Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (37 page)

Without raising his head, Slate cut his eyes over and looked at Bingo. “Better if it’s coming from national, man, and you know that shit. Underscores the fucking backing that you have. Plus, it keeps your family out of the line of fire, and your nieces and nephews don’t need this kind of shit. It’s done; we’ll sort it out. I’d like to move on today to the other things we discussed.”

Bingo’s eyes dropped, and he nodded, “I called Doc earlier; he’s headed over to the strip club. We’ll have blood work back on all the girls by tomorrow.”

Slate narrowed his eyes. “Call him. I want to talk to him.” Deke reached out, punching a number into the phone, and put it on speaker. “Yeah?” came over the line. “Hey, Doc, Slate. You get started yet?” He slumped in the chair.

“Not yet, getting the last of the late arrivals on board with the program,” Doc grumbled, and they could hear females yelling in the background.

Grinning, Slate looked up at Bingo. “Get’em in line, Doc. Do you have resources to do drug screening in addition to STDs and pregnancy?”

There was a pause. “Some…is there anything specific you looking for, Slate?”

“Blow, horse, meth, the usual,” he said, rubbing his hand across his jaw.

“Yeah, I got shit for that. I’ll get it all done at once,” came the response. Slate nodded and Deke ended the call.

“Want to tackle the Highwaymen next, or look at the books on the shooting range?” Slate asked Bingo.

“Fuck, man, you are relentless,” Deke said with a laugh.

Bingo scowled. “Shooting range. Might as well get the hard shit over with.”

Slate nodded. “We’ll want five or six full-patch brothers to go with. I need to know who you trust and want at your backs.” He listened as Bingo and Deke named off a few people, and noticed which names didn’t make the roster. He waited patiently as they carefully gathered their trusted circle, and before long, the men they’d carefully chosen were crowding into the office with them.

He let Bingo give them the rundown of what the task was about, watching the expressions on the faces of Diablo, PBJ, and Gunny. Two of them were clearly not surprised by this job, and he called them on it. Unfolding and climbing to his feet, he faced the men in the room. “Brothers, anything that’s already known would be good intel to have at this point.”

Gunny looked at Bingo, then back at Slate. “There’s at least one private party who never made it into the books, man. I got a new piece a few weeks ago, and wanted to go drop some rounds to dial it in. Ramone was on the door and told me there was a cop group there, but when I looked at the schedule later to see when I could book some time, there wasn’t no entry for that group at all. I asked him, and he said he didn’t do the schedule, only showed up when told to.” He looked back at Bingo. “I didn’t think anything of it, Prez.”

“No reason for you to, Gunny,” Bingo said shaking his head. He looked over at Slate, “How the hell did you see this from Chicago, when I didn’t see it from here?”

Waving a hand in dismissal, Slate reassured him, “It’s easier when shit’s not cluttered by the day-to-day, man. Harder for you to see it, buried as you are with hang-around attitudes in full-patch cuts.” The atmosphere became arctic in the room, tension apparent in Bingo’s posture.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Slate?” he ground out.

Slate leaned over the desk, not intimidated by Bingo’s attitude. “You know what the fuck I’m talking about, man. Those names you
didn’t
consider for this job? Those men are not my
brothers
, clear as fucking day. I walk into that room out there,” Slate pointed at the door, “and they are edgy, nervous as hell, and nearly fucking disrespectful. You don’t pull that shit when there’s a visiting member unless you got bad blood, or unless you got something to hide. You sure as fuck don’t pull shit like that when there’s a fucking national officer visiting.”

PBJ spoke up, “Couple of members headed out on a run as soon as you came in here, Slate. Who are you looking at for problems?”

Slate looked at him. “Rabid and Ramone are two of them.”

PBJ made a face. “Both left, Slate. Sorry, man.”

Waving off his apologies, Slate asked, “Do you know if they made any calls before they headed out?”

“Don’t think so, brother,” PBJ said.

“Okay, let’s roll. Might as well get this over with,” Slate sighed, running both hands through his short hair.

