Backwater Key

by Steven Becker

  “Interesting. Burning the colors is making a statement.”

  “Retribution for losing the drugs?”

  “The one thing you can count on about bikers and gangs is that you can’t count on them. Shoot from the hip is the way most roll.”

  “Kurt,” Justine called from across the room.

  With the phone still to my ear, I walked over beside her and looked up at the TV mounted on the wall. Why a forensics lab needed a dozen TVs and a coffee bar, I wasn’t sure, but in this case it proved worthwhile. I asked Pierce to hold on while I watched Martinez, in his dress uniform, standing alongside the Miami-Dade police commissioner behind a table. Carefully staged in front of them to look like twice as much as I would have guessed was in the duffel bag, were the drugs we had found. The two men smiled and patted each other on the back as they took questions from the press.

  “Turn on the news,” I told Pierce. “Those bastards snaked us.”

  I had underestimated my boss. Thinking that without a paycheck he would ignore the park, I had instead discovered that he had used his surveillance network to get behind the podium, something I had learned was more important to him than money. This was not the first time I had thought about taking a page from the playbook of the criminals we chased and getting several burner phones in order to avoid him.

  Between being angry and at the same time engrossed in the broadcast, I hadn’t noticed Justine leave my side until I heard the vacuum seal of the evidence locker open. In place of the standard steel cage was a state-of-the-art, secured and air-conditioned vault. It really wasn’t a vacuum seal, but the positive air pressure maintained by a separate air-conditioning system made a whoosh whenever the inch-thick glass doors were opened. She came back a minute later with the duffel and set it on the table.

  “It’s still here.” Martinez and the commissioner had indeed staged the drugs. That made it better, but far from right. “They set up the whole thing. We still have the duffel and contents,” I said into the phone. I wasn’t sure if Pierce was still on the line.

  “Typical. At least we have the real stuff.”

  “Yeah, but our element of surprise is gone.” I had been plotting my next moves and the first thing I had planned was a bit of undercover work. Motorcycle clubs were bad about sending emails and newsletters. If you wanted to know what was going on, you had to find their hangout and for that I needed Pierce.

  “The drugs are going to take a backseat to the murder. We might have just figured out which gang the victim belonged to, but they already know who it was. There’s probably a heck of a wake going on somewhere.”

  Justine was beside me again, watching the news. She pointed to the screen, showing a street scene, the curbs lined with gleaming chrome. The camera moved to a reporter who was clearly not comfortable with this assignment. Justine turned up the volume. I told Pierce what network we were watching and set the phone on speaker before placing it on the counter.

  “The Outlaw Motorcycle Club is out in full force tonight after a member of their club was murdered.” The reporter looked over his shoulder and the camera panned to a group of leather-clad bikers coming toward him. “More to come,” he squeezed in before the camera was jostled and the screen went black. The network feed went back to the studio and Justine turned down the volume as the talent on screen tried to explain that their reporter was fine.

  “I know that bar. Did some undercover there,” Pierce’s voice came from the phone. “If you’re up to it we can do a drive-by. If the natives aren’t too restless, maybe we can get some info. You ride?”

  “Some.” I’d been riding bikes for years, though mostly off-road, I was comfortable with just about anything off the production line. Some of the custom or chopped bikes that club members used were out of my wheelhouse, however. The art of taking a stock bike and cutting weight at the same time as adding performance features was big business where safety first was not a concern. He gave me an address in North Miami Beach to meet him and I disconnected.

  I caught Justine’s look. “It’ll be okay.” I almost said it was because I was going with the FBI, but I didn’t think that would help matters.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Sorry, but …” I shrugged, not knowing what to say. It was my job.

  “Maybe I ought to go along and keep an eye on you,” she said.

  It wasn’t a question, just a reminder. We had been together at the tail end of several cases before and she had saved my life once.

