Neither This Nor That Box Set 1

by MariaLisa deMora

  “Need some info on a man rolling east towards your plot.” Po’Boy didn’t flinch from diving straight in, knowing Retro would appreciate the no-nonsense approach. “He’s still a bit west o’ you, but close enough to sound the alert. Dude’s rebuilding Vicar’s Wrath and has strolled way to fuckin’ close to too many of us for comfort.”

  “Shiiiiit.” Drawing the single word out slow, Retro effectively communicated his dismay and the disquiet he felt at this knowledge.

  “Yeah, all of that right there…I’m feelin’ it, too, man.” Rude to ask if he was private enough to speak openly, so Po’Boy started paddling along the edges of the stream, hoping to give enough info to entice Retro’s assistance. “He dropped a couple of friends off a few weeks ago. We scooped ‘em up just in time to realize they’d brought some go-bang fireworks to a birthday party for our friend.” He paused and chewed on his lip for a moment, selecting his words with care. “Old school VWMC was never a friend of yours and sure ain’t friends of ours. This version is more zombie than alive, but still gonna be a fuckin’ pain in the ass.”

  “Whatcha needin’, Po’Boy? Lay it out plain.” Retro snorted and then chuckled. “Plain as you ever do, man.”

  “Momma didn’t raise no fool, man. Deuces comes to you, I’ll take anything you can find.” He chewed his lip again, ignoring the sharp pain and only wincing when he tasted the bitterness of blood. “Whatcha need?”

  “Marker.” Noise swelled in the background and then cut off abruptly, and Retro confirmed what Po’Boy thought, that he’d called someone into wherever he was. “I got Mudd here, I’ll fill him in.” That was good. Mudd was Retro’s VP, which meant the club would be on the case, not just Retro alone. “And Po’Boy?” Retro called the question, then went quiet, waiting for confirmation Po’Boy was listening.

  “Yeah?” Pushing up from the chair where he’d been seated, Po’Boy stalked around the desk, ready to be out of the enclosed office behind the clubhouse bar. “What?”

  “Personal, not club.”

  The demand made Po’Boy’s stride stutter awkwardly and halt as he barked, “The fuck? Say again, man?”

  “Personal marker.”

  “Uh.” Shaking his head, Po’Boy squinted at the wall in front of him, brows drawn sharply down into a frown. He struggled to dial back his initial reaction, trying hard to keep from saying something to fuck up the fact Retro was willing to take this on at all. He lifted a hand and scrubbed across the skin of his jaw for a minute straight before he felt in control. Finally, he forced out a clipped, “Done,” and then heard Retro’s laughter. “You fuckin’ with me?”

  “Hell, yeah. You’re an easy mark, man. Can’t do it in person, you’ll rip my head off.”

  “And shit down your fuckin’ neck,” Po’Boy agreed, not hiding the fact he was more than half ticked off Retro would have pulled that shit.

  “Still, good to know you’d be willin’ to give me that. Thanks for the info, man.” And that was Retro all over, because the man dealt in information and knowledge more than anything else. Lived to work his network, which was exactly why Retro had been the only man Po’Boy had considered calling. “Talk soon as I got anything.”

  “Roger, that. Have a day, fuckwad.” Po’Boy disconnected the call and then shoved the phone deep into his pocket, finishing making his way to and through the door to the bar where he poured three fingers of whiskey. Fucking Retro.

  “So you’ll help, right?” The question came from his right, and Po’Boy twisted around to see Ragman sitting on a stump he’d pulled close. “Fuck, brother. You hear anything I said?”

  With a sigh, Po’Boy shook his head. “Beat, man. Sorry.” He crossed his ankles again, swapping positions with his feet. “Twisted bring you up to speed?” Ragman was the only son of the previous president of the VWMC, and had disbanded the club when his old man was killed. One of Twisted’s main concerns about what Deuces was doing had been about what Ragman would think. He didn’t have any loyalty to the old club, nor any ounce of regret for what he’d done a year ago. Still didn’t mean he wouldn’t feel something.

  “Yeah.” Scowling, Ragman shook his head. “I made some calls. Put the word out. All patch sightings are gonna be reported. You can bet your ass on that. I’m not best pleased this bullshit popped up again, brother.”

  The word “again” caused Po’Boy to narrow his eyes, staring at Ragman for a moment. “Any idea where they got the patches?” He was shocked when Ragman flinched, face scrunched up as in pain. “The fuck’s wrong, man?”

