Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (42 page)

That was the second mention of an investment, and he assumed that’s what Benny told everybody about the money, instead of saying he’d stolen it from his grandmother. Investor sounded much better than ‘I’m a thief’, for sure. Slate shook Danny’s hand, and waved at the other band members. “Do you have Benita’s number? I can call her and let her know how Ben is doing. Will you guys finish out the week here, or have to cancel?” he asked.

Danny shook his head. “We won’t cancel on you, man. Dmitri and I can handle the vocals, no problem. Ben’s been so fucked up we’ve not been allowing him to play much, so we all cover his instrument portion, even if he’s onstage. Plus, Ben’s been in trouble in nearly every town we go through, so lately, if he’s not hammered off his ass, he’s been too beat-up to play. We’re tired of it, man. I’m really sorry; I know he’s your brother, but he’s screwed up.” He dug a card out of his pocket. “The number on there is Nita’s cell.”

“Thanks, Danny. I’ll see you here tomorrow night, okay? Have Benita see Gypsy at the bar for your portion of the take from tonight, and I’ll make sure he knows who to look for.” Slate turned, heading over to the bar.

He talked to Gypsy, explained who Ben was, and pointed out Benita, who was manning sales at the merchandise table she’d set up in the back of the bar. “I’m headed to Lutheran. Call me if you need me, Brother.” He grasped Gypsy’s forearm in a shake.

“Prez, let me know if you need anything. I’ll let Ruby know where you are,” Gypsy called after him as Slate walked away. He winced a little at that last part; he and Ruby had become good friends over the past few weeks, but they were only friends, as he’d promised.

Arriving at the hospital, he saw Ben was still out, but restrained to the gurney, and he looked at Goose with eyebrows raised. “Sorry, Prez, he woke up in the bus and tore out his IV twice. Had a helluva time getting him secured so he couldn’t hurt himself.” Goose seemed abashed.

“He always was a stubborn fucker,” Slate muttered. “Any update on how he’s doin’?”

“Doc’s been in; they are gonna do a CT scan of his head to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion, but likely, he’s just got a broken nose from face-planting on the floor.” Here, Goose paused, looking at Slate. “His blood alcohol level was off the charts, Prez. Even if he doesn’t have a concussion, they are going to want to keep him for that alone.”

There was a groaning sound from the gurney, and they turned to see Ben moving his head helplessly, trying to not vomit on himself. Goose grabbed a basin and held it in place, letting Ben purge himself of as much alcohol as his stomach would allow. Ben rolled his eyes up at Slate, his hair sticking to his sweat-dampened face. “Andy, I don’t feel—” he started, and then his body stiffened, shaking.

“Is he having a seizure?” Slate asked, trying to stay calm as his forehead wrinkled in worry.

Goose called up the hallway to the nurse’s station, “Little help down here?” as he unstrapped Benny, rolling him over onto his side. Hurrying feet slapped the linoleum, and Slate stepped back as
several medical personnel surrounded the gurney. Goose called out, “Alcohol poisoning—he’s vomiting, seizing, clammy, and sweating. Did someone call Doc?”

Hours later, Slate felt like his ass had molded to the uncomfortable seat. He hadn’t wanted to stay in the waiting room, so he’d pulled a chair into the hallway outside Benny’s room, leaning it against the wall. He heard a short noise from the room, and walked in to find Ben awake, looking at the straps that held his wrists to the frame of the bed.

“Hey,” Slate said quietly. “How ya feelin’, shrimp?” Ben had a stricken look on his face, his blond hair hanging down, stringy and greasy-looking; his face was covered with stubble, giving him a further unkempt look. Dressed in a hospital gown, Ben pulled his shoulders up to his ears, sinking down into the bed. “How the fuck do you think I feel? I feel like shit,” he growled, his voice hoarse. He rolled his arm, looking at the IV that was attached at his elbow. “I hate needles,” he scrunched up his face and winced with pain, “and my face hurts,” he shifted in the bed, “and I think I peed the bed.”

“You remember anything from last night, shrimp?” Slate questioned. “You were wasted, man, totally hammered.”

“I remember seeing you at the bar,” Ben said, “but that’s pretty much it.”

