Learning Couple

by Laran Mithras

  I had expected shifty-looking guys with that prison look, but was met by hard-eyed men in patched vests. They looked comfortable in them and four of the five wore smiles.

  The one with the president patch shook hands with Dealer. "Dealer, how ya doin, man?" His gravelly voice, gray beard brushed to perfection, and his long ponytail spoke of a man who had definitely been around. His name patch said Sixgun.

  Dealer gripped his hand and shook.

  Sixgun's sergeant at arms was named Ditch and he was glaring at me.

  Dealer said, "Doing good."

  The Bandidos as one swiveled their eyes to me. Muscles tensed.

  I swallowed.

  Dealer said, "He's all right. He's the one who picked our snitch."

  Sixgun's eyes glittered as he looked me up and down, still tense. After a few seconds of silence, he looked back to Dealer. "I know what you're doing. Slick move, but dangerous."

  "We'll see."

  "The man is a contract hire." He shook his head. "I swear to shit between the DEA, the FBI, the ATF, and the CIA they'd all go to war with themselves with their conflicting missions. The DEA, FBI, and ATF remove the competition and the CIA has a clean playground to move drugs." He spat.

  Dealer nodded. "We know it."

  The Bandidos chapter president glanced once more at me and then dismissed me. He said, "It's the same contract outfit that tried several months ago with that ridiculous wedding chapel up your way. I guess they really want your little airport to move drugs into the city. Too many eyes at our airport."

  I felt cold and hot at the same time. My black Suburban and my only suit – black – had raised all the wrong flags, and my wife and I had been abducted in broad daylight. But it had all led to this. Funny how life works out.

  Sixgun said, "Clean it out, again." He dipped fingers into his vest pocket and withdrew a tiny slip of paper. He extended his hand and Dealer took it. "Standard pay."

  "We'll get it done."

  The Bandidos president hitched his jeans up and grinned. "We have a poker run, don't we?"

  All of them turned and headed across the street. I followed, trying to decipher everything I had heard. The anti-drug agencies were trying to clean out the drugs, but another arm of the government wanted to deal them. Drugs for cash. Cash for operations. Apparently nothing is illegal for the CIA?

  The bar was packed.

  Bikers and citizens held punchcards, and some of the bearded Bandidos and a few Iron Crows held several, all waving them around and laughing. Vests and patches were everywhere, though I did see a prospect I didn't recognize. So a Bandidos prospect was here.

  I approached the younger-looking one. We caught each other's eye and I said, "So what were you before becoming a prospect?"

  "A rice jockey."

  I chuckled. "I was just a citizen."

  He gave me an eyebrow. "You're Iron Crows?"

  "Yep."

  "Ah, I understand we have some Hells Angels participating. I wasn't sure."

  "They're here, too?"

  The man shrugged. "Bikers like the rest of us out for a fun ride. There's a couple Soldiers for Jesus here, too."

  I nodded. I had wanted to ask about drugs, but realized anything I said might make its way back to any of the other clubs. I changed my mind and asked, "Still got your crotch rocket?"

  He laughed heartily. "Fuck no. Though I thought it was a sweet ride. Then a couple of the Bandidos started talking to me. Convinced me I should ride with them. Eventually, I figured out my Kawasaki was a bit of a joke. One of them would even throw some rice under my bike and tell me it was leaking."

  I laughed. "That's a riot."

  "They were nice as all hell and I started hanging around. Sold my rice rocket and got a Harley."

  "I drove a Suburban." I rolled my eyes.

  The man leaned his head towards me. "I'm sorry."

  "I said I drove a Suburban."

  He snickered. "Yeah, I heard you the first time."

  We both laughed.

  Big Pizza waved me down. "Over here, Jimmy."

  I gave an upward nod to the other prospect and headed over to the captain. How I hate that name...

  CHAPTER 10

  I was given the rundown and a map, like everyone else. But I was to be with the last group out. My job was to tell each station that we were the last so they could pack up and move on to the Veterans of Foreign Wars Post for the rest of the event. I sat at the bar and drank a water while bikers and civilians got their cards punched after the card flips. Outside, groups of ten were being signaled to go. The route was around the outskirts of the city, so almost all of the in-town traffic was averted.