  “You remember Trudette’s?”

  Now it was Po’Boy’s turn to flinch because that bar had been the scene of the worst massacre in recent memory. One resulting in the death of Twisted’s grandfather, Jimbo, along with several other Incoherent members and officers. The loss from that night had reverberated through the club for years following, and had been the ignition point for a fire which burned in Po’Boy and Twisted still. In a coup facilitated by fucking Sabrina—the gash might be dead but still had the power to roil Po’Boy’s gut and not only in his dreams—men who owed time and dime to Leswayne, Ragman’s old man, had popped up out of nowhere wearing fake VWMC patches, carving a path through the IMC to get to Jimbo.

  There’d been a gathering of original Vicar’s in the place that night, too, and they’d been the first to point out the dead and fled imposters. That group had been led by Pony, the VW SAA from the 9th ward chapter, who now wore an IMC patch. Good man. Po’Boy shook his head, realizing he hadn’t answered Ragman, and the silence had grown around them, soaking into the group in an expanding ring, like gasoline spilled on a rug. Pregnant quiet, it felt like they were all waiting for his words to start up the talk again.

  “The fuck you mean, do I remember goddamned fucking Trudette’s? Ain’t an IMC member who don’t remember that shit, even the ones patched after the piece of fuckery went down. We pound it into their heads as lore and history. Come on, Ragman, whatever you got, just spit it the fuck out.” Po’Boy cleared his throat and cast around, realizing he’d sat down all those minutes ago without a beer. Between the fire, the pot, and the emotions, he was dry as the desert. Fuck. “You sayin’ you think these patches are part of that batch? Same fuckin’ lot as the ones took out our leadership, rocked our world? You sayin’ that’s bad boomerang mojo at work, or what? What the fuck you sayin’, man?”

  “I’m not saying that. Jesus, you get wound up. I’m just saying we all know Leswayne’s down-south partners were behind those patches, and who knows how many they had made up. We don’t know the numbers. Fuck, man. We don’t even know where those masters are.” Ragman frowned. “If I can get my hands on a set of these patches, I’ll know in a minute if they’re the same. Cartel worked a figure into the edge, a tell, so they’ll stand out to someone who knows better.”

  “Are you sayin’ the Columbians were the ones who threw these patches out there? Shit.” Po’Boy thought furiously. That actually lined up with everything they knew so far. “Shit fire. You’re too smart for your own fuckin’ good, man. Jesus.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Wildman, ‘mere, brother.” A minute later the big man had made his way back around the fire and stood close, one crooked eyebrow lifted in a question. Po’Boy leaned forwards and pulled the man’s half-empty bottle from his unresisting hand, upending and draining it in a few swallows. Handing him back the empty, Po’Boy said, “Need a beer, brother. While you’re inside, bring me the bag from behind the bar.” Wildman looked at a nearby cooler, filled to overflowing with bottles and cans and Po’Boy shook his head. “Bar, brother. Bring me the bag.”

  As he walked away, Po’Boy heard quiet laughter from his other side and turned to see Twisted’s head tipped back, curved lips aimed at the stars overhead. “One of these days he’s gonna realize he don’t have to do your probie shit anymore, you know that, brother.”

  “Oh, yeah. I know. Don’t mean I won’t push it ‘til he pushes back.” Po’Boy grinned. “Not sure he’ll ever ditch me, thoug
h.” Waggling his eyebrows, he laughed. “Quack, quack.”

  Twisted repeated the phrase, slightly different, still with a laugh. “Quack, fuckin’ quack.”

  That was their shorthand for a preferred method of bringing new members into the club, pulling them close and folding them into the club in a way which meant they were immersed in everything good for so long they couldn’t see any other way. Like just-hatched ducklings imprinted on the first thing they laid eyes on, those members were tight for life. Wildman had been Po’Boy’s prospect, pulled in from another club that’d had just enough fuckery so he saw the difference in the IMC, and liked what he saw. Po’Boy cackled, laughing hard, the green relaxing him enough to play a little bit. “Hell, yeah. Got us a lifer, brother.”

  Wildman dropped off the bag and two cold beers, one for Po’Boy and one for Twisted, which made both men burst into more laughter, pulling a confused “What?” from the man.