Slate was surprised; Ben had sung for over an hour, and had finished the complete set before passing out. “You got drunk, passed out on your feet, and fell off the stage onto your face.” Slate pulled up a chair and turned it around, resting his ass on the back of it. “From what I hear, this is pretty normal for you,” he continued, watching Ben’s eyes.

“I drink to loosen up for the show, An—” he started, and Slate interrupted him. “Guess what your blood alcohol level was, Ben. Go ahead, guess.”

Ben tipped up one corner of his mouth. “Point-oh-eight?”

“Nope,” Slate said, popping on the ‘P,’ “Benny, you tested at point-
three
-eight. You listening? People die at point-three-oh, and you were at point-three-eight. That was not drinking to loosen up for the show. That’s drunk because you don’t have the common sense God gave a goose. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Holy shit, I’ve never gone above point-two-seven before. That’s like a record or something.” Ben laughed, and Slate was so fucking angry it washed over him in waves.

He felt his face twist as he asked, “You tryin’ to die, boy? Because I have much more reliable ways to handle that wish if it’s where you’re going. There’s no reason, no logical reason, shrimp.” Slate ran both his hands through his hair. “I swear to fucking God, I’ll take you out myself, rather than watch you go the road Mom walked,” Slate growled out, leaning over Ben’s face. “I’m not fucking kidding. I won’t sit around and watch that again. You have no idea what she was like.”

Ben looked up at him, his face slowly turning gray. “Andy, I’m not her. Don’t say shit like that, man. I know she put you through the wringer, but she’s sober now, attends meetings and everything, but I’m not her. I’d never do that to you.”

Slate turned away, and then looked back at Ben over his shoulder as he walked to the door. “I won’t let you, shrimp. Not happening.”

***

“Benita, tell me what the problem is, hun. Let me help fix Benny’s fuckups.” Slate was getting tired of this bitch talking around the issues, never giving him a direct answer. If she didn’t tell him what he needed to know soon, he just might turn Ruby loose on her, she could turn her attitude towards the prospects in the club onto Benita.

Benita twisted on the stool across the bar from Slate, not looking at his face. “Ben owes some people money, Andy. They’ve started calling me now, and I’m getting scared. They sound pretty bad, and I don’t know how much he owes.” She cut her eyes up to him. “They caught up with him in Denver a couple months ago, and they beat him up pretty badly.”

“You got a name, Benita? Do you know who it is?” Without a name, there wasn’t a lot Slate could do. Benny was in the hospital still; he was past the detox stage, but they were trying some bullshit kind of therapy on him, trying to find out ‘why he drank enough to kill himself’. Slate snorted quietly, grimly amused. Benny drank, because that’s what he knew from a young age. He drank, because it numbed the pain of being left behind. He drank, because it made him forget for a while. Didn’t take a degree to recognize that shit.

Like he’d called it to life, her phone started ringing where it sat on the bar between them. She looked down at the display, and her face paled. “It’s them, Andy.”

He grunted, sweeping the phone off the bar and to his ear, connecting the call as he did so. He held the phone without speaking, waiting for the caller to start. “Beeneeta, baby, have you thought about our offer? We would surely looove to come to an arrangement with you.” The voice sounded vaguely Hispanic, something about the accents on the words. “Heeeeyyy baaabe, Beenneeta. Come on, baby, talk to me.”

Slate pulled the phone away from his ear, looking at the display. It was a New Mexico area code. Listening to the phone again, he heard the change in tone as the caller began to get angry. “Beneeeta, you got an answer for me, bitch? That was a one-time offer—your slut-puppy boyfriend’s life for your pussy. You don’t want to go there, then we can hit up the hospital right now. But you know, if you don’t go there with us, then you’ve killed him. He doesn’t get to fuck with the Machos and live a long life, not without something in trade,” the voice said confidently. “So what will it be, baby? Me fucking you, or your boyfriend dead?” Slate curled his lip, snarling silently at the phone. He cleared his throat, catching the caller off-guard, and an angry, “Who the fuck is this?” came across the call.

