When Clubs Collide

by Jacqueline Sinclair

  It’s about now Miss Catherine pipes up. “Pearllene, you be wearin’ your seat belt?” Without waiting for an answer, she leans across and tugs down hard on the steering wheel and rams her bony elbow into the side of her thug’s head, catching his ear hard, taking the bastard clean by surprise. No doubt trying to distract him so she could snatch the gun he would have up front.

  She’s come to the same conclusion I just did. Sounds like we aren’t meant to be getting outta this alive, no matter what. Loose lips sink ships and all. Oprah say on her TV show, never let yourself be taken to a second location, you gotta fight.

  The car swerves hard and I try to grapple for the gun my thug had on me, punching my palm up into the stupid fucker’s nose. Something I learn from Roxy, but he is too quick for me, anticipating my move and only getting a slight clipping from me.

  “You stupid old bitch.” He shouts at me as the car rights itself. All I get for my trouble is a brutally hard gun-whipping to my face, making me cry out in pain and see stars. My head slams up against my window, forcing me to drop my handbag, the contents spewing onto the floor.

  “Miss Catherine… you alright?” I mumble as I try to not black out, not let the tears escape. I’m a tough old broad, tears will do me no good.

  She isn’t responding.

  “’Fraid the old lady isn’t able to talk—at the moment.” Thug One is sounding very pleased with himself. Whatever he did to her in the commotion she’s slumped over and not moving.

  I steady my nerves. I didn’t hear the muted sound of a bullet leaving the barrel. What the fuck has he done to her?

  “What the fuck did you do? She’s eighty-five years old, you coward,” I scream at him which only gets me another whooping across the back of my head. This one not as hard. They’re smart enough to know they need one of us conscious.

  “Give me the number for the asshole who is gonna be paying up for the two of you bitches. It’s time we had a little chat.”

  I gladly hand him over the number from memory because my every move is tracked. I don’t reveal that information to them and I don’t want him snatching my phone.

  Getting Mortician involved is a stupid move on their part. I don’t have a doubt in my mind that my grandson-in-law will take care of these two. Creighton, too, if he’s involved. The big question is the condition Miss Catherine and me will be in by the time he arrives.

  Mortician

  Proof of Life

  As I hit the main walkway, my phone beeps. I yank it from where it is clipped at my waist and frown at the ‘Unknown ID’ above the text message.

  My gaze flickers to the message and I stop in my tracks as the words register.

  Do you want to see Pearllene alive again?

  What the fuck is this shit?

  Pearllene isn’t known for pranks of this nature, but there’s a first time for everything. Erring on the side of caution, I respond.

  Call me now, motherfucker.

  A second later, my phone rings, showing the same Unknown ID. “What the fuck do you mean do I want to see Pearllene alive again?” I shout into my phone.

  “Who is this?” the motherfucker answers.

  “This Mortician, son,” I growl. “What the fuck you want?”

  A little throat clearing commences before he gets down to business. “I have Pearllene and her friend, Miss Catherine.”

  “What the fuck you mean you have Pearllene?” And who the fuck is Miss Catherine? With my grandma-in-law, it could be anyone.

  “You hear me, Mortician? I have the two ancient crones and if you want to see them alive again, you’ll do as you’re ordered.”

  “Put Pearllene on the phone, motherfucker.”

  “No.”

  “You ever heard of proof of life?”

  He gives a dramatic sigh. “Talk,” he orders.

  “Mortician?” Pearllene says hoarsely, as if she’s been crying.

  Motherfucker who has her is deader than dead. He’s so fucking dead I intend to do myself what the wood chipper usually assists us with.

  “What the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into?”

  “I wanted Duke to talk to Roxanne, so I went to knock some damn sense into him. These two fuckers were there and followed me to my lunch date. They took us.”

  “That’s enough,” Dead man walking commands. “Now, do you believe me?”

  I sure the fuck do. “If you hurt Pearllene and her friend, I’ll fucking gut you while you’re still breathing.”

  The motherfucker snorts. Snorts. “I’m shaking in fear.”

  He doesn’t deserve a response. Some fuckheads need to be shown.