  “Nothin’,” Twisted grunted, shaking his head. “Whatchu got there, Po’Boy?” There was an edge to Twisted’s voice he didn’t recognize, tension in his tone at odds with the ease of their company.

  “Patches,” Po’Boy said, and pulled out a piece of fabric, tossing it to Ragman, “and toys.” He brought out a long knife, the two unarmed pipe bombs he and Wrench had taken off the two VW, and a phone. “Knife showed up on the hip of a guy a few weeks ago. Divested him of said possession, I did. Educated him how it wasn’t healthy to pretend to be somethin’ he ain’t.” He glanced around, lips pulled to the side. “In case you’re wonderin’, it’s entirely unhealthy.” Ragman’s eyes narrowed and Po’Boy nodded, confirming his apparent suspicion. “Crater makers came off the two dudes I told y’all about. The phone”—he held it up between thumb and fingers—“was lifted off a bitch we both know.” Twisted raised an eyebrow, waiting patiently, and Po’Boy grimaced at the memories he knew would be stirred with the name he was about to give. “Sam Rotain.”

  Twisted’s back straightened, and he snarled the name back at Po’Boy. “Samantha Rotain? What the fuck does Sam have to do with anything? Ain’t she over west somewhere, fucking her way through social clubs?” Twisted’s eyes narrowed, staring at Po’Boy. “Last I heard, she wasn’t much to look at anymore. Didn’t have a tight hole left, either.”

  “Truth to everything you just said, brother, except direction. She’s east, and the bitch gots a serious hard-on for Wrench.” He shrugged. “I happened to be in a position to see what I could get for him.” That had been Retro’s ask, called in yesterday. Po’Boy didn’t understand the timing, but had been quick to clear the marker, finding out what Retro needed. The phone had been extra, and not something he’d disclosed in his report, holding it close for his own club. “Bitch hates his ass. Blind hatred. So, seein’ as he’s your ole lady’s bestie, ya know, thought I’d do what I could.” Po’Boy felt his lips pull to the side and tried to battle the sneer. “Got a little more than I expected.”

  Twisted shook his head. “Sam’s been a pain in our asses for years. Bitch surfaces occasionally to try and stir shit between clubs, never as successfully as her sister, thanks be to God.” He stared at Po’Boy. “Where the hell’d you run across her?”

  “She crashed at a party where I’d been lurkin’.” It was the truth, and following a lead for information he’d had good reason to be there, and not just to have one of the locals suck his dick. I wasn’t averse to the action, though. Po’Boy shrugged at the thought, flicked the screen with his thumb and lifted it up, showing off the lighted screen. “Unlocked.”

  Raising his voice, he told the crowd gathered around the three men seated in a row: him, Twisted, and Ragman. “Lesson time, baby boys. When pussy figures shit out—and they will figure shit out, because sharing a pillow means they’re going to know more than you ever fuckin’ want them to know. But, pussy also means they’re gonna be oversharing with their bitches, so if you give that pussy you’re sleepin’ with a little too much info, it just might mean oversharing with whoever picks up that pussy’s or their bitches’ shit.”

  He held the phone over his head. “Exhibit number one,” he said with an exaggerated drawl, “is the fact the pussy who owned this phone knows a whole lot of shit about a whole lot of people. She’s got notes on routes and even got fuckin’ names. Her newest old man’s RC is verging on outlaw. They want it so bad they done gone cross-eyed trying to find it. What they did find is cartel. And cartel likes to move all kinds of shit. This little phone here”—he shook the phone again—“has probably three million dollars’ worth of info on it. And I got it, right here.”

  Ragman interjected, “Same patches, man. Cartel here, too.”

  “Oh, yeah. We got those fuckin’ Columbians alllll up in our shit.” Po’Boy turned to Twisted. “Got word about CoBos. They found the same goddamned group was jacking up their shit in Kentucky.”

  “Word about, or from?” Twisted asked for clarification, clearly wanting to know the source.

  “About. Via Alabama.” That’d tell everyone the who without having to put Retro’s name out there. “I’m digging through every ditch I can think of to pull info together, boss. Tryin’ to find the breach lettin’ shit through. Now—” He looked around at the circle of faces, grown by double handfuls in the few minutes they’d been talking. “—the question is, what are we gonna do about all this shit?” He tipped his head over and stared at Twisted, who was glaring at him. Po’Boy felt a trickle of unease biting through the haze of the pot. Maybe woulda been better to do this quietly. Private like. Fuck.