  It was the culture of the clubs that I was worried about. My girl was hot and a badass, but they treated women badly in general and I would never put her in a compromising situation that I had no control over. Truth be told, I was apprehensive about going with Pierce.

  She was lukewarm to my advances when I tried to kiss her before leaving, although I did get the okay to stay over later. Leaving the lab, I went out to the truck and entered the address in my phone, wondering if doing so would raise a red flag and alert Martinez. Apparently, his surveillance was more sophisticated than I had thought.

  It was close to midnight when I left the lab. Pulling out of the parking lot, I took a left on NW 25th Street and hopped on the Palmetto Expressway heading north. The highway took a hard right and headed east after a few miles and when it intersected with I-95, I entered the northbound lanes. The lines between the cities blurred, with each looking the same, and I finally reached the 167th Street exit.

  North Miami Beach was an old town that was trying to look new. Even at night, I could see restrictions had been added to the zoning codes, and the city had started requiring larger buffers, smaller signs, and more landscaping. Some blocks looked similar; the problem was where there was a mixture of old and new, the older buildings were set close to the road without a tree in sight. The difference became more noticeable when I turned off the main road and found myself in an industrial district.

  My phone alerted me that I was at my destination, except I was looking at a narrow street, barely larger than an alley. It resembled a self-storage setup, with nothing but roll-up doors, but each door had an address and several buildings had office doors. Finally, I saw light coming from the bottom of one and pulled in front of it.

  Pierce came out and directed me to a parking spot next to the sole tree on the block. I locked my truck and walked back. The space we entered was about twenty feet wide by fifty deep with a bathroom in back. Custom paint equipment lined one wall, and tool chests and a workbench the other. In the center of the space were a half-dozen motorcycles. Several were stripped down.

  “Welcome to the FBI MC.”

  I looked over the bikes: all Harleys except for one Indian. I moved toward the latter, admiring the bike.

  “Don’t get too attached to that one. Find something to wear and we’ll get out of here,” he said, pointing to a pile of clothes in the corner.

  They were dirty and oil stained, perfectly suitable for where we were going. I found a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that were close to my size, figuring I had better hide as much of my inkless skin as possible. After changing in the bathroom, Pierce pointed out the bike next to his. It was slightly smaller than the one he was on, but being used to crotch rockets and off-road bikes, it still seemed big to me. Pierce handed me a black helmet with a full face shield. He had a bowl type helmet and wore oversized glasses.

  A minute later, we pulled out of the shop. Pierce closed the door and I followed him onto the road. It was a little intimidating at first. With the exception of one hair-raising ride from Key West to Miami several months ago, I hadn’t ridden in more than a year. Following him through the city was a challenge. Pierce motioned me up in the lane, but I stayed back, not ready to ride bar to bar yet.

  By the time we reached the Palmetto, I was in the groove and realized I was smiling. The feeling of freedom was something I had just started to get, like when my boat went up on plane and there was nothing but open water in front of me. I had gotten the same feeling of freedom riding
through the trails of the Plumas forest.

  Pierce turned off on Highway 41 and my smile faded as we rode west toward the Everglades. From my experience, nothing good happened out here, but the fringes of Dade County would be the perfect place for a biker bar. There was no hesitation on his part when we turned into a parking lot full of bikes. I recognized it from the news broadcast. Riding to the end of the row, we stopped and backed our bikes in line with the others. “Keep it cool. You don’t mess with them, and they won’t mess with you—especially the women. Don’t even look.”

  I didn’t need the warning. On the way to the bar, we passed clusters of people, both men and women, mostly smoking cigarettes, but I could smell weed in the air. Many were dressed as we were and not wearing colors, though from their tattoos and hardened expressions some looked like they should be. Pierce warned me that many were Outlaws out on probation. Wearing colors was a parole violation.

