by Tim Marquitz
In this city of ashes, the only things still standing are the skeletons of buildings, looming high and creaking in the wind. It’s impossible to see the tops, and it’s difficult to see what you’re stepping on.
What remains of your shoes barely stay on your feet, flopping with each step. Readjust them again. There’s no telling what lies beneath the soot and rubble.
Feet stained black with ash. Legs blasted gray from the wind. Hands smudged so gray it will never come off. Everyone is the same color now.
Mr. Clean
Glenn Hefley
Glenn Hefley lives in Washington State where he works as a full time ghost writer for several novel series. Very recently he has begun working on his own projects, and is expected to publish in late 2015
Ben Brothers, Mr. Clean to his MC, parked his FLH at the Blue Saloon. He cut the engine and looked around. The eighty-odd mile ride out to Poulsbo from Bellevue felt good. His legs were a little stiff. That was age. Fifty-two this August. He walked the parking lot and pulled out his cell.
“Hey, Jake,” he said when the connection was made. “I’m up here. How’s Star?”
“Barely aware you are MIA,” Jake answered. “She’s thirteen, Ben. There are boys to conquer and make weep on Facebook, several world issues to be outraged at on Twitter, and homework due in the morning.”
“Ah.” Ben nodded. “Did Michelle stop by?”
“Were you expecting her to?”
Ben mulled that. “We didn’t have plans, just thought she might.”
Jake was quiet for a long beat, then he said, “If you want people to stop by and be sociable you might consider loosening up on the ‘I’m a very private guy’ speech, perhaps cutting the part about the high-voltage wire, the mad dogs, and firing squads. The landmine bit needs some work as well.”
“I was talking about Michelle. We’ve been seeing each other for three months now. She’s even been known to spend the night.” Ben growled. “I’m sure she’s aware that she can stop by anytime.”
“Are you?” Jake said. “You tell her that?”
Ben scratched his cheek. “Is that required?”
Jake was quiet again.
“I hate when you do that,” Ben said.
Jake coughed, then said, “You remember that first night Star brought her home? Had pizza, a bit of fun with the club, and Rand. Afterward we watched a movie, then you walked her out to her truck and said all those pretty things under the moon light? I loved that bit. Romance history.”
Ben kicked at a rock sending it careening out to the street, “Yeah, all right. I was a little forward.”
Jake laughed, “Don’t minimize it, boss. You were awesome. How did it go? Oh, oh yeah, ‘Michelle, I’m a private man, and my schedule is tight, and I’m not fond of surprises. I hate them. I ride with a 1% club, bad things happen. Hard times hit. My daughter wants to set me up with you, obviously. I don’t like the idea. I can’t commit to anything more in my life. But despite all of this I do like you. If you want to go out Saturday we could take it from there.”
Ben pulled the phone from his ear until Jake’s deep laughter quit pouring out of the speaker. It took a while.
“Three months, Jake. I’m sure she sees that I’ve mellowed a little.” Ben sighed.
“She has, she quit wearing Kevlar when she comes over.”
Ben gritted his teeth.
“Look, Ben,” Jake said, all the play gone from his voice. “You got a past, a past that doesn’t fit with your present. But you have never adjusted except for the areas touched by Star. As a father I have the highest respect for you. I’ve watched you dump and walk away from any habit or desire you’ve had that could harm Star. You’ve never shown regret or mercy in that area. But anything else—everything else—you haven’t touched. I think Michelle understands, which is why she’s still around, but if you can’t see she’s walking on eggshells, you need to start looking.”
“That bad? Really?”
“No joke.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Star really likes her.”
“She has good taste in women,” Jake said.
Ben froze, trying to see Jake’s expression through eighty miles of darkness.
“You’re so out of it.” Jake sighed. “No, she’s not gay, but you’re right in thinking I would know before you would.”
Ben felt a rush of embarrassment and a flash of anger-fueled jealousy. It wouldn’t matter if Star was gay or not. Why would it? Just caught him off guard is all. Well, that wasn’t quite true. The truth was something he had been wrestling with for almost two years now—he was running out of road, but the throttle was stuck.
