Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (18 page)

Before rolling out, he stopped at a shop in Germantown, where over the past few days, he’d gotten a start on a tattoo. This would be his last two-hour session, drawing in the crisp details of feathers on the blackbird now inked on his right shoulder. Captured in flight, the large bird soared without fear, carelessly losing feathers with its tail spread in the wind. It looked the way he felt when he was riding his bike.

***

Andrew bypassed St. Louis in favor of going straight up towards Chicago. Looking at the map, Lake Michigan seemed impossibly huge, and he wanted to see this lake that was as large as some inland seas. Rolling up I-57, he pulled into the outskirts of town, watching the overhead signs closely and taking the exit towards 41, which ran right up along the edge of the lake for miles. He planned to drive the lake, and then find a motel for the night.

Since being inside the 294 loop, he’d seen several groups of bikers heading each way. He still felt a thrill when they acknowledged him, waving low in that gesture of brotherhood. Idling down the ramp for his exit, Andy heard the unmistakable sound of motorcycle pipes coming up behind him. Pulling to a stop at the light, he put his feet down and looked over his shoulder to see about sixty bikes bearing down on him.

Since he was already stopped, he couldn’t easily move out of their way, so he sat at the light, looking cautiously left and right as the bikes stopped close to him—really close—way too close for comfort, as in right up alongside him.
Fuck
. He cut his eyes to the side again, and seeing one of the bikers on his right give him a chin lift, Andy returned it. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was for being caught up in the middle of a club riding on what was clearly an official run, and all the men on bikes surrounding him made him nervous.

On his other side, the biker’s head was shaved, and he had a helmet tattooed onto his skull. The guy had on a black leather vest with several patches sewn onto the front lapels, including a red diamond patch with ‘1%’ embroidered on it, and one that said ‘President’, with ‘Bones’ right below it.

He had full tribal sleeves, and a small, black goatee. Lifting one fingerless-glove-covered hand for a fist pound, he grinned at Andy and yelled, “Sweet fucking Indian. Jesus, she’s a beaut.”

Nodding, Andy grinned in return, bumping his knuckles against the guy’s fist. “Thanks, man. She’s my baby.”

The guy’s face turned serious suddenly, and he looked down one of the side streets, and then turned back to Andy, saying harshly, “I need you to sit the fuck here and let my club ride around, man. Respect. Then you turn, and you go a different fucking way. Keep clear of any blowback. Any brothers get in your face, tell them Bones said don’t fuck with you.”

The light turned green, and the biker named Bones nodded at him, pulling away without another word. Andy sat there stupefied, not even able to nod or wave at the bikes as they moved. He waited, watching the bikes flow around him like water around a rock in a riverbed.

There was a top rocker patch that said ‘Skeptics’ on nearly every man’s back, along with a large middle patch of a skull with one bony finger against its cheek, and a smaller MC patch beside it. Every rider had a bottom rocker that said ‘Chicago Chapter’. None of the riders had women with them; there were a few doubled-up, but they were all men.

The light had turned back to red before they were all through, and the remaining fifteen bikes pulled up all around and on either side of him, just as the first ones had. On Andy’s right was an older dude with a lean face, sporting a short, white Vandyke, sunglasses, and an army cap on his head. He had intricate and colorful tattooed sleeves covering nearly all the skin on both arms, and was wearing at least a dozen neon-colored Mardi Gras beads around his neck.

Looking at Andy’s bike with delight, he pointed to his own Indian and offered his fist for a bump. “Goddamn, that’s a pretty Chief. Yes, sir, that’s a pretty ride.” He laughed, looking across Andy at the man on the other side. “Six-Pack, you see this shit?”

Andy turned to look at the other man, who was a little tubby around the waist, thinking,
‘Six-Pack’ must mean his drinking preferences, not his physique
. The man pulled off his bandana to wipe the sweat from his face and neck, and then tugged it back down over his balding head. He had on a mechanic’s shirt under his vest, and the name ‘Walt’ was sewn over the pocket. “Fucking fringe gets Shades hard every time,” Six-Pack called with a laugh.