  “Church. Tomorrow.” Twisted paused between each clipped word and then lifted his chin slightly, and Po’Boy knew Twisted was about to make a point or an example out of him. “Open church. Our man Po’Boy’s makin’ eggs and bacon, feedin’ the entire membership. Better line up your helpers, brother. You got a lotta pork belly to fry.”

  Fuck. Stone sober now, without looking away, Po’Boy lifted his voice and shouted, “Wildman, ‘mere, brother.”

  Loud laughter chased away the unease from the men’s faces as Wildman tipped his chin up and asked the heavens, “Lord, why me?”

  ***

  Po’Boy lifted a hand to the bartender, asking for another overpriced bourbon. He sighed and drained the drink in front of him, placing the empty glass with the rattling cubes of barely melted ice close to the bar rail. He woke his phone to confirm there were no messages and made a face, sighing again. He’d downloaded the app and used their system to send texts to a half a dozen people, hoping to find one of his regular hookups free and with company in tow. No such luck tonight.

  Perfume tickled his nose, light and sweet, and he turned in time to see a pretty blonde woman in the process of perching on the stool next to him. The chick took her time arranging a big portfolio bag between her feet, hooking the strap over one knee. He eyed what he could see of her legs, appreciating the curvy view as her skirt slipped higher on her thighs. No skinny Winnie, this pretty thing had some meat to her bones, which met a lot of the need in Po’Boy when it came to women.

  He quickly checked his phone again, hoping perhaps she was there as a result of his messaging, but there were no responses waiting for him. The bartender wandered down, rag in hand and a predatory smile on his face. Po’Boy lifted his chin, scowling. Fucker could see she wasn’t his normal clientele and had poised to swoop in and scalp her. Po’Boy wasn’t about to see a woman taken advantage of just because she was out of her element. “Hi,” she spoke quietly to the bartender, softly enough Po’Boy had to strain to hear her over the background music, “I’d like an Amaretto sour, please.”

  “ID please.” The bartender held his hand out in a demand and damned if she didn’t have to undo everything she’d just worked on with her bag. In the process, her skirt hiked even farther up those glorious legs, and Po’Boy saw the lacy top edge of what had to be a pair of thigh-high hose. Jesus, fuck me. She fumbled the retrieval of her ID, and it flipped out of her hand in an arc, headed towards the floor. As much as
he’d like to see her climb down and bend over—oh, fuck yeah, I would—Po’Boy reached out and deftly snagged the rectangle. He eyed the picture, nearly as pretty as she was in real life, and made a note of her name and age, and then saw her address. Same condo complex as Wrench over in Slidell. Hmmm.

  “Christine Emmerson, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Smoothly Po’Boy flashed it at the bartender and then held out her ID with one hand, reaching across with the other to shake. He held her hand longer than necessary, not enough to make her uncomfortable, but just enough to send a clear impression of interest. “I’m Lewis.” Without turning from her or breaking their gaze, he spoke to the bartender, “Put that sour on my tab, yeah?”

  “Hi. Uh, Lewis.” Her musical voice fumbling for words was cute. There was a lot of cute to this gal, which meant she wasn’t at all like what he normally went for. Still, cute was sexy as fuck in the right setting. “That’s not necessary, but thank you.” Hand still in his, she glanced up the bar to where her drink was being mixed by a slyly smiling bartender. “I can buy my own drinks.”

  “I expect you can, seeing as you came into a bar by your lonesome.” He squeezed her hand, liking the eye flare he got as her fingers twitched in response. She was looking at him again, which was his intent. “But Joey there—” He tipped his head towards the bartender, already not his favorite who worked at the bar, and even less so now. “—was about to mix cheap and charge top shelf. I’m just keeping him honest.” This earned him another eye flare, this one shocked instead of intrigued, and he chuckled. “It’s one drink, Christine.” Tightening his grip for a moment, he reluctantly released her hand, gaze following its retreat to her lap, noting how her fingers immediately set to twisting around the strap of her bag. “Nothing more.”

  “Well, then. You’re doing me two favors. Your next drink can be on me?” Po’Boy gritted his teeth, fighting against going hard at the thought of being on her. Fuck, yeah, his dick said, fattening with a pulsing throb. She needed to consider her words with more caution. “And, it’s Crissy. That’s what my friends call me.”