“You tell Estavez that Andrew Jones is calling in the Carmela marker. Have him call me back at this number in fifteen minutes, or the Rebels will be going to war with the Machos.” Slate waited a second, hearing the fumbling of the phone as it was transferred from one person to another.

“Repeat that, motherfucker,” a different voice came across the phone, sounding American, and pissed.

“I said,” Slate spoke deliberately, “tell Estavez that Andrew Jones is calling in the Carmela marker. I want a call in fifteen at this number. If I don’t get a call, then his word is worth shit, and Rebels go to war. You feel me?”

“Fifteen, got it,” the man answered, and the call disconnected.

Benita was looking at Slate with fear on her face, and he shook his head in disgust at her, and at the thought of Benny owing the kind of money the Machos would not forgive. “What now?” she asked.

Slate shrugged, saying simply, “We wait.”

A few minutes later, the phone rang again. Slate answered it on the second ring, putting the phone to his ear and waiting. “Andrew Jones,” came a heavily accented voice, one he recognized, “I was told you wanted to speak to me.”

“Estavez, what can you tell me about Ben Jones’ debt to the Machos?” Slate asked evenly.

He heard a heavy sigh on the other end of the phone. “Is this family to you, this
estúpido pendejo
?”

“Yeah, Ben Jones is my blood brother,” Slate informed him. “Now that we have that out of the way, what can you tell me about his debt?”

“Andrew Jones, I do not know if I can forgive your brother his indiscretions. He has stolen nearly two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—a quarter-million of your US dollars. This is his debt to the Machos.” There was an apologetic tone to Estavez’s voice.

“Fuck me,” Slate whispered. He paused, and then raised his voice. “No way does he have that money. Do you have any idea what he could have done with it after he took it?” He thought to himself that it was a little odd he never questioned that Benny could, or would steal from the Mexican motorcycle club. He was sure Estavez was correct, and Benny had been stupid enough to steal from them.

“He met with a group of men in Denver, and we believe he passed them the money. If you can find out who they were, I can try and take it from there, and your brother might yet live.” The man sighed. “It grieves me that I cannot simply wipe the debt clean.”

“Let me see what I can do. Is this a good number to call you at?” Slate’s mind was racing; he needed to get Benny to talk to him, or the Machos would make good on their threat to end him in the hospital. Hearing an affirmation, he hung up without parting words. He carefully put the phone in his pocket, and then picked up a chair and threw it across the room with a yell.

Tequila stalked into the room. “All okay, Prez?” he asked, quickly. Slate silently looked at him, willing him to go away. “Um, Prez, I got a wanderer in the box.”

Slate tipped his head back, speaking to the ceiling, “What the fuck will be next? Any ideas?”

“Prez, it’s Tony Manzino. He wants a sit-down,” Tequila rubbed the back of his neck, “so I put him in the box and set Diablo outside the door. Thought you’d want to have a convo with him, given the ongoing situation. Am I wrong?”

“Not wrong, brother, just a lot going on right now. Gimme five and I’ll be in there.” Slated nodded dismissively. He turned to Benita again and demanded, “Tell me about Denver.”

She drew in a quick breath, and then tried to dissemble by asking, “What do you mean?”

Slate snarled at her, “You know what I mean, goddammit. Tell me what the fuck went down in Denver with Benny.”

Swallowing hard, her eyes cut first one way, then the other. “Ben said he had a business opportunity. He was going to invest in a record company, one out on the west coast. He met some men at the airport, came back, and then we all got in the van to come here. That’s it; I don’t know anything else. I swear.”

“You’ll fucking swear to anything, won’t you? Now, why don’t you start over, telling me
the truth
, Benita. Tell me about fucking Denver.” Slate stared hard into her face, waiting for her to look away again, but she kept her eyes on him steadily for nearly a minute, not speaking. He saw her face begin to glisten with sweat before she cut her eyes away and down, submitting finally.

“In the van. It’s in the van…a shit ton of heroin. Ben bought it in Denver. He heard about you becoming president of a bike club, and said you’d help him sell it. That was his golden plan. Then he got here, and found out from some of the men that you don’t touch drugs.” She took a breath. “So, he made a local contact who can take some of the drugs off his hands, but it won’t be anywhere near all of it.”