  “She was showing off a very nice ring. Says you sent it to her. She’s a quick way to line my pockets.”

  Pearllene really should’ve toned it down about what I’ve sent her. It’s just a few days until Christmas. I don’t need this fucking complication. Bailey has been through enough worrying about Roxanne. Fuuuucccckkkk. Roxanne! If she hears her mama has been kidnapped, she’ll want to rescue her herself and seek her own revenge.

  “Wait for my call for further instructions,” the grave mite sneers. “I’m warning you if you don’t follow my instructions to the letter to wire me the funds, these bitches are dead.”

  He disconnects before I respond, not leaving me any details. Crazy motherfucker. I stand still to control my rage. Fucker think he has the upper hand by making me wait.

  Thinking of Bailey and Roxy dissolves my anger. The apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree with my woman, her mama, and her grandma. They are a handful. All three generations. All hell will break loose if they discover Pearllene’s been kidnapped. I make a quick decision to clue them in after my mission is completed.

  I need to talk to Outlaw and give him a rundown, before hitting the road. I won’t be waiting around for some fucker to give me further instructions. My grandma-in-law and her friend need me and I’m just the man to save them.

  Edge

  What Are The Odds?

  Aunt Maude!

  “Fuck!” I growl out. How the hell can Miss C get herself into trouble at a lunch with another old lady? What are the fucking odds?

  “Lennyyy!” I holler loud enough to bring him flying around the corner of the house at an awkward power walk.

  “Yes?” A confused look on his face when he sees I’m wearing a biker cut.

  The poor guy is puffing so hard I think he’s gonna drop to the dirt on me.

  “Miss Catherine is in trouble.”

  “What you mean she’s in trouble. How?” He’s got worry written all over his face for Miss C.

  “I don’t fucking know yet. She said ‘Aunt Maude’ and that means she’s in trouble,” I grumble at him, like he should already know what ‘Aunt Maude’ means.

  “Edge—”

  “Not the time now, Lenny. I need to find out what’s going on and to do that I need to get movin’. If she had time to explain the circumstances for her ‘Aunt Maude’ code word for Edge-I’m-in-mortal-danger-from-some-fucker-and-I-need-help, then I could answer the Q’s buzzing about in your head.” I’m trying not to ball him out, but shit just got complicated. “You got a cell phone?”

  “No.”

  Of course not. Some old folk need to get with this century.

  “Fuck.” I mumble. “I’m gonna track her with my GPS and you’re gonna stay by her telephone and wait for my call. I don’t want you moving from this house. You got me?” I’m staring him down and he doesn’t even blink. “You go get me that gun of yours and those bullets right now and a pen and paper.” He heads off back around the corner as fast as those legs will take him.

  I left No Mercy, my little black bag back in Alaska, because I didn’t think I was gonna need my bag of torture items and a weapon to come get Miss Catherine.

  How fucking wrong was I?

  I set my phone up to track her while I wait for Lenny to come back. This new phone has all the bells and whistles.

  I have the blue dot in sight mo
ving North away from the Marigny District just as Lenny comes huffing and puffing back around the corner to me, waving the gun and paper in one hand in the air, the other items in his other hand.

  I snatch the pen and paper from him and write down my number and thrust it at him. I’m not sure of this new threat. Does it have to do with Whisper?

  “Call me on that number if you have any trouble while I’m away.” Fuck, now I’m babysitting Lenny as well. Then I snatch the gun off him which Lenny has reloaded for me and shove it into my saddlebag.

  I start the Harley up, careful of using my fucked-up foot. “If Boxer calls Miss Catherine’s phone with any news on Whisper, you call me straight away and leave a voicemail if I’m busy and unable to take the call.” I know I’m being a rude son of a bitch to Lenny, but I’m now a pissed off man worried about Miss Catherine’s life and her friend’s. She’s come to mean a lot to me and nobody fucks with her.

  He nods as I put my helmet on. I take one last look at Lenny and drive off down Miss Catherine’s dirt driveway.

