Whitewall stood propping the outer door wide and through that opening, Twisted heard the roaring of bike engines, then the noise dissipated as the bikes moved away. Whitewall was nearly as good a mentor as Papaw, his job to balance the hard line the national president sometimes had to walk. “George.” Whitewall stayed put, attentively watching out the door, so Twisted knew something else was going down in the lot, something worthy of attention, that attention something he didn’t have time to pay right now. He turned away, trusting their veep to have everyone’s back. “Twisted.”
Scot was seated on the floor near the booth, a dazed look on his face, fingering a hole in the front of his vest. Twisted watched as Scot pulled the garment away from his chest, exposing a growing red patch on the shirt underneath. Wordlessly, he lifted a hand, stroking the crimson mark, bringing his hand away and staring at his stained fingertips.
Half underneath the table was Papaw, head torqued around at an uncomfortable angle, wedged up against the bottom of one seat. On hands and knees, Twisted crawled, uncaring of cuts received, focused on traversing the distance as fast as he could. Shock seemed to stretch time, so it felt like he traveled miles in this fashion, aging and near dying before he reached Papaw’s side. Eyes open and staring, Papaw was lying still. Not a sound, not a gurgle, not a breath.
From the blood and matter splattered across the seats and underside of the table, Twisted knew what he’d find when he lifted his grandfather into his lap, arranging the man’s loose limbs with care. Cradling the ruined head in his hands, he was shocked at the sounds filling the bar now. Rising and falling, there was a keening cry that snaked through the crowd. The sound of pain repulsed any advance from the gawkers, denying access to the few who thought to ogle the fallen, making their continued presence abhorrent, even to themselves.
“Kill the fuckin’ juke,” he heard Po’Boy shout and a moment later, the undertones of music ended, but the wailing continued. “Twisted.” Definitely not Papaw’s voice, and he knew what he’d heard before couldn’t have been either. Just his mind working overtime to make sense of the commotion surrounding them. “Twisted.” This came from Po’Boy, and Twisted took a breath as a hand gripped his shoulder. “We gotta go, brother.” Shaking his head, denying the demand, he remained where he was, cradling his grandfather. “Brother, we can’t be here.”
Absently, he noticed the sound had stopped, and knew logically it had been him, the burning in his throat testimony to the force of emotions churning through him. Looking up, he saw Scot had fallen to his back, watched as one of their members crouched, one hand sliding to cover the old man’s eyes. Whitewall had his gun out, keeping the mass of patrons pinned to the back wall of the bar, away from where the Incoherent bodies lay, but there were bodies back by that wall, too.
He glanced around, seeing the five behind the bar, knowing in addition to the three he’d dropped there, he had six more potential convictions scattered around the room. Self-defense, or manslaughter? Shaking his head, he looked up at Po’Boy. “Where we goin’?”
“Fuck, man. You tell us. We just can’t be here when the po-po come, brother.” Po’Boy had released the grip on his wounded shoulder, the flow of blood slowing. “Got a slug to dig out of me, another six of us who can ride. That’s eight, counting you and me. Some of us got family close. We can go to ground, huddle up with them.”
Twisted knew they had to be gone to avoid interaction with the police. Unwritten as a rule, it still ruled. Nodding, he scanned the area again. One breath in, then out, and he was dialed in, running it through his head, knowing step-by-step what came next. Lessons learned from stories passed down by the men he looked up to.
“Arrange and cover.” They wouldn’t be leaving their fallen for long, and even for a short separation, he would not allow them to be left disrespectfully. First order of business was respect for the dead. He eased Papaw off his legs, sliding him gently to the floor. Twisted put an open hand up and didn’t even look to see who threw the tablecloth to him. He just gripped the fabric when it hit his open palm. Flipping it out, letting it bell through the air, he heard a half-dozen others doing the same. Crisp, clean fabric settling over their dead; starched white rapidly turning splotchy, stained with the spilled blood.