***

Thirty minutes later, Slate was seated on a stool just outside the shooting range office. He was listening to the noises from within the office with one ear, and to distract himself from the thuds and groans, he looked over at the member seated on the other side of the door, asking with a grin. “PBJ, how the fuck did you get saddled with a sandwich as your road name, man?”

The big man’s face split with a grin, his teeth shining whitely through his full beard. “Aww, man, don’t bring up painful memories.”

Slate laughed. “Really, man? What the hell?”

With a huge sigh, PBJ rubbed his belly under his shirt. “I fucking love peanut butter. When I was a prospect, I’d make peanut butter sandwiches every morning and pack them in my saddlebags. I never knew when we’d get called out, or if we’d have time to stop and eat on a run, and I get hungry, bro.”

He laughed. “The third or fourth time we pulled up to a stop and I snagged out a sandwich, Bingo grabbed it and took a bite. He spit it out, because it was just peanut butter, no jelly, and so I became PBJ.”

Slate laughed, nodding. The door opened between them, and they stood, turning to see Bingo coming out with a thunderous look on his face. He stalked past them to the outside door, kicking it open and moving through, letting it slam behind him. “Guessing that didn’t go well,” Slate said, turning to look in the office.

Ramone was sitting slumped into the corner, his head lolling lax on his shoulder. His face was already swelling and bruising, and he would be hurting when he woke up. The shooting range manager, Torres, was crumpled on the floor near him, and Slate had to look hard to see his chest rising and falling.

He turned to PBJ. “Go outside and get Gunny and Diablo. Let’s get a cage and get them out of here. Lock up the place on your way out, but don’t take them to the clubhouse unless you get a call from me or Bingo. I gotta have a talk with Mason.”

Slate waited in the doorway until the Rebels walked in, then he followed Bingo outside. In the lot, Bingo was astride his bike, smoking. He sighed as Slate walked up, and grumbled, “This is fucked up, man. We need to get Mason down here, Slate. He needs to bring Myron with him; I don’t know how much these fuckers have skimmed. Rabid’s in the wind; he went out the back when we came in, according to Ramone. I can’t be president of this club; I need to call Mason and talk to him, and he’s going to fucking tell me to step down, brother. Fuck, how did I not see this?”

Putting a hand on his shoulder, Slate squeezed hard until Bingo looked up at him. “You with me,
Brother
?” he asked. “Because I need you present, you here?”

Bingo nodded. “I’m with you.”

“Okay, let’s not put words in Mason’s mouth, and remember—we’re taking care of this shit now. Regardless of what happened last week, or the week before, we are sorting the shit, and Mason knows we can handle anything that comes down the road. That’s why he agreed to this chapter, and that’s why he set you as president. Let’s go back to the clubhouse and call him where we have some privacy, and then we’ll sit down with him tomorrow.”

Bingo frowned. “I’m getting too old for this shit, man. I just want to watch my sister’s kids grow up.”

Slate growled, “Let’s talk to Mason, and give him a chance to weigh in on this shit.” Walking over to his bike, he started it and waved Bingo to pull out ahead of him.

***

“Goddammit. Are you telling me the chapter is fucked? I don’t have time for this shit, man. Run it down for me; tell me what you need.” Mason was pissed, and it came across the phone clearly.

Frowning at Bingo across the desk, Slate started his report, “More than half the issues are solved already, Prez. Girls are tested, and we’re waiting on results. Even if we have to replace some of them, the manager there is solid. It’s DeeDee, and she can deal with shit as needed, now that I’ve given her the authority for it.”

He continued, “Tony Manzino has been notified of our intent to have him vacate the fucking town. I expect a response within a few hours. We might have to push-pull a little, but it is something the solid members here can deal with. When we came back from the shooting range, there was a noticeable difference in the population of the street rabble, so I have hopes it will be more push than pull.

“The only sticking points are the skimming from the range, and the members involved. I think we need you here for church, so all members under-fucking-stand the problems and the consequences. We have two members under lockdown, a third in the wind, and two more who don’t know we’re looking. We need Myron down to know what kind of total volume we’re looking at on the skim.”