Sitting with his feet wide, balancing the bike, Andy watched as the light turned green again, and the rest of the bikers drove through the intersection. Some of these had ‘Prospect’ in place of the chapter rocker. They all raised a hand and waved at him, and as the last ones cleared the crossroad, he heard the distinct
pop, pop, pop
of gunfire in the direction they were headed.

Opening up their throttles, they roared into the dusk, disappearing into thin air as if they’d never existed. “Fucking surreal shit,” Andy muttered, turning the bike to the right and motoring towards the lake. “Fuck me.”

12 -
            
Neutral territory

Several days later, Andy surprised himself by waking up to yet another morning in Chicago. If he was going to stick here for a while, he needed to start looking for a job. Calling Watcher, he first checked on Carmela, finding out she was doing well in school and had stopped having nightmares. That was good to hear, because he knew that during the first months out of Mexico she had screamed the house down nearly every night, even with such a good disposition during the day.

Andy casually brought the conversation around to Chicago, asking about job opportunities and clubs that didn’t mind someone who simply wanted to hang around. Watcher knew of a bar known to be neutral territory. They had ties with a garage where Andy might be able to look for a mechanic job. He told Andy to mention he’d been sent by Watcher.

He’d gotten a lot of practice at it in Las Cruces, and across the country afterwards, and since he’d been picking up tools one at a time, he had a good assortment of things needed to wrench on bikes. Jotting down the bar’s name—Jackson’s—Andy wound up the call talking about Memphis, telling Watcher what had gone down and why he’d left.

“No brothers for you to hang with in Memphis?” came the snarled question.

“Nah, the clubs and members I met there all seemed to be looking out for themselves. Hell, one of the clubs didn’t even have a clubhouse, and they had church in the basement of the YMCA,” Andy said and laughed, but then quieted, listening to the telling silence coming from the phone.

“Did they have MC patches, or RC?” Watcher finally asked.

“I’m honestly not sure. What’s the difference, man?” Andy shook his head.

“Sounds like a wannabe club; they probably had a single large patch on the back of their cuts, right?” he asked, and then Watcher yelled away from the phone indistinctly.

Andy smiled at this audible reminder of Watcher’s home life; even long distance, it sounded like it was never dull. “Yeah, they did have just the one patch,” he replied.

Watcher’s voice sounded confident as he said, “Riding club, then—RC. They gather wherever and hang out, pay dues. New members buy into their patches, so they’ll have someone to ride with on the weekend—no business, no real loyalty or commitment, just riding—not brothers.

“You might see an MA; that’s a motorcycle association, and it could be a ministry or some other squeaky-clean group. Some are badasses, though, so don’t ever make a fucking assumption, Ice Man. MC, motorcycle club, is where you’ll see the brotherhood like we have out here in my Southern Soldiers. Patches are earned in equal measures by dedication, effort, and respect...never bought. Club business is sacrosanct, and conducted in church behind closed and fucking locked doors that even the prospects don’t breach.

“Even here in my Soldiers, we have specific requirements for most members. Ideally, we want everyone to be retired military, because that gives us the mindset we’re looking for. The club might not be a fit for everyone, as you found out, but it works for us. We watch each other’s backs; we take care of business, love our families, and try hard to manage all the crazy that kicks in the doors. My Soldiers are completely independent, but a lot of clubs negotiate support agreements with other nearby clubs, which effectively extends their territory.

“This bar that I told you about, it was the property of the Skeptics MC, but I heard it was recently sold to one of the Rebel Wayfarers members. It should still be a neutral location, because I heard Davis Mason bought it, and he’s a pretty straight arrow.” Watcher yawned.

“I met Bones, the president of the Skeptics,” Andy said.

There was silence on the line again, followed by a gruff, “You
met
him?”

“Yeah, first day in town, a bunch of them pulled up beside me at a light, and he talked to me for a minute. Told me if any of his men bothered me, I was to tell them Bones said not to fuck with me.”

“No shit, Andy?” Watcher laughed.