“Wipe and drop ‘em.” Every man with an Incoherent patch immediately did as ordered, pulling bar rags from behind the counter and tossing them to each other, or grabbing bandanas from the fallen, using the fabric to wipe down the pieces they’d fired. Leaving the guns meant one less search risk, but there were other ways for prints to remain. “Pop the clips. We’ll take rounds with us.” Cartridges weren’t traceable, so many made in a single batch, thousands at a time. Those batches sold in huge stores to a vast array of customers. “Grab the casings, too.” Citizens purchased recreational ammunition, as well as men like him. But those bitches held prints, and a smart man didn’t leave easy info behind. Two men bent at the waist, their fingers gathering up the spent casings.
“Go ahead and let ’em roll.” That order was for Whitewall, and Twisted watched as the man stepped out of the doorway, waving his pistol at the crowd, urging the silent sheep into movement. Whitewall barely managed to get out of their way as the men and women stampeded to the parking lot, piling into cars and trucks, uncaring of the bumper strikes against parked vehicles on their speeding way out to the road, giving all the bikes a wide berth. The other club that had been on that side of the room still stood. Shoulder to shoulder, they had no bodies at their feet. A piece gripped in each hand, one of the men stepped forwards, tipping his head towards where Twisted knelt on the floor. Not understanding the silent communication, Twisted barked a question at the man, “What?”
“Ain’t my gig, man.” Hand sweeping wide to indicate the entirety of the clusterfuck surrounding them. “You’re gonna find the patches on those vests behind and in front of the bar aren’t official.” Fuck. That meant the Vicar’s Wrath patches he’d seen on the fallen didn’t indicate real members. “Name’s Pony, and it appears someone’s lookin’ to stir a war, didn’t expect to find me and my boys here.” Someone was drawing false trails in the sand, trying to lead the waters to a polluted pond. Pony continued, verifying Twisted’s thoughts, “I’m Vicar’s Wrath, man. SAA for 9th, and I’m tellin’ you, this ain’t VWMC business.”
A single nod to indicate he heard and understood released the man and the group at his back. Twisted watched as they made their way to the door and through it. Bike engines turned over outside, and headlights swept the woods at the edges of the parking lot. Then the engine noise diminished, fading to nothing.
“We ready?” He directed that to Po’Boy, who glanced at the men, and then nodded to Twisted. He looked down at Papaw, then around the room at the other covered bodies. Incoherent wasn’t huge. Not by a long shot. As an entire club, they carried about fifty full members and no more than five prospects at any given time. Losing seven, with three of those dead being officers at the national level, was a hit that would stagger the club.
“Y’all see where Fred went?” Nothing about the bitch’s attitude rang true. She had been expecting this, had kept his brother here for a while with her mouth. Waiting around until Twisted showed, then within fifteen minutes of him walking through the door, she was strolling out, leaving blood and bone and a very confused Fred in her wake. “Bitch that was with him, I want her.”
“Got a name?” That came from a Picayune member, and Twisted looked at the men carefully, marking the different chapters. Picayune, Hammond, Lake Charles, Baton Rouge, all men he knew from joint runs and parties, the wisdom of Papaw finally exposed, because in making those things mandatory, he’d ensured Twisted had brothers, no matter the house.
“Sabrina Rotain. Bitch is from Mandeville.” With a jerk of his chin, he pulled all the men towards the doors with him. “But, that’s gonna have to be for later. Mandeville, however, is where we’re headed now. Let’s split thirds, meet up at the house there.” Nods from all sides, and behind him h
e heard Whitewall assigning rides. He knew without listening that he and Po’Boy would be riding with Whitewall, running protection for their veep, the man who would probably be their new president. They had three voids to fill: president, enforcer, and sargent at arms. Fuck. So much wisdom and knowledge lost in minutes, gone. Wiped off the earth, their lives snuffed out, leaving behind only blood already drying to maroon streaks on the dirty floor. Straddling his bike, he unstrapped his lid from its place hanging on the handlebars, not aware he’d lost himself in thought until he felt a hand settle carefully on his shoulder. Looking up, he found Whitewall staring at him.
“You cool, brother?” The only question that mattered couldn’t be asked, not here, and while he wanted to howl at the heavens because he had just lost the only family member who ever gave a shit about him, he couldn’t do that, either. So he gave the only answer he could.
