Lot’s return to Sodom

by Sandra Brannan

  When Streeter tried calling Liv at her parents’ house, Jeanne Bergen bent over backward to be helpful. She explained that Liv had come back to town and was staying with Jens, gave Streeter Jens’s home and cell numbers, then invited him for dinner while he was in Rapid City. She had no way of knowing, of course, that Streeter already knew all those details. Probably the most genuine, hospitable woman he’d ever met, he thought. For the time being, he would focus on the undercover work in Sturgis and worry tomorrow about Liv’s involvement with the young girl found dead at Sturgis and with Mully. As long as he kept an eye on Mully, Liv should be safe.

  “Where are you going with this?” Bly asked, studying the picture Streeter handed him.

  The pale skin of Michelle’s fingers and hand clearly showed the FTW pin stuck in the palm, her fingers loosely curled toward her palm, blood dripping onto her white skin and the grassy bank.

  “Autopsy report indicated that Michelle didn’t grab this from her murder’s lapel as a clue, like Shank and Leonard suspected. No indication whatsoever that she scratched, clawed, or fought her assailant. Her fingernails weren’t broken, had nothing beneath the nails. Her hands had no bruising or fight wounds of any kind. It appears the FTW pin was placed in her palm by her murderer,” Streeter said. “Not consistent with gang behavior.”

  “Absolutely not,” Bly argued, shaking his head vigorously. “They’re way more sophisticated—not to say intelligent—than that.”

  “All motorcycle club members?”

  “Well, not all,” Bly retracted. “The Serpents tend to leave their calling card.”

  “Aren’t we Serpents, supposedly?” Streeter asked.

  Bly nodded.

  “What’s our calling card?”

  Bly ignored him. “I just haven’t ever heard of something like this, particularly with a Lucifer’s Lot biker. It just wouldn’t be smart. They brag through the patches and pins they wear on their colors, but it doesn’t prove anything or become evidence in a crime. That would be suicide.”

  “Still think someone’s trying to set him up?”

  Bly nodded. “Let’s get moving. It’ll be dark soon.”

  They exited through the back door and skulked through the alley, blending into the crowds on the streets.

  As if by way of explanation and before the rumble of the crowd became too much, Bly confessed, “I put up with Shank’s crap because I love what I do.”

  “Fun job,” Streeter mused, his senses stimulated by the wafting odors, the cacophony of street party noises, the visual assault of bizarreness everywhere.

  “Some days it’s fun,” Bly admitted. “Other days are not so fun. Some of the shit you go through … some of the things you see …”

  Streeter took Bly’s cue to restrict their work-related conversations only to those times when they were circling one of the bikes on the street for a closer look. Or when they had privacy. “You mentioned the Lucifer’s Lot being dominant in the southwest.”

  “Right. The gangs are kind of territorial, regionalized in a way. Inferno Force are on the West Coast; Hombres, Southeast; and Serpents, Northeast,” Bly explained. “Historically, most undercover cops and agents come in as a Nomad.”

  “Not belonging to any specific chapter of a gang. Or any gang.”

  “Right again. That’s what makes our undercover legals so convincing. Anyone pulling our bios would see that you and I came from a very specific chapter of the Serpents, which are nomadic and hard to pin down anyway. They aren’t a big presence during the rally, like some of the other gangs. I can’t pose as an Inferno Force because they do make a huge showing. Hell, it’s their show. So, I have effectively convinced the other clubs that I’m with the Serpents, originally from one of the New York chapters. I’m sure their intelligence officers have had my false dossier for years. Boys over in the New York bureau made sure to slip it in so one of the intelligence officers found it.”

  “Are the Serpents a large group?”

  “One of the four biggest, in terms of national and international importance from the perspective of criminal impact. So my cover’s believable,” Bly explained, winking at the passing blonde dressed in a leather corset, miniskirt, knee-high leather boots, and spiked collar.

  After she and four trailing gawkers passed by, Streeter squatted down to study the detailing on the side of one motorcycle and said, “These four criminal organizations. We’re involved because of Title 18?”