  There were probably three groups left to go and nearing the end of the 10:30 deadline when a jeans-wearing redhead approached me. She leaned up against me, freckles obvious on her pretty face and beamed at me with the palest blue eyes I had ever seen. She licked her lips and said, "So what club are you here with?"

  I wasn't patched, but I was wearing my prospect vest. I also had been warned about women at events and that I was to be extra careful. I said, "The Iron Crows."

  Her smile widened and she squeezed my arm against her abundant breasts.

  I looked down; she was showing enough cleavage in her tank top to rival the Grand Canyon.

  She purred, "They have it good where they're at?"

  "I suppose." I stopped looking at her breasts.

  "Sometimes it's so hard for a girl to find a place to get lit. You know where I can...?"

  I pursed my lips and shook my head. "We don't do that."

  She pulled my arm into her cleavage and got her lips close to my ear. "Maybe just a little on the side? For me?" She was beautiful, really. There were chills up and down my arms and back and it felt like my insides were melting.

  I drew in a shaky breath. "Sorry, I don't know."

  Her tongue reached out and licked my ear. Her whisper suggested a lot more. "Are you sure? Maybe like you do a little on your own? A girl gets real desperate..."

  I sighed. "I don't do or push any of that. Neither does the club. I think you'll have to try somewhere else."

  She pulled away a little, pouting, and wriggled her boobs slowly back and forth. She looked at me from under her eyelashes for a second. Then she straightened and gave me a smile. "Okay." She didn't sound disappointed.

  I checked my cards just to make sure they were still there, though I failed to see how she could have taken them without me seeing or feeling. They were still in my shirt pocket beneath my vest. Each of the five had cost me twenty dollars. Maybe a hundred was no big loss, but I still felt a small burst of panic before checking.

  We had a cousin of Smiley's flipping the deck and punching cards. He looked tired.

  I said, "We're it." I put down my cards.

  He flipped and shuffled, punching my cards one by one. I got my cards back. When he was done, he scooped everything into a carry-satchel. "I guess I'm done."

  "See you at the Post." I went outside and across the street where the last few bikers and civilians were already leaving. I had felt depressed coming back into town, but now felt different in the light of the sun. Maybe I didn't want to live here, but I was about to ride to the next stop for some more card punching. I looked forward to the ride.

  Climbing onto my Harley, I affixed my helmet and thumbed the ignition. The zipper sound vibrated and the Harley rumbled to life. I relaxed for a moment and returned the wave of the Bandido who had been watching the parking lot. He was a portly man going bald with a long-ass beard. I pulled to a stop next to him at the driveway and nodded. "You don't get to play?"

  He gave me a lopsided grin. "Done over thirty poker runs over the years. But I'll be in some of the games at the Post." He winked. He had other ways to donate.

  I lifted a hand in parting and pulled out onto the street. The air began tickling my beard and rushing past my ears. I felt like I could ride until I died. I found the tail end of the last group a few minutes later on t
he frontage road. I kept back and just enjoyed the wind.

  ~ ~ ~

  The end of the run was the event at the Post, and there were bikes everywhere. I parked at the end of a long line on a side street. There was a patrol car sitting strategically to watch the comings and goings. I hooked my helmet over my handlebar and sat for a moment. My eyes drifted along the street on the other side. Besides the police car, several vehicles parked in the shade: a plumbing van; a Jeep; a couple of rust buckets. Nothing suspicious.

  I got off and stretched, feeling the wear of a couple hours of riding. I patted my vest to make sure my cards were still in place.

  "You there!" An authoritative voice sounded behind me.

  I turned.

  The cop was approaching me, hand on his gun.

  Surprised, I said, "Yes, sir?"

  His eyes were watching my hands. "You got a permit to carry concealed?"

  I must have flashed my holster when I stretched. "Yes, I do."

  "Where is it located?"

  "Right front pocket."

  "May I see it please? Just keep it slow."