“I’m cool.” Quick, jerking movements secured the helmet on his head, a shift of his shoulder unseated the hand while Whitewall stared at him another moment, then moved to his own bike. In less than two minutes, they were on the road. As the first group to pull out of the lot they went left, and Twisted watched in his mirror as the next group turned right, and saw the final group cross the highway to head straight up a country road.
***
“We got coverage.” That was intended to be reassuring, and coming from Dropsie, it should have been, but Whitewall evidently wasn’t feeling enough of it because his response demanded more.
“Tell me what kind of coverage, and who.” Coverage meant they had at least one man inside the investigation of the shootout at the bar. Coverage said greased palms and passing envelopes, powerful men in their pocket, and their asses shielded in the best way possible.
“Boss, you know we can’t talk names here.” No one was surprised that the president tag had been withheld so far. That could only be voted in, but Whitewall made an impatient noise and Twisted didn’t know if it was that or at being blocked from the knowledge he wanted.
“Go private, then.” Pushing to his feet, Whitewall gestured at Dropsie and walked towards the back room. Once there, he turned and again made an impatient noise, gesturing at Twisted. Their stares held for a long time across the room, long enough that Dropsie turned to face him, too. Gaze darting between the two men, he saw the same look of anguish and anger on their faces, along with irritation at his reluctance to trust them on this. That expression was what gave his feet permission to move, following them into the room and waiting while Dropsie closed the door.
They stood in silence a minute, standing and staring at the chair where Papaw used to hold court. Where he had handed out praise and punishment. Ruling with an iron fist, he had steered the club through rough waters, building a membership with an undeniable strength. Growing the ranks in a slow but patient way, he was adept at driving the men into situations where brotherhood could be birthed. My brother: The phrase no longer rote but written in blood and faith. Twisted had stood in this room often, watching as his grandfather interacted with members, the family he built from nothing to become a force in the outlaw world.
Whitewall drew a breath that sounded shaky and…old. Twisted turned to see the man’s eyes on him. Already alert, he became more so, his back straightening. Something was coming that the man felt he needed to prepare for, needed to steel himself to say, which meant Twisted would need to brace to hear.
“Ain’t talked to anyone,” Whitewall began. “Ain’t anyone said shit to me, but we’re all thinking it. Every one of us is feeling it.” Pausing, he turned to look at Dropsie, who gave a short, cryptic nod. Swinging back to Twisted, he said, “Jimbo was proud of you, son. Proud in a way that ran deep, like the pull of the Gulf current through the lake. Immovable, his pride and belief in you. Every man wearing the patch feels the same. You’ve worked hard to earn your place, never taking anything for granted, never expecting shit just because of who your pappy was.”
Twisted nodded—this was good to hear—but he knew how Papaw felt. The man told him every day, had spoon-fed him that knowledge with breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Papaw never explained, but Twisted always assumed he was so open because their relationship didn’t really start until he’d moved into the clubhouse, and Papaw felt guilty about how remote he had been before. Twisted opened his mouth to respond, but Whitewall beat him to the punch and filled the silence with pain-drenched words.
“Jimbo passed today from the handiwork of your blood. His blood.” He leaned back, shoulders hitting the wall, all three of them still huddled near the door. “Whether Fred meant it to happen or not, it did. Shit like this…” Voice trailing off for a moment, it was stronger when he continued. “Shit like this cannot stand uncontested.”
Twisted again opened his mouth, but it was Dropsie who cut him off this time.
“Bitch set shit up. We know her. Know her family. She’s got the money and the right amount of stupid to think she can get away with this.” Palm up, he reached out between them, his hand steady as he thrust it upwards. “Gotta send a message.”
“Find her for me. Bring her to me.” The first words Twisted had uttered since entering the room, and they were a death sentence. With a sharp nod, Dropsie turned and walked out, closing the door securely behind him. Twisted looked to Whitewall to see his gaze again directed to the chair positioned at the center of the long table.
“Prez,” Whitewall said, and Twisted jolted to hear it, the loss ringing through the short word in no way conveying the weight of the true feelings ricocheting through him at that moment. Then Whitewall called his name, pulling his eyes away from the chair and to the veep’s face. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, then Whitewall spoke, “Not a title I’m aimin’ for. I ain’t right for the job. Never was. Know my place. I’m not the man behind the lines, directing the action. I’m the man on the front, elbow-deep in blood when it’s called for. Clear conscience because someone else made the call. It’s weak, but it’s also a weakness kept in check because I know about it.”