“We don’t talk like we did, or I’m not listening right, or some fucked up thing,” Ben said. “I couldn’t tell you her favorite band, what she liked, what she didn’t, what color she liked. Nothing. So no, gay is no big deal to me Jake. What’s a big deal is me not having a fucking clue if she was or not.”
Jake grunted, “Sorry, Ben. I just meant that she has a good instinct about the role models she picks.”
That rang something true inside Ben, and it resonated across his brain firing of neural networks and shifting perceptions, “That’s…that’s something…”
“Hmm?”
“I’m not, fuck… I’m losing it. Shit.”
“Ben, don’t…”
Ben ran his hand through his hair, shaking it out, “No, no Jake, it’s not a downer thing, it’s an answer. I’m not—damn it What a fucking mess this is. It was right there.”
“Well, get your shit done with the Iron Riders. What do they want anyway?”
“Fuck if I know,” Ben said.
“What?”
“I don’t know. When Greg called, I was fixed to tell him no, then I didn’t. But I didn’t ask either. Sounded urgent, so I said I would come and called you.”
“That’s not like you, boss,” Jake said, his voice sober and searching. “Not even back in the days. You always know why. You make a point of knowing.”
Jake was right.
“Keep your eyes open,” Jake told him. “Remember the last time we were out there.”
“That was a long time ago, and he didn’t call the president or Erika, he called an accountant.”
“Hardline and Erika didn’t clear his bar and set those asshole Sons straight. You did.”
That was true. The Midnight Sons tried to force the Iron Riders to patch-over. Told them there would be blood if they didn’t. The Iron Riders weren’t a 1% MC. They were a group of regular guys. The Sons saw them as fodder for the brewing wars. Meat on bikes. He and Jake set them straight. That was nearly fifteen years ago, but Greg would remember who solved their problem and what kind of problem it was.
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” Ben promised, “but I don’t think it’s more than a deal on the table. Believe it or not—not everything with an MC is nefarious.”
“Ne-What? Never mind that. Are you packing?” Jake said.
“Haven’t packed since Sunny died. Didn’t want guns around Star, right?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Fuck off. I’ll call you in thirty,” Ben said.
“Be waiting.”
“You do that.” Ben growled, and broke the connection.
Looking at his saddle bags Ben tried to recapture the thought, but it was gone. He couldn’t stay angry with Jake though. Without Jake he’d be lost.
Jake was a giant. Eight-feet plus, and bumping at four hundred. He moved carefully through the world, making sure not to hurt people, unless he meant to, but even then he was careful. Rand, Hardline’s kid—twenty-seven then—challenged Jake to a ring match. Used all his karate stuff. Jake gave him a good time. It was all for fun, they thought. Fucking Rand thought Jake was being serious and started boasting on the third round. Ben told him at the corner, “The only reason you’re standing is because Jake doesn’t want to hurt you.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Rand went i
nto the next round for keeps. Ben signaled the giant to put him down. Jake hesitated. Rand called him something. Whatever it was, it cleared the way. Rand woke in the hospital bleeding from nose, ears, and eyes. Jake never did tell Ben what Rand had said. He decided it had something to do with Star. Jake loved Star. He held her the hour she was born, her crib was in his room until she had her own room. He was still the one she ran to when hurt, or when someone called her names.
#
Ben rolled his neck and shrugged, “Hell, why do I need a gun? The IRS doesn’t pack.”
Opening the right side bag he snatched out his laptop and strode to the saloon. “I’ll blind them with a spreadsheet or something.”
Inside the door a large rider, with dark hair and eyes, blocked his way, “You Mr. Clean?”
Ben noticed the Midnight Sons patch on his back before he turned around. Ben smiled. “Greg asked me to come.”
Then Ben saw Greg stand from a stool at the center of the bar. Greg didn’t wave, smile or come any closer. Just stood there, his expression blank. Conversations around the room snuffed out in twos and threes.