Shaking his head, Andy responded, “I shit you not, man.”

“That’s fucking interesting. You watch your six, brother. Call me if there’s need, okay, man?”

He realized his forehead was a mass of wrinkles; Watcher had thrown a ton of info at him. “Um...thanks, brother. I will.”

***

Pulling into the side lot of Jackson’s, Andy backed his bike into a parking spot at the end of a long line of other bikes, looking at the shining paint and chrome with pleasure. He was glad he’d taken the time to polish up his girl a couple days ago; a few days on the road could put a layer of grime on things, and he liked it when she shone.

Taking his time putting gear away in his bags, he surveyed the rest of the lot. He noted that the bar seemed to have brisk business for an early mid-week afternoon.

Taking a breath, he realized he was nervous, which threw him a little. He’d been doing this kind of thing for a long time, and wasn’t sure why he was suddenly anxious about walking alone into a bar. Pulling the door open, he stepped in and to the side, letting the door close as his eyes adjusted to the interior lighting. Shrugging out of his jacket, he saw an empty stool at the bar, laid his jacket over it and sat down.

The music was low, background noise, and there was a swelling murmur of sound from the booths as the conversations interrupted by his entrance began to resume. Tapping out a faint beat against the bar top, Andy used the mirror on the bar back to check out the other customers seated at the bar.

He saw many rough faces covered by scruff, and beards of various lengths. Most were wearing leather vests, and almost every one of them was using the mirror for the same thing he was, but they were all looking at him.

The bartender strolled out from the back room and saw him right away; he walked over to lean on the bar across from Andy. “You in the right place, man?” came the puzzling question.

“Yeah, I think so. Watcher from Las Cruces said I could find a cold beer here.” Stopping his thumbs from tapping, Andy cocked his head. “Was he wrong?”

Barking out a laugh, the man pulled a frosted mug from the slide-top freezer behind him. “Nah, Watcher knows his fucking shit, that’s for sure. He tell you to use his name?”

Andy nodded. “He did.”

Drawing the beer into a mug, the man slid it across to Andy, saying, “Buck-fifty, no tabs.” He stood wiping his hands with a bar towel while Andy pulled a bill from his wallet. The guy was tall and heavily muscled; he had a Harley stocking cap on his head, and his hair was barely long enough to curl out from under the back. With a couple days’ worth of growth on his face, and a closed-off expression, he didn’t let any emotion show through, even when he laughed.

Taking the cash, he turned to the register, and Andy saw he was wearing a cut. It had a central patch with a skull wearing a black paisley bandana, the head framed by handlebars with a three-pronged skeleton key clenched in its teeth. The top rocker said Rebel Wayfarers, and the bottom one indicated that Chicago was the mother chapter. He turned away from the register to face the bar again, and Andy saw the President patch above the man’s heart. This must be Mason, the guy whom Watcher talked about.

He had nice-looking art on his hands and arms, with a s
triking tattoo of a brilliantly colored bird wreathed in flames climbing up his arm. Most of Andy’s ink was covered by his shirt, but the man fixed his gaze on the words showing on his shoulder and pointed to it, asking, “Lose somebody?”

“It’s for my little brother; he’s back in Wyoming, but I watch out for him as best I can from a distance,” Andy explained. “Have to watch out for our brothers, right?”

Nodding, the man moved away and efficiently mixed a few drinks for the lone waitress to distribute to the booths and tables. Then, he wiped down the bar top, and served the patrons at the bar as needed.

Andy was quietly sipping his beer, keeping track of movement in the mirrors. There were two greybeards coming over from across the room, and the bikers on either side of Andy suddenly abandoned their stools, standing and walking away. Andy sighed, locking eyes with one of the men in the mirror as they sat down.

He turned his head first one way and then the other, acknowledging them with a chin lift each, then he picked up his beer and took another sip. The man on his left had long white hair tied back with a bandana, and wore a thermal shirt under his cut. He sported a heavy chain that dipped in the front underneath his shirt collar, and his long mustache was dark, contrasting starkly with his hair.