Another moment of silence broken when Whitewall’s next words shocked him. “Means that shit’s gonna fall to you, Twisted.”
“Oh, hell no.” His blurted reaction pulled loud laughter from the man. The laughter turned into a hard, hitching breath, then another as Whitewall struggled to keep himself together. Twisted couldn’t believe Whitewall would even suggest such a thing. In no way was he prepared to follow his grandfather’s reign over the club. This had to be grief talking, and he’d easily be able to make Whitewall see the fallacy in his statement. “Every man out there, every man in a clubhouse with our emblem on it will follow you, Whitewall. Don’t matter—”
“No.” The word, loud and firm cut him off. “They might follow me, but brother, I won’t lead them. I know my limits, pushed past them more than once, had to circle back to find the edges of where I belong so I didn’t fuck up too badly, but I still fucked up. Thank God, I had Jimbo to back me up, settle my shit. No, brother. It’s gotta be you.”
“No fucking way.” He offered this in just as loud and firm a voice, but Whitewall didn’t let him get any farther.
“Only thing that will keep this club going is strength and a belief in what Jimbo built. That’s you.” Head shaking, he held up a hand, halting Twisted’s words. “Hear me out, brother. Wasn’t me nor Dropsie who took control tonight. Wasn’t Po’Boy or any of the others. You kept your shit under control and powered through a hard situation. Kept your shit in a way that allowed us to keep ours, too. Showed us your pain, and then dialed it back, showing us your strength, too. You kept yourself under control and in control in a way that got us away from there, dealt with the situation in the best possible way, and I could see, fuck, I watched as you learned a fucking lot along the way. When given a choice not five minutes ago, you didn’t take the easy road, didn’t ask to let someone else deal with retribution. Balls deep, you’ll lead from the front like Jimbo did. You’ll do whatever is needed. It’s what you’ve always done
for us, and we…the club, Incoherent demands no less now.”
He reached out, putting one hand on Twisted’s shoulder, gripping hard, and grabbing his wrist with the other, holding on tightly. Whitewall said, voice clear and ringing, “When we vote you in as president to fill Jimbo’s seat, that shit’s an honor and an anchor. Man you are, you ain’t gonna turn us down. Man you are, that honor will fill you up and hold you firm. But, man you are, that anchor will also weigh at you, pull at you, keep you in place. This won’t be a selfless decision on our part.”
He shook Twisted slightly. “Man you are, you could go anywhere and be pulled into the inner circle in weeks. Man you are, you could find a club that would take you places, international, give you a seat at large tables where policy is laid down that supports the whole community. Man you are, you’d take that on and best it, all of it, make it your fuckin’ bitch.” He paused to take a breath, his eyes burning into Twisted’s as he confessed, “Man I am, I want that for my brothers here. Want you. Want to keep you close. Anchor you. Keep you for Incoherent, keep you for us.”
His grip relaxed, and he moved, pulling Twisted into a one-armed clinch, pounding his back with a hard fist. “Prez. Love ya, brother. Honored to be the first to call you that.” In the words whispered fiercely near his ear, Twisted heard the emotion Whitewall was battling. “Honored, and fuckin’ hate it at the same time. Jimbo was more than my friend. We were brothers.”
“I know, brother. His love for you was not buried. He loved you right back.” Twisted spoke truth, because while every brother was loved by his Papaw, there was a special affection for the men he had served with, and Whitewall had been with him the longest. “I think you’re wrong about what the officers are gonna do, but brother, know that I’m honored to hear how you feel.” Twisted pulled back, releasing his counter hold on Whitewall. “Gonna go out, see what we’ve heard from the po-po. Let you talk to the men you need to, get things in the works to pull brothers in for a meeting because, in any case, we cannot be headless. Not in this climate. You’ll get my vote if I’m given one because I think you are the best man standing in this room. But we cannot be headless, twisting in the mud. We don’t settle the shit from today, we’ll bleed members. I won’t stand for that. This is Papaw’s legacy, and I’ll do whatever I have to in order to keep shit right.”
Neither This Nor That Box Set 1 Page 7