  I’ve got an hour’s drive ahead of me just to get to New Orleans. I must somehow drive and keep checking my phone for her whereabouts. Whatever the reason she pulled an Aunt Maude on me, she’s still got her phone alive and kicking. I can’t afford texting her in case the phone is taken away from her if some fucker has swiped her. Whatever, whoever the threat is, can’t be that smart if they’ve allowed her to keep it. What am I walking into?

  I hope this has nothing to do with Whisper or William Dupré, because that would be bad. So fucking bad. Whisper needs Miss C and I can’t have anything happen to her.

  Bottom line. Whoever has made Miss Catherine pull an Aunt Maude is sure gonna live to regret it.

  In fact, they may not live.

  I open the throttle right up when I get to the end of her driveway. I need to make some time up.

  Fucker better not have laid a finger on her.

  Fucker, I’m coming for you.

  Mortician

  Family Is Family

  A cold breeze blows off Lake Pontchartrain as the waves hit the breakers and night is approaching fast. I’m parked on the West End, near the yacht harbor. As I wait for Stretch, the Death Dwellers’ resident surveillance/computer whiz, to give me Pearllene’s coordinates, I light up a cigarette and wonder if Bailey might like a yacht. We could name it Kitchen Patrol, her dad and my old friend’s road name.

  All of us could go on vacation…Red comes to mind and I immediately nix the vacation idea. She’d goad Prez into throwing her overboard, then Johnnie would want revenge and a mutiny would follow suit.

  Maybe not a yacht but a private plane would come in handy. Knowing the guys of Phoenix Rising helped me a fuck ton. Riding to New Orleans would’ve taken precious hours. Luckily, Sloane Mason, lead singer of the rock band, Phoenix Rising, and his wife, Georgie, are in town, visiting her brother, Cash, who happens to be our explosives expert, and his family. Sloane has helped us out more than once. With Cash as his brother-in-law and his own father a murderer, he looks the other way every time he allows us use of his private jet.

  Within an hour, I was in the air. We don’t have many contacts in New Orleans; however, we found one who hooked me up with a ride. It isn’t my Harley but it’ll do.

  I finish off my smoke, then toss it. Fuckers are playing with me, taking their time getting back to me with further instructions. Haven’t heard a peep out of them. What the fuck is taking Stretch so fucking long? I don’t have fucking time to waste. Pearllene and her friend have to be found as soon as possible, so I can fuck up whoever the fuck took her, and get my ass back to Hortensia. Bailey thinks I’m on a job for Prez. I am on a fucking job. Just not the one she thinks.

  Impatient, I start to pace. I’ve only met Pearllene a handful of times. Not that it matters. She’s still family. I lost my mother when I was young. She was killed in a car accident after walking in on my cheating ass, fucked-up, perverted father. I never got to tell her goodbye. My brother and I developed an unbreakable bond during the years we were cursed to stay with our father, Sharper Banks, the wealthy reverend of a megachurch who didn’t have a parental bone in his body.

  Fuck, the motherfucker didn’t have a humane bone in his body. He mistreated his own sons, stole my first love, and ran a sex ring out of his church. He’d scoop up prostitutes and runaways, girls he considered expendable, to either sell them or kill them.

  As it turned out, he was the expendable motherfucker.

  May you rest in fucking hell with Satan’s dick up your ass.

  Finally, a text message arrives from Stretch.

  Situation was fluid until now. Appears to no longer be moving. Phone’s at a house on Gordon Street. Google Earth shows nothing but overgrown grass and decrepit structures.

  I scrub a hand over my face. An abandoned place is perfect to leave pieces of motherfuckers to rot.

  My phone pings again. Stretch has sent the address to me. I plug in the address on my phone and read the directions.

  I hate that two old ladies are in danger, but, I’m happy as fuck my dry spell is about to end.

  Pearllene

  Jumping From The Frying Pan and Into The Fire

  My head pounds as I wobble behind Thug One who is carrying Miss Catherine’s limp body, while Thug Two marches behind me with his gun pressed in my back. I’m so worried for her, because she’s been taking a long nap.