  “They’re the only four outlaw gangs of the motorcycle club world that have enough criminal impact to warrant an investigation under the federal RICO statute. Let’s grab a beer,” Bly said as he led Streeter across the street and ducked into Gunners on Main Street, the first bar they came to.

  At first, it was quieter in the bar than it had been outside. Then the crowd inside let out a holler that sounded like the most avid sports fans expressing elation over a game-winning score. Streeter wondered what all the commotion was about and noticed everyone staring out the Main Street windows, apparently people watching. He had forgotten how overwhelming was the number of bikes and bikers, odors and oddities, that flooded the tiny town. He followed Bly through the crowds huddled around the tables to two empty stools at the end of the bar.

  Bly offered Streeter the bar stool closest to the wall and said, “Sit facing me, so you can prop your back up against the wall. Better view of the door that way,” he added, noting Streeter’s confused expression. “I’ll face away from the patrons and keep watch in the mirror behind the bar.”

  They were anticipating that at some point during the night Mully and his gang would patronize Gunners, one of the oldest biker bars in Sturgis. Veteran club leader that he was, Mully certainly wouldn’t miss this spot if he were roaming the streets on foot. Particularly with its famous tattoo parlor in the basement that passersby could see into through the street-side windows placed at shin level.

  “We’ll camp here for now and if he doesn’t show, we’ll go to the Full Throttle later tonight,” Bly said, ordering two Coors from the barmaid.

  “What’s Full Throttle?”

  “It’s a bar east of town. Built after you left for Denver. They claim to be the biggest indoor/outdoor biker saloon in the world. Home of the funniest bar stool races and midget wrestling I’ve ever seen.”

  “Bar stool races?”

  The barmaid returned with two plastic cups of beer.

  Bly growled, “What the hell is this?”

  “You ordered draft,” the young woman with the hard voice barked between choruses of Adam Lambert’s “Sure Fire Winners” and over the occasional cheer from the crowd, their volume an obvious rating for how hot—and naked—the biker chick was who had just walked by the windows. The bartender was a pretty kid dressed to look available—cutoffs below, nothing but a T-shirt above, tied to show a pierced belly button—with overpainted eyes that said anything but.

  “We’re out of beer mugs at the moment.” The whooping crowd indicated a particularly hot commodity parading along Main Street, all bar patrons’ eyes glued to the windows. She sighed and jerked her head in their direction, saying, “We’re kind of busy in here if you haven’t noticed.”

  Her sarcasm was not lost on Bly.

  “Then bring it in bottles next time and keep them coming.” He laid a twenty on the bar, adding, “Start a tab for the beer and we’ll want food, too. This is for you if you keep us happy.”

  She granted Bly a hint of a smile as she pocketed the bill and quickly disappeared to fill his order and attend to the other patrons.

  Streeter knew the bar would be packed, but he couldn’t believe it would be standing room by only seven o’clock in the evening. He could hardly imagine what it would be like later tonight, after dark, when people really started to show up, and understood why Bly had suggested leaving their Serpents leather vests at the flophouse. They would draw too much attention to both men at this point.

  “What do you see?” Streeter asked quietly.

  “Mostly cit
izens,” Bly said, drinking his beer and studying the crowd’s reflection.

  Streeter wondered how he could see anything in the cloudy mirror on the back wall behind the bar, which stretched the length of the room, especially with the two shelves above it jammed with hundreds of different varieties of spirits and the counter working area in front of it completely cluttered.

  “Citizens?”

  “Garden-variety bikers,” Bly explained. His arms were splayed across the bar as he hunched over like a bar stool veteran, looking comfortable in his role. “Members of the A.M.A., the American Motorcycle Association, but not part of the one percenters. They’re the good guys.”

  “Any one percenters?”

  “Not that I can tell, yet,” Bly added, “but there are a few cops.”

