”

  “Yeah. I need a pound to take with me.”

  Einstein looked panicked for a second. “Are we doing the delivery? I thought – ”

  “Relax. I just need it for a side deal I’m doing, but I need it now.”

  “Okay.” He turned back towards the barn –

  “W
hat’s the street value on a pound?” I asked.

  “Well, if you sold it in bulk, it’d probably go for seven or eight thousand in LA or San Francisco. But if you divided it up into 8-balls it’d be…” His eyes looked up as he did a quick calculation. “…about twenty grand.”

  “Jesus. Give me half a pound, then. Motherfucker doesn’t deserve that much generosity.”

  Einstein disappeared into the barn. Two minutes later he came out with a half-gallon zip-loc freezer bag with some of the prettiest, clearest looking crystals you’ve ever seen, all tied up with a rubber band around the middle.

  “I weighed it, it’s accurate down to the half-gram,” he said.

  “Good. Give it here. You gonna have the rest of the shipment ready by next week?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good man. Just don’t get high on your own supply.”

  “No way. Anybody who touches crystal meth is an idiot. I mean, mine is top quality, but it’s a witch’s brew of…” He trailed off again and got that semi-panicked look he normally wore around me. “…uh… I mean, no judgment if you use it, Lou…”

  I laughed. “I agree with you, kid. But idiots pay well, so don’t go telling them the truth. Adios, compadre.”

  Then I fired up my hog and headed back towards the highway.

  31

  An hour after I left Einstein, I was waiting in the desert for the grim reaper.

  Actually, that ain’t exactly right. Santa Muerte is some sort of Catholic saint down in Mexico. Unofficially, of course. I don’t see the Pope okaying a patron saint for junkies, whores, and hitmen. But that’s what Santa Muerte is – a grinning skeleton in robes with flowers around her head. Looks like the fuckin’ Virgin Mary if you dropped her in an acid bath.

  It’s a good mascot for a biker gang. Especially one that deals in death, drugs, and the Mexican cartels.

  I ain’t scared of shit – but I’m, shall we say, cautious with the Santa Muertes.

  I was standing there next to my Harley when I saw the plume of dust kick up from the highway. I pulled the zip-loc baggie out of my saddlebag and put it on the seat. Then I pulled out my revolver, checked to make sure it was good to go, and tucked it in the back of my pants. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, but you never know with the Santa Muertes.

  The bike came down the dirt road and stopped about 20 feet from me, and the rider got off.

  Rodrigo Alvarez. Sergeant-at-Arms of the Santa Muertes, and my future business partner. Scary-lookin’ motherfucker… to the average dumbass. The prison teardrop tats on his cheek just looked try-hard to me. Every time I saw ‘em, I wanted to say, You know, those tears used to mean you were somebody’s bitch in prison – and you got THREE of ‘em. Exactly how big did they stretch out your asshole?

  But I didn’t think that would be diplomatic.

  That’s me: diplomatic.

  Rodrigo head-bobbed at me, but didn’t say anything.

  “Rodrigo,” I said. “Thanks for comin’ out.”

  “Where’s my shit?” he snapped.

  Bitch. Show some respect.

  I wanted so bad to bring up the teardrops tats.

  But I’m diplomatic, so instead I just smiled. “Right to the point. That’s what I like about you, Rodrigo – get the panties off and stick it right in.”

  I grabbed the zip-loc bag and tossed it through the air.

  He caught it one-handed, looked at the contents, and cocked an eyebrow at me. “All this for two jackets?”

  “I know you’re taking a risk. Just wanted you to know I appreciate it.”

  “There gonna be any blowback on this?”

  “No. I’ll keep it contained at the source.”

  “Yo, listen, gringo – Hector can’t know about this shit, you hear?”

  He meant Hector Reyes, president of the Santa Muertes. Hector wasn’t exactly aware of Rodrigo’s and my deal.

  “You got my word,” I promised. “Nothing’ll get out except maybe some rumors – and Hector’s not gonna do shit about rumors.”

  Rodrigo gave me some more side-eye, then threw me a canvas gym bag. I caught it and looked inside. As promised, two leather jackets with the Santa Muerte logo on the back.

  “What’re you doin’ with those, ese?” Rodrigo asked.

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “Yo, man – if this shit comes back on me – ”

  “That’s what the extra ice was for: no questions asked.”

  He opened his mouth again, and I could tell he was going to keep being a little bitch about it, so I added, “But I can promise you this: it’s going to be very bad for Jack Pollari.”

  Rodrigo’s eyes flashed fire, as I knew they would.