  It’s dusk and the temperature is falling. Already, I can feel the coldness in my bones. We drove around for a few hours, like they were waiting for it to get darker, until we ended up in the Lower Nine, on a street where there isn’t much sign of life. A little ways down, I notice a neat yard fronting a pretty blue house that sits up high.

  If somebody looked through a window from the place they’d see us walking into this decrepit, crumbling snake pit, surrounded by high grass and dense foliage. I take my time walking up the crumbling stone steps and cracked porch.

  Thug One, the stockier guy, uses his ass to push in the rotted wood door and walks into the darkened interior. Even before I cross the sill, the rank odor hits me, piss, mildew and garbage. Something clicks and suddenly a dim light shines, surprising me. As I glance around, I see filth everywhere. It seems as if somebody had started to gut the house, then decided against it, leaving some of the beams exposed. Mildew dots the walls that are left.

  It’s a crying shame that after all these years houses destroyed by Hurricane Katrina still haven’t been repaired. At one time, there were so many, city officials and law enforcement looked the other way. Recently, they’ve been trying to crack down and find the owners. It’s just sad. I’ve tried my best to steer clear of the areas with abandoned houses. I don’t do well with cockroaches, rats, snakes, and criminals, and these places are a haven for all of the above.

  “You’re going too fucking slow,” Thug Two hisses at me.

  Still woozy from the licks he gave to me, I don’t get my bearings fast enough. He shoves me and I go sprawling, landing hard on my hands and knees. My cane falls beside me. I try to hold in a moan, because I don’t want to give these fuckers the satisfaction, yet the sound slips from my mouth.

  A pair of shiny shoes appear in my line of vision right before Thug Two crouches in front of me, grinning at my pain. He’s removed his dark sunglasses.

  “I know Voodoo, motherfucker.” I snarl that lie, drawing in deep breaths to make the nausea, dizziness and pain go away. Miss Catherine don’t need me to be fainting or giving in to my aches. “I’m going to put a spell on you that shrivels your dick.”

  That wipes the smile from his face. The fool obviously believes in Black Magic.

  “She’s lying,” Thug One calls from another room. “Voodoo ain’t real, so don’t let her get to you, Otis.”

  “Don’t call my name, fool. We don’t want her ID’ing us.”

  Thug One appears minus his dark sunglasses in the doorway, without Miss Catherine. He could be handsome if he didn’t have that evil k
idnapper vibe about him. “She already knows who we are. She saw us at Creighton’s. Get a good sketch artist and they’d have our faces plastered all over, even without a fucking name.”

  Lord, have mercy. I know exactly where this is leading. If I can ID them, then I can send them to jail. I’d prefer to send them to hell, but I keep that to myself.

  “She can turn us in,” Thug One finishes.

  “No, I can’t,” I blurt, then squint. “I can’t see shit. I thought you knew how bad my sight is.”

  “Lady, shut up,” he orders. “See? I told you, Otis. If she knew Voodoo, she would’ve used it for her eyesight.”

  “My Voodoo is reserved for assholes and motherfuckers who kidnap little old ladies,” I mutter.

  They think my words are funny because they laugh.

  The pain in my knees is subsiding, so I can think more clearly. It helps that the nausea is subsiding too, even if I am still a little dizzy.

  “Where’s Miss Catherine?” I demand and realize the undignified position I’m in.

  Thug Two, Otis, leans his ugly mug into my face. “You don’t ask us questions. We ask you. Now, get the fuck up before I lose my patience with you and shoot the fuck out of you.”

  “Right now, I’m worth more alive than dead. You might be a brain-dead jackass but even you got to realize Mortician is going to want proof that I’m still living before he sends you money.”

  A mean look drops into his face. “You might be valuable but that other old bitch? She means nothing to us. If you don’t behave, it’s lights out for her. Last time, we only knocked her out. Next time…” His voice trails, allowing me to fill in the blanks that I’d prefer be kept empty.

  I release the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding upon hearing that Miss Catherine is indeed still alive.

  “You damn fools still not contacted Mortician again to give him the details. What kinda kidnapping bastards are you? Not very clever ones if you ask me,” I huff out, adding an eye roll in to show how little respect I have for how they are operating.