  Streeter nodded and drank from his plastic cup. Two men near the restrooms were in their early twenties, fresh from the gym with what appeared to be more bulk than brain. They were both clean shaven, hair slicked back neatly. They were wearing navy blue dress pants and gray T-shirts with the word “Police” stenciled in navy blue across the chest. They were underplaying the cop role, but not so much so that someone who needed help wouldn’t know whom to ask. He assumed the minimal show of police force meant there were more men in blue working undercover, as he was doing.

  Streeter hadn’t removed his sunglasses when he entered the bar, following Bly’s lead. At first it had been difficult to even reach the empty bar stool without tripping over someone, but now his eyes had adjusted, and he was glad for the privacy the dark shades afforded so his gaze could wander freely across the patrons. And although he and Bly weren’t wearing their colors, they each had their Serpent headgear on, so people would leave them alone. Anyone who would know anything would be wise enough to stay clear of the members of such a notorious club, not wanting to strike up a conversation or hassle either man. Streeter likened himself to a bristled porcupine, and he smiled at the isolation it afforded him in such a crowd.

  He scanned the bar. Six people were seated at the table closest to him and Bly: four men and two women. The men were all wearing dime-store varieties of Harley-Davidson T-shirts, solid black. Two were clean-shaven; the other two had stubble from a day, two days at the most, of missed grooming.

  One woman, who was much too large to be doing so, wore a turquoise leather halter with fringe, the leather expertly dipping to show a mile of cleavage. Her platinum blonde hair rose high on her head and a cigarette dangled from her ruby red lips, drawing attention to the spidery lines around them where, over time, the lipstick had bled outside their intended boundaries.

  The other woman was a redhead who wore a black cotton spaghetti-strap Harley-Davidson cami that clung to her small breasts like Saran Wrap to miniature cupcakes. She had a butterfly tattoo above her right breast and a dainty little heart tattooed on her wrist. Although not as adorned in jewelry as was her friend, she, too, chain-smoked. The table was innocuously safe, all patrons engrossed in their private conversations, unaware of the two bikers who sat perched on the bar stools behind them because they, too, had turned their chairs to face the window for the show.

  Streeter noted that next to Bly was a woman whose back was to them. She was focused entirely on the mangy-looking biker next to her, but he was more interested in what his buddy to his left was saying than in what she was doing. Her hands were sprawled all over his crotch, yet he didn’t seem to even notice her advances. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a scraggly ponytail to reveal parts of a large spider tattooed across her back, visible beneath the black tank top she wore. A fire could erupt in Bly’s beer and those patrons wouldn’t notice.

  They were safe to talk.

  “Are we going to interview Frankie Jr. and Brian Freeburg?” Bly asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Streeter answered. “And we’re not telling Shank, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I want to go to Black Hills Medical Clinic to see what we can learn. If we’re lucky, the doctor who cared for Michelle fourteen years ago for her alleged mono will still be there and remember.”

  Bly grinned and drained the last of his beer, which was quickly replaced with a cold bottle by the brunette bartender. Streeter finished the beer and collapsed the plastic cup with one bug-smasher stroke.

  A biker filled the doorway, his shabby red beard spilling down his bare chest and his craggy face hidden partially by dark sunglasses. He was wearing a ratty leather vest with no shirt underneath, exposing the tattoo emblazoned on his belly, “L.L.E.”

  “Lucifer’s Lot in Eternity,” Bly, his eyes on the mirror, explained in answer to Streeter’s unasked question.

  Streeter studied the man’s vest, tying to ignore the woman who followed him through the doorway. She was wearing nothing but a swimsuit consisting of a multitude of black leather strings, thicker bands strategically placed so she could avoid paying indecent exposure fines. Her long black hair was dull from lack of hygiene; her skin was white as flour, making the black lipstick she was wearing even starker. She was being led by the Lucifer’s Lot biker on a leather leash attached to the studded dog collar around her neck. She was at least twenty pounds too heavy to be dressing that skimpily, the skin stretching over her buttocks and thighs looking more like plastic Baggies full of hominy.

  “Big Red,” Bly said, reading the tattoo on the man’s arms, which were the size of the legs on a baby elephant. “Must be his legal.”