  I kept my eyes down, trying not to show how uncomfortable I was. I’m a big guy at six feet and two-twenty-five. The guy at the door with a gallon jar stuffed with bills was me plus one. He thrust the jar at us, saying it was a collection for the deceased and I dug around in my pockets. I had a moment of panic when I realized I had left my wallet in my shorts back at the storage unit. I caught a mean look from the bouncer when Pierce bailed me out by dropping a twenty in the jar.

  He bought a couple bottles of beer at the bar and we walked through the crowd trying to eavesdrop on any conversation that had anything to do with what had happened earlier. The talk was mostly about Cooker, whom I guessed was the deceased. The crowd seemed to be separated into groups: those wearing colors and those without. When we passed the former, I heard the word retribution several times. Pierce steered us away.

  8

  Pierce whispered some of their names in my ear as we cruised through the crowded bar. They were all nicknames: Motor, Grinder, Dirt, and anything else you could think of along those lines. I was more inclined to go with the Seven Dwarves: Sleepy, Grumpy, and Doc.

  Doc turned out to be the president and I tried to keep an eye on him while absorbing as much of the scene as I could. He was small compared to some of the bikers. Most could easily have filled out the Dolphins’ defensive line, and from the looks on their faces they had the killer instinct and would probably have performed better than the current roster. Doc moved through the crowd saying at least something to everyone he passed.

  Clubs have rules, elections, and boards. To outsiders they might seem like a warlord society, but they rely heavily on protocol, and as the current federal shutdown had proven they are more effective at governing. Pierce guided us toward the leader in what looked like a random pattern, but after watching some of the men move around, I noticed he was avoiding some. When we got within a few feet of Doc, I saw him raise his eyes and look to the side of me, then nod to whomever was there.

  I froze when two women stepped in front of us. Actually, just “women” was too general a term for them. They were leather-clad and hot. One made a move towards us and the alarm bells went off in my head. I was about to make for the door when I felt a hand grab my arm. Pierce signaled me with a look that running would be a bad idea. In the biker world, each of these women was either someone’s old lady or a mama, what you might call a generalist. Snubbing them would lead to trouble. One slung her arm around my neck and I caught the flash of a camera as our picture was taken. Looking over at Pierce, who was in the same predicament, I gave him a questioning look, trusting him to take the lead. It proved unnecessary as a group of bikers approached us. The women disappeared and quickly blended back into the crowd. Pierce pushed me in front of him as we slid sideways through the packed bar. Once outside I finally took a breath as we moved past the groups smoking cigarettes, to the side of the building.

  “What was that about?”

  “I think they made you. Now our pictures are on the clubhouse wall.”

  “What about you?”

  “They want custom paint work, they’ll overlook a lot. Their bikes are their status symbols. You could live in a roach-infested studio apartment and they would all overlook it if your bike was tits. I’ve got a guy that works for me that’s a freakin artist. Good cover.”

  “Shouldn’t we get out of here?”

  He looked back around the corner of the building and pulled his head back. “They’re suspicious. Those guys are waiting outside. If we take off now, they’ll follow us. Better to just hang out here for a few minutes and let them think they lost us.”

  “Why the interest? We look like half the other people in there.”

  “You’ve got to get past their looks. Sure, some are thugs, but the leaders, especially Doc, got where they are with brains and balls. For these clubs or gangs to even exist anymore they’ve got to be not only one step ahead of the Feds, but also the other gangs. They’re shrewd.”

  I thought I might have been the one to blow our cover and felt bad. They had our pictures now, and whatever undercover work Pierce had done might be ruined. He seemed to dismiss the incident.

  He looked back around the corner. “They’re gone. Let’s give it another minute and we’ll take off.”

  Finally, Pierce and I started around the back of the building, staying to the poorly lit areas of the parking lot. The route took us away from the front of the building and we made it to our bikes without incident. I followed Pierce’s lead as he settled onto the bike and put his helmet on. I felt less vulnerable once my helmet was on and started the engine, stepping backward until the front wheel was clear. I almost freaked out when Pierce goosed the throttle and heads turned toward us, but then realized this was expected behavior and it would have drawn more eyes if we had just slid into the night. The full face mask gave me a degree of anonymity I wasn’t sure I should be feeling as we started out of the parking lot. It dawned on me after seeing the other helmets hanging from the other bikes that mine was the only one with a full mask. Many had ones similar to Pierce’s or none at all.