Ben returned his attention to the door muscle. “What’s your name?”
“Ain’t no fucking Mr. Clean, that’s for sure, asshole. Derek is in the office. He’s holding court. He’s who you are seeing. Not no fucking Greg.”
Ben ignored the double negative. “All right, lead the way.”
The man grinned, then grabbed for Ben’s laptop. Ben relaxed his hand and let him snatch it, and watched as the motion didn’t pause but flashed faster, sailing the laptop across the room like a Frisbee, to smash into a pinball machine.
“You know,” Ben said, “that’s a Bally ‘Eight-Ball Deluxe’ pinball table. Collector’s item now. Couldn’t get one for less than five grand.”
The man’s eyes turned confused.
“Office?” Ben pressed.
The doorman’s eyes caught fire. “Fuck you.”
Ben nodded but said nothing, changing his expression to mid-range irritation.
The man gruffed. Turning, he pointed at a door, “Office. Knock twice, then enter. Derek is waiting.”
Ben studied the door, and then swept the room, inspecting faces. As he crossed the room he felt dread coming off the patch holders. The bartender ducked behind the bar. There were no women in the place. No waitresses. The level of fear coming off everyone was strong.
Everyone except three.
He let his eyes slip past all three of them without pause. One was in a booth, in back. Another was at a table in the middle of the room, and another was sitting beside Greg at the bar with a full beer, untouched. The beer was warm. No condensation on the glass, and flat. There was something else about the three of them—the doorman too. Something wrong about them.
As he passed Greg, he said, “Sorry, Prez. Seems someone else wants to see me too. I’ll return in a moment.”
Greg’s Adam’s apple gulped like a piston.
Nicaragua, he thought to himself. Down in Nicaragua. The Britt. The Britt was the clearest memory he had of his jungle days.
Same condition, Ben realized.
Adrenaline jacked into his system so hard he thought he might puke from the overdose. He scanned the room again, looking for others. He couldn’t spot any more. The skin down his arm crawled as he rapped twice on the door. Stepping inside he searched for anyone else besides the man behind the desk. Satisfied he turned his attention to Derek.
He’s all wrong, Ben observed, slipping the knob to the locked position as he closed the door behind him. He can’t leave this room. Those others can’t either. Shit. How wrong can I be in one night? Jake is going to be pissed.
Ben judged the man to be near his own height and size. His shoulders and chest were wide, his arms thick. His stillness gave him death’s feel. No one sat that still. Repulsive memories rose out of Ben’s deep history. Zombie experiences, memories fresh from buried graves, still juicy. Ben suppressed his natural urge to get away from this creature. Focusing on counting the steps from the door to the chair, he sat down. Picking out key items in the room, he memorized their position
“Apologies for not arriving sooner, Derek,” he said after his first inventory, pleased that his voice didn’t quaver. “I didn’t realize the task required time sensitive action.”
“So you’re Mr. Clean,” Derek said and sneered. “You’re what I expected. Do you know me?”
“Cain Derek Woltz. Twenty-seven years old. Last year you were a prospect for the Sons. Today you are patched. No family in the area. Mother and Father are deceased. Your sister is in Boston. Boston is your hometown. Several warrants pending.”
Derek’s body stiffened and his eyes cleared. The sneer left his lips.
“It’s not that impressive, Derek,” Ben assured him. “We keep track of new prospects. Every club does. Takes ten minutes on the Internet to find background information. What can I do for you?”
The watchers outside expect some banging around in here, Ben reasoned. Too much noise might break their nerve. Bring them running. The locked door offers only a warning and three seconds.
Derek’s grin slid back in place. “I guess I should learn more about the internet.”
“Your man destroyed my laptop so the opportunity has passed,” Ben replied.
Derek’s mouth opened to say something, but then closed as he worked through the phrasing of Ben’s comment. His eyes flicked around the room, then relaxed. “I need to present you—to the Circle.”