  "Of course." I reached in and pulled out my small stack of necessary carries: credit card; driver's license; and the concealed carry permit. I took it and handed it to him.

  He appeared to relax as he accepted it. "Sorry, had to check. Don't see too many bikers bothering with permits, you know?" His attitude suggested he expected I was a criminal. He handed back the permit.

  I bit back an angry flash. "I'm legal."

  "Keep it that way. You have a nice day, now." He turned and walked back to his car, but his head was turned – watching me out of the corner of his eye.

  I sighed in exasperation. I wasn't doing anything. I turned back towards the Post.

  ~ ~ ~

  People were all over the place inside. I spotted Kristy dishing up hot dogs and roast beef behind the counter. People with plates were walking around or sitting. The noise level was incredible.

  Big Pizza clapped me on the back and leaned towards my ear. His voice was loud, but necessary to be heard. "Handle it okay? Was there a problem?"

  I was frowning and he had seen it. "The stops? Yeah. No, no problem. Just the cop outside."

  His eyebrows drew down. "He get on your shit about something?"

  "No, not really. He must have seen my gun, so he asked if I had a permit."

  He made a silent nod of assent and understanding. "You do, right?"

  I laughed. "Yeah."

  He shrugged. "He can sit on his nightstick, then." He guffawed and clapped my back again.

  I shook my head. "He was acting like I wouldn't have one. Suggested bikers don't bother with permits."

  Big Pizza grew serious. "Some of us don't. But not all of us. Cops treat us all the same; we're immediate felons on the run or some shit like that."

  I blew out a breath.

  He said, "Go get something to eat before it's all gone." He gave me a push.

  Gunner intercepted me near the counter. "Problem, Jimmy?"

  I related the incident and waved his response off. "Nothing beyond that, really."

  He took that unlit cigar out of his mouth and twirled it. "Cops have a tough job. And some of us bikers do break the law, but not all of us. Some cops have a chip on their shoulder when they see colors. But keep your ass straight and you won't have to worry none."

  Kristy was listening, holding my plate out for me. Her eyes looked back and forth between us.

  I said, "Don't worry about me, Gunner; I'm clean."

  He didn't say anything, but his eye was sharp with something unsaid. He squeezed my shoulder and finally said, "Atta boy." He left me with an air of reluctance I could not decipher.

  Kristy said, "Bad day?"

  I looked at the woman I loved. I felt a well of emotions inside: concern; love; anger; hurt. She didn't want to seem to let me in on what was going on with Ghost and I resented it. I grunted and nodded, even though most of my day had been good. Seeing her sort of threw a blanket over everything. Unresolved issues.

  She looked confused, but I didn't think standing here in the noise and holding a plate was a good time to spend hours hashing everything over again. I turned away. Pausing for a moment, I spotted a waving hand that belonged to Donna. Feeling icy daggers in my back, I went over to the only woman I felt would understand me at this point.

  CHAPTER 11

  The games in the yard were fun. There was a horseshoe contest using toilet seats. There was a dart throw for prizes. A timed beer-drinking contest. A wet t-shirt contest. Merchandise was sold: hats; t-shirts; backpacks; and coffee mugs – all imprinted with the event.

  Amidst the crowd of people cramming the small parking lot turned into an event grounds, I spotted a redhead sitting on the lap of a Bandidos patched biker. She winked at me. I knew then I had been correct: she had been sent to test me out. Heaving a sigh of satisfaction, I winked back at her and got a knowing smile in return.

  Kristy found me. "Why did you sit with Donna?"

  "Because Tequila wasn't around for a quick fuck."

  She glared at me.

  I wasn't in the mood to get into this. Why do women always want to start something when people are around?

  She stomped off.

  I stomped the other way.

  ~ ~ ~

  I bought a coffee mug and ballcap. I also bought two t-shirts: one for me and one for Kristy. I laughed to myself, I bet she'd blow a gasket if I gave it to Donna. Fuck. But I had no intention of doing that; Donna could buy her own stuff.

  People were all around. Drinking, talking, laughing, arm-wrestling, taking pictures... It was one of those taking pictures that caught my eye. My fist clenched on the paper bag.

  A voice very carefully said in my ear, "Turn away Jimmy. This way. Walk with me."

  I turned to find Sonar in my face. He motioned with his arm. "This way, our backs to him."

  I walked with him. "That's the contract guy—"

  "We know."

  "He's taking pictures of everyone."

  "We know."

  "You're going to allow him—"

  "Jimmy. Stop. He's taking pictures to build hit profiles."

  "Hit profiles?"

  "A kill list."

  I stopped walking. "Are you serious?"

  He gave a curt nod. "His company hires out as contract work to the CIA for dirty jobs they don't want to do – or don't have the resources to do in place. CMC has been rumored to have performed dozens of hit contracts in the states – and the total might reach over a hundred. All gang-related or motorcycle club hits. Wherever the CIA wants to create a drug stream."

  I was frustrated and stopped. "Why here? Why are our own people pushing drugs on us? Why isn't the CIA pushing them in North Korea or some other country that hates us?"

  He turned to face me, his eyes not glancing towards the contract agent. "Because this is where the money is, Jimmy. Maybe in a decade it'll dry up and we'll see the CIA shift focus to China. But right now, America is their biggest slush fund for extra funding of their black ops. Dope buyers here fund regime change overseas. To the CIA, it's business."

  I blew out a breath and grated, "It's not... right."

  His eyes glittered, but he stayed quiet.

  I threw up my hands. "Are we going to just let him take out officers—"

  He was laughing, but it wasn't jovial. His black ponytail and beard, his glittering eyes, and his smile that didn't reach upwards chilled me. "No, we're not. We were going to wait until we were back at the clubhouse, but I'll tell you right now. You're going to be in on this contract."

  "The Bandidos contract?"

  He nodded. "They want him removed as much as we do, because the agent is treading on their territory."

  I firmed my mouth. "So the Bandidos do deal drugs."

  Sonar shrugged. "I can tell you that Sixgun doesn't put up with that shit and he's their president. Who can say about members down the line? Sometimes there's rotten apples in the
bunch. They're people, just like us. Remember Miguel?"

  I nodded.

  "We find those apples, we remove them. Or strip them of their colors. Sixgun approves of what we're doing here because we guard their backdoor. The Keystone airstrip would be perfect to muscle in drugs to the city."

  "There's already drugs here."

  "I know it. The Bandidos know it. The running fight with the Surenos won't end soon, either. Open warfare is discouraged, even if for the right reasons. But the Bandidos can keep the dealers from their territory in the city."

  "Sounds like a losing battle."

  Sonar poked me in the chest with a strong finger. "Only when good men do nothing."

  Am I a good man?

  He turned his head away. "We'll call you into Dealer's office when things get planned."

  ~ ~ ~

  I rode home at the end of a long and fun day with Kristy at my back. She was giving me the silent treatment. What the fuck is up with you, woman? Is Dealer's rejection of you that catastrophic? Shit.

  Her posture and grip did not change, though, so if I had thought my wife was psychic, well, she wasn't.

  We pulled up to the clubhouse to unload and unwind. Kristy was off and ignoring me, eager to get inside.

  I lined up behind some Iron Crows to help unload the vans and trucks.

  The ladies apparently had done enough work that they were in the clubhouse getting drinks and relaxing. That was fine by me, some of the boxes were heavy.

  "Kitchen, Jimmy." Flats indicated my box.

  Fuck I hate that name. "Sure thing." I pushed into the clubhouse and carried my burden to the back and down the left hall.

  Gunner was in the kitchen. "Pop the top and dump it in the sink if it's cooking utensils."

  I opened the box. "Yep, utensils." I upended the box over the bin of the metal sink. They went in with a clatter.

  Gunner pointed. "Run the hot water in the sink. Lift that bar there." He wiggled his finger.

  I grabbed a bar on a box and lifted. The metal box slid up. "What's this?"

  He wheezed. "A dishwasher. It's old, but it kicks ass. Just pile all that in there as high as you can. Then shut it. It's automatic."