  With my head on a swivel, spending as much time looking into my mirror as I did watching the road, I followed Pierce back to the shop. After parking the bike where I had found it, I changed back into my clothes. Pierce stayed dressed in his leathers. Sitting at a table with a bottle in front of him, he leaned over and worked his phone, which was now connected by a short cable to the glasses he had worn.

  “Holy crap,” I said. “Secret agent shit.”

  “FBI at your service.”

  He had recorded everything we had seen in the bar, along with whatever audio the miniature microphone could grab over the music. We watched the faces while listening to the heavy metal soundtrack.

  “Wait. That’s two of the guys from the crabber.”

  He stopped the video and zoomed in on the two men. “Nobody I know, but that doesn’t mean much. It’s pretty common to bring help down from some of the clubs up north who won’t be recognized here when they are making a move.”

  “I didn’t realize they were so well organized.” My preconceived notion of motorcycle clubs was an image of the Hell’s Angels’ infamous runs—mostly just wild parties until the drugs and alcohol ran out, or until the locals brought them to a violent end.

  “If there was a Fortune 500 listing for gangs, these guys would be in the top ten.”

  “I thought it was mostly a weekend thing now.” It had taken a whole lot of contractors, doctors, lawyers, and accountants to fuel the resurgence of the Harley-Davidson Company. In the late sixties they’d been selling ten to fifteen thousand bikes a year. By 2000, it was over twenty times that.

  “There’s still the hardcore element, and it’s grown as well. In the sixties there were probably only a couple of thousand bikers out there. Their tattoos, piercing, and facial hair weren’t accepted and they couldn’t find work, so crime was it. While the whole Harley thing has grown, the one percent mentality and outlaw life has blossomed with it.”

  “And with local law enforcement not recognizing the out-o
f-town help and a hundred of their best friends providing alibis, it’s hard to make any arrests.” I stated the obvious.

  It all made sense. I focused again on the group. “Can we do anything with the audio?”

  “I’ll need a computer for that. I can email you the file.”

  That would have been great, except for the Cloud. Martinez had access to everything that went through my phone. “Any chance of a putting it on a flash drive?”

  “No problem, but it’ll have to be tomorrow when I can grab one from the office.”

  “Okay.” I glanced down at my watch, realizing it was after two. It was a rare occurrence when I was still awake when Justine got off work, and I had an invitation to her apartment. I felt a surge of energy. “I’m gonna take off then. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Right. Sorry about the excitement tonight.”

  “Just part of the game.”

  I left the shop and hopped into the park service truck. When I reached Justine’s I noticed her car was not there. Thinking she would be home anytime, I locked the truck and used my key to let myself into her apartment. It had been a big moment when she had given me the key. I had called that level five in our relationship. Since then, we had gone a couple steps higher—she had given me a drawer in her dresser.

  I sat down on the couch with a bottle of beer and started to fight off the inevitable. My body was exhausted and my shoulders were tight from the stress. I decided to hang out on the couch instead of the bed to gain any advantage I could to stay awake. My eyes had just started to close when I heard the door open, and I jumped up.

  “Hey, didn’t mean to wake you,” Justine said.

  “I was up.”

  “Right. Not to deter you from the planned activity, but I got something off that vest.”

  She had my attention on both fronts. I sat up and stretched, fighting the urge to rub my eyes, which would concede that I had been asleep. Justine sat next to me and opened up her laptop. On the screen were pictures of the semi-burnt vest. I saw the colors, and a few patches. There was no specific rank, nickname, or anything else that I could see other than the club name and a one percent patch that, depending who you asked, either meant you were part of the counterculture or that you had killed someone.