  Back in the day – the good old days, when he still had a pair – Jack had done a stint in Chino for goddamn near bashing Rodrigo’s head in during a street fight. Made Rodrigo look like a bitch in front of his boys, and caused a lot of further aggravation between the Riders and the Santa Muertes. The fighting lasted for years, until we brokered a truce where the Santa Muertes got a shit-ton of our territory for their drug deals. All that bad blood had been getting in the way of business.

  Apparently they’d had to put a metal plate in there to keep Rodrigo’s skull together. Needless to say, he disliked Jack even more than I did.

  He spat on the ground and rattled off a bunch of vicious-sounding Spanish, followed by, “You tell that puto that I’m gonna fuckin’ cut off his dick and shove it down his throat someday.”

  I smiled. “Don’t forget the huevos.”

  Rodrigo rattled off something about chinga-ing somebody’s madre, then fired up his hog and rode off.

  I just stood there and looked in the canvas bag again at the first piece of the puzzle.

  32

  The second piece of the puzzle clicked into place in a dive bar an hour east of Richards.

  I was sitting in a booth when the two guys walked in. They surveyed the shadows of the bar, letting their eyes adjust, until they finally spotted me and ambled on over.

  They’d never seen me before in their life, but it wasn’t exactly genius-level deduction on their part. The place was empty except for me and the bartender.

  The shorter one resembled a weasel, with beady eyes and scruffy facial hair that looked more like pubes than a beard. The taller guy was acne-scarred with a receding hairline. They were both tatted up and wearing dirty jeans and rock ‘n roll t-shirts.

  They’d come with middling recommendations from Gene, a pal of mine in LA.

  Not too smart, but they can follow directions. And just dumb enough to do whatever the fuck you want without asking too many questions.

  Exactly what I needed.

  And they’re Mexican? I’d asked.

  Well, strictly speaking, they’re from Bakersfield.

  Fuck you, you politically correct cocksucker.

  Gene laughed. I guess. One of ‘em’s Puerto Rican or some shit, I think.

  Close enough. You, uh… ‘attached’ to these guys?

  Nope. You lookin’ for disposable meat, Lou?

  You’ll understand if I don’t answer that question. Anybody important going to be missing ‘em if they don’t come home?

  Nope.

  Alright, then.

  I’d promised my buddy two grand for the info, and here we all were.

  “You John?” the Weasel asked.

  I’d told my buddy to give them a fake name… just in case.

  “Yup,” I said. “Gene sent you, right?”

  “Yeah,” the Weasel said as he scooted into the booth across from me, followed by Baldy. “Name’s Emilio. This here’s Jesus.”

  He pronounced it Hay-SOOS.

  Jesus was sitting here with me in a dive bar. Fuckin’ outstanding.

  Weasel kept prattling on nervously. “Hey, uh… big fans here. You guys are fuckin’ badass.”

  By ‘you guys’ he meant the club. The Midnight Riders were fairly legendary in this part of Southern California, especia
lly to a certain class of scumbag.

  I gave him the faintest hint of a smile. “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, big honor to be workin’ with the Riders.”

  I wouldn’t call this WORKING with the Riders, but… whatever.

  “Glad to hear it,” I said.

  Weasel scratched his pubey chin scruff. “So, uh… Gene said this was five g’s apiece.”

  I nodded. “Yeah – but after you deliver.”

  Emilio got a pissy look on his face. “I dunno, man. I think there ought to be an advance. A grand, at least.”

  “No offense, but I don’t want you two going off on an early celebration binge and not showing up to do the fuckin’ job.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen. I’m a fuckin’ professional,” Emilio said, stabbing his thumb in his chest.

  Right.

  I’ll bet Jesus here’s even more of a professional, when he’s not jacking off to Disney cartoons.

  I leaned forward. “Well, I’m a businessman, and I say no advance.”

  “What the fuck kind of a guarantee does that give us?” Emilio asked angrily. “Maybe we do it and you don’t pay. What then? We can’t exactly go to the cops and say, ‘Hey, this dude hired us to do some illegal shit, and we did it, but then he fuckin’ ripped us off.’”

  “I’m a Midnight Rider,” I said coldly. “You think I’m not good for it? You think I won’t keep my word?”

  The color drained from his face. “No – no, I just – ”

  “When I say I’ll pay you when the job is done, I’ll pay you. But until then, no… fucking… advance.”

  Emilio sighed in disgust, but gave in. “What’s the job?”

  “I need you to pretend to rob a strip club.”

  His eyes narrowed as he tried to figure it out. “Uhhh… pretend to rob a strip club?”

  His buddy just stared at me with vacant eyes. Weasel might be dumb, but apparently Jesus was stupid as a motherfucker.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Why ‘pretend’?”

  “Because it’s cover. What I actually need is for you to take care of somebody for me. Did Gene mention that?”