Ben said nothing.
Derek smiled. “Man, you would not believe the shit they laid down on me. They had me worried. They built you up so high, nothing could tame you. Not me, not the club, not even the Circle themselves. So, I checked you out. Made calls. What do I find? An accountant who won’t cheat. Can’t be bribed. Never works the weekend. A homebody. Zero crime record, no wants, no warrants, and not even suspected of J-walking. An honest to fucking Christ Mr. Clean.”
Derek sobered and sat straighter. “I heard about your wife though. You’re a single parent now. That’s beat. My dad got bagged for hard time, leaving my mom to raise us alone. Then he died in prison. Fucking tough shit for her,” he said, his eyes looking back at hard times.
Ben watched him.
Derek rolled the chair back and forth, then came back from the past and pointed his finger to himself then to Ben and back again, “This here, this is a snipe hunt. A fucked up snipe run. A hazing, like I’m still the new kehd.”
Ben continued to study him, the way he moved, which hand he used. The gun hung from a holster on his left side, for a right hand draw, but he used his left hand to point.
The ashtray, the letter opener, the gold pen. Derek has a gun in a side holster and the little plastic chair back beside the door…
“When does the Circle meet?” Ben asked as he was winding down.
“Tomorrow night,” Derek answered, relaxing and settling final answers in his mind.
“Tomorrow is tough. Let me ask you something. Have you heard the term cuāuhocēlōtl?”
Derek’s expression soured, curdling his lips back from his teeth, “What do you know about that?”
“You drank a drug from the mouth of a skull, a skull painted with two pairs of yellow and black stripes across the face. What did they promise? That you would rise a vampire?” Ben asked.
Derek looked surprised, and then concerned.
Ben pressed forward, “I could never pronounce the name of the stuff, but I know what it is and what it does. I ran into it down in Nicaragua, back in the 80s, when Reagan was making this country a Terrorist Nation. We called it Rot because that’s what it did.”
Derek leaned forward, interested. “And, what else did it do?”
Ben looked down at his hands, ran the objects on the desk through his mind again. Looking back up to Derek he said, “It kills you. You’re already dead, Derek. All the future you’re dreaming of is over. Thirty days is normal.”
Derek shifted and
leaned back into the high-back leather chair. “Go on.”
“The Aztec military, the Eagles, had an elite group known as the Jaguars. Inside that group, were the Mictlani—the warriors of Mictlan. Mictlan is the land of the dead. The main god of death is Mictlantecuhtli, which was not a name but rather a title. Lord of Mictlan. Other gods lived in Mictlan, gods with names, but he was the lord of that realm. Am I giving you too much background?”
Derek shook his head, which tossed loose thick locks of hair across his face. “No. In fact I’m very interested.”
“Only Jaguar qualified for the Mictlani ritual. The blessings came only in dire times. The three best Jaguars, the fiercest are chosen. They drank from the skull representing the mouth of Tezcatlipoca, god of the Night Sky. The name of the stuff means ‘the water of Mictlan’ but I’ve never been able to pronounce that word. Then the three of them died.”
Ben paused for a moment, and then continued. “As the dead they left the city to do their mission—something impossible like killing all the leaders of the enemy.”
“Do you know how they made it? This water of Mictlan?”
Ben nodded, “There is an animal down there with another impossible name. It’s both reptile and mammal. Something like the platypus—if a platypus was a cat-lizard from hell. What you drank is the mixture of its venom and blood. Equal parts. We found one. Its venom is equal to the Black Mamba.”
“What did you do with it?”
“It died two days after we caught it.” Ben sighed. “It’s one of those animals that can’t live in captivity. So I sent the body to the base. Not sure what they did with it. When several of our camp workers, natives that lived in the areas we operated from, found out about the animal, they left the camp. Never came back. Didn’t even wait for me to pay them. They said I was cursed by a god, a god they wouldn’t name. Said the animal was sacred. That’s what led me to do more research, and how I found out about the Mictlani.
