Smolder: Trojans MC (26 page)

CHAPTER TWO

“David Creely, great to see you man. Thanks for coming in so early.”

“It’s no problem, Rick. I’m ready anytime you need me,” David responded. It was a lie of course. He hated getting up early; one of the many perks of being in a biker gang was the late hours. He hadn’t woken up this early in a very long time. But when Rick Giddings calls, you answer. Standing tall, Rick was the second-in-command of God’s Reapers, the biker gang that ruled Marina’s Crest.

“I know it, man, and I want to let you know that we’ve seen your hard work and your loyalty. In this business, hard work and loyalty are rewarded. Mike wants to talk to you. Why don’t you come on up to the office,” Rick said, nodding towards a steep set of metal steps that led to the main office, high above the clubhouse floor.

David nodded and then swallowed. Mike was the president of the club, and a meeting with him was either the best thing that ever happened to a man, or the last thing they ever did. As David climbed the stairs, he ran his hands through his blond, shaggy hair, trying to tame his hair and look slightly respectable.

“David, good morning,” Mike said, standing as David entered. There was a woman in the room with him. She had an overly tanned face and bleach blond hair with long pastel-colored fingernails and a white, skin-tight skirt and matching shirt. When David entered, she was chewing loudly on a piece of gum and staring at her fingernails.

“Here you go, Sweetie,” Mike said, slipping a baggie with white powder into her hand and helping her up. “Why don’t you let the boys talk, huh?” he continued, giving her a slap on the ass as she left. Mike was a balding bear of a man, over six feet tall and over sixty years old, he ruled the club with an iron fist. He controlled everything from scheduling to buying and selling; nothing in the club was done without Mike knowing about it. He had been a member since he was sixteen, had done five years in state max, and was not someone you wanted to mess with.

“I’m glad you’re here, David. I wanted to let you know that you did good work on that Toledo run. We were all very impressed.”

“Thank you, sir,” David said, his sense of pride building up. Unlike most of the members of the club, David hadn’t been grandfathered in. Most members were sons or grandsons or nephews of members, and their entrance and acceptance was guaranteed. Rick, the second-in-command of God’s Reapers, had a father, grandfather, and three uncles in the gang when he started. Legacy counted for everything. But David didn’t know who his father was. He was raised by a single mother who worked as a waitress in a diner on the highway. She had died of lung cancer when David was nineteen. At twenty, David had picked up some work for the gang. He put his time in, helping out when they would let him; he got a bike and learned how to take care of it. At twenty-five, he had been officially invited to join the gang, and now, at thirty, he was finally being rewarded for his hard work.

“Weed’s turning into quite the business, David,” Mike said, sitting down in his chair and leaning back, resting both of his hands on his large belly. “It’s still far more illegal than it is legal, and people are getting jealous. Why should Colorado and California get to have all the fun? We’ve been working with some guys south of the border, and they want to bring it through Marina’s Crest. We’ve decided that the warehouse on Seventeenth and Marigold is the perfect pick-up and drop-off site. Rick is going to be in charge of the site, and we’ve decided to put you in charge of keeping us off the cops’ radar. Is that something you can do for us, David?”

“Absolutely,” David answered, not hesitating for even a moment.

“You’ll be given some discretionary money for bribes, but it’s a tricky business; too much and it cuts into our profits, too little and it’s not enough to keep the cops away.”

“I can work the cops, Mike. No problem,” David said.

“Good. We’re not too worried about it. That part of town just has beat cops on duty. Those guys just want to sit in their cars and nap; we should do everything we can to encourage that behavior. You will need to get names and info on the cops assigned to our neighborhood. Get to know them, know what they like, know who they love, find out what matters to them, and find out the things they aren’t willing to sacrifice. If you have to encourage them to accept the payment, if their conscience bothers them, tell them everything is fine and that no one's getting hurt; we’re just providing a much needed service. And if they refuse to see reason, well, I leave the details up to you.”

“Got it,” David said.

“This is important David, very important,” Rick said. “If the cops bust the warehouse a lot of members are going to end up in jail and will have a lot of time to do. You did six months in state, David, did you enjoy it?”

“No,” David answered. The six months he had done had been for the club. The police had cornered David and three other members while in process of moving some guns. David had stayed behind and led the cops away from the stash and his brothers. The cops had interrogated him for days about the gang, wanting to know about their activities and who was in charge. The cops promised to set him up with a cushy life in witness protection if he would turn tail and rat. David refused. He got six months on a trumped up charge, but it had been worth it; he came out of prison a hero to God’s Reapers. Still, prison was exactly as awful as everyone said. David wasn’t eager to go back, and he didn’t want to send anyone else there.

“If