He leaned forward. “Prez, we need to consider who to put in as manager at the range, knowing they are going to have to fucking deal with LEO. With the Highwaymen, I think we can handle that final issue while you are here, because we simply need them to get they can’t rumble in here whenever they think about it. This is Rebel territory now, and has been for a few years. We had a sit-down with them a couple years ago; we can repeat if we need. That about it, Bingo?” He looked across the desk.

Bingo looked at him steadily, saying, “Just about, brother, but Mason, you need to be thinking about who can replace me as president of the Fort Wayne chapter. I didn’t see any of this shit coming, and I think that’s because I’m tied up in knots with my nieces and nephews. I can’t let one family down at the cost of the other, man. This is tearing me up.”

There was a silence on the phone for a long time, then they heard a heavy, unhappy sigh. Mason cleared his throat, then said, “Let’s discuss it when I’m there. Give me five hours. I’ll get Digger to put Myron in a van, because you know that fucker always wants to bring his computers and shit. They can come down tomorrow; a few hours won’t matter, long as we keep the range in lockdown.”

Mason sighed again. “Bingo, go ahead and put the clubhouse on lockdown and bring in families. Keep patrols to seasoned members only; I don’t want to get surprised by Manzino. Keep the existence and condition of Ramone and Torres need-to-know, but put out word that Rabid needs to be found. Let’s grab the other two members—who are they?”

“Choir Boy and Tampa,” Bingo said.

“Okay, pick them up and lock them down. Let’s contain this shit; keep it from leaking,” Mason responded. “I’m leaving now; see you in five. Bingo, reconsider, brother. You know I’ll respect your decision, but I’d hate like fuck to have you step out, man. See ya.”

The phone call ended, and Slate leaned back in his chair, watching Bingo’s face. He didn’t like what he saw there; it looked very much like his decision was made.
Fuck me
, he thought. “Want me to get shit lined out, Bingo? Or want to get Deke in here, loop him in first?”

“Whichever you think, Slate. It’s your call, brother.” Bingo ran a hand across his face. “I need a smoke; I’m stepping outside.”

Watching him walk out, Slate stood for a minute thinking, and then yelled through the open door for Deke, changing seats. “Close the door, man. Got something for you to digest.”

***

His head was throbbing, eyes burning from lack of sleep. Slate ran a hand through his hair, squinting across the room as Mason walked into the clubhouse. “Fuck me, it’s good to see you,” he called, reaching out to thump his back.

Pulling Mason into the office, he shut the door behind them. Waiting for him to sit, he was surprised when Mason selected the chair in front of the desk, instead of the one behind it.
I got a bad feeling about this
, he thought as he walked around and sat down where Mason indicated.

“Bingo went home, Mason. I couldn’t keep him here without locking him down. I sent three brothers with him, because if anyone is at risk from Manzino, it’s Bingo and his family. Deke is following a rumor about Rabid; I expect to hear from him any time now. Bingo never selected a LT, so Deke is as close to second in command as they have here. I’ve got four brothers that need discussion in church, but I don’t know if it warrants waiting to know the scope of the skim or not. To me, the skim is enough; the scope doesn’t matter.”

Mason sat looking at him steadily, leaning back and resting easily. Slate sighed and told him, “We found that half the girls at the strip club are either dirty or druggies. DeeDee is fully engaged; she’ll have replacements by the end of business today. You had a brilliant fucking idea sending her back down here to manage Slinky’s; she’s good, man. He rubbed his hands across his jaw. “Fuck, I’m tired, Mason. Most members are here; a lot of them brought family into the clubhouse as a precaution, like we suggested. We can sit for church as soon as we get Bingo back, if that’s what you think.”

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, then Mason said, “I think I’m looking at the president for the Fort Wayne chapter, Slate. You fit well here, and you have my full support. I don’t know what I’ll do without you in Chicago, but I think Fort Wayne needs you, unless Bingo changes his mind. Hell, even if he does change his mind, I think the shit here needs a different eye watching it. You are more valuable here than Memphis. We can always push that off by a few months, if needed.”