  Streeter focused on the man’s vest. He spoke under his breath to Bly, reciting what patches he could see on the man’s colors. “M.C., FTW, three sixes, and a twenty two.”

  “Mark of Satan and he’s been in prison,” Bly said, tipping his beer.

  “A white fist that’s clenched,” Streeter added as the couple made their way past the bar toward the back.

  “His belief in white supremacy. That’s outdated for the Lucifer’s Lot. Most chapters are not so ethnically pure anymore.”

  “And what looks like a white cross.”

  “He’s done some grave robbing with witnesses present,” Bly said, watching the man as he passed. “He’s a Nomad.”

  Streeter saw “Nomad” on the bottom rocker beneath the club’s logo on the back of his leather vest. On the top rocker were the familiar words “Lucifer’s Lot.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He’s an enforcer. Doesn’t belong to a particular Lucifer’s Lot chapter. He performs his duties for several chapters.”

  “Think Mully’s close behind?” Streeter asked, watching the two find a table near the back of the restaurant. The table had been occupied until Big Red stood over them, glaring. The four startled tourist bikers excused themselves and hurriedly left Gunners, tossing some cash at a waitress on their way out the door.

  “Not necessarily, but maybe,” Bly said. “Hopefully.”

  Streeter watched as the woman sat obediently beside Big Red, smiling at him like a demented, freakish circus poodle.

  “Did he spot you?” Bly asked.

  “Not yet, but he will,” Streeter answered, assuming Big Red would be clever enough to notice the B.F.F.S. on his skullcap. It was their underworld communication. The patches, pins, and emblems on their colors and their choice in tattoos were not unlike a living résumé of each gang member. They were, in essence, walking billboards of their past criminal activities.

  As Big Red and the she-devil were getting cozy, Streeter noticed that the silver stud piercing one of her nostrils came with a chain that led, presumably, to a matching stud in her tongue. Streeter shivered with revulsion.

  The barmaid brought out a platter of appetizers, placing it in front of Bly. On it were rows of fried shrimp, fried mozzarella sticks, fried chicken pieces, fried mushrooms, and fried zucchini. Bly smiled at her and placed another twenty on the bar.

  “Thanks, sweetheart.”

  She smiled back and pounded two fresh beers in front of them. In bottles. Bly grinned and popped a fried mushroom in his mouth.

  As he chewed, he mumbled, “I
think Shank’s on to something with this Sturgis girl. Photos? A witness? Probably time to bring Mully in for some questions.”

  Streeter frowned, worried about the connection between Liv and Mully, knowing he must find the man and bring him in for questioning if nothing more than to protect Liv. “Agreed. We need to find him ASAP.”

  Bly gobbled up a few more fried delicacies while Streeter once more scanned the bar. The crowd was getting noisier and more restless as the evening went on, everyone in biker garb and grunge enjoying a cold beer on this hot August evening. A lone cowboy came through the entrance. Streeter watched him ease his way patiently through the crowd and amble up to the bar near the front window, the opposite end of the bar from where Streeter and Bly sat.

  Streeter imagined it was routine for this cowboy to come to the normally quiet bar for a cold beer after a long, hard day of ranching, and he wasn’t about to let some tourist bikers make him change his beloved routine. Although he anticipated the cowboy being harassed for his out-of-place dress, Streeter was surprised and pleased by the maturity of the biker crowd, who seemed to ignore him altogether. Either they were more civilized than he would have anticipated or they sensed that this cowboy wasn’t about to take any guff from anyone. Probably the latter, Streeter mused, as he sized up the man’s rugged face and taut muscles.

  Bly nudged Streeter on the knee, motioning toward the door. Streeter stiffened when he saw the four bikers enter the bar. They were all wearing their colors, and Streeter knew instantly they were the Lucifer’s Lot because of the red and silver skullcap the second biker was wearing.

  Streeter scanned their faces. He couldn’t tell if any of the bikers was Mully because of the crowd closing in around them. They took only a moment’s hesitation before making a beeline toward the back of the bar where Big Red was saving them a table.

  As they passed, Streeter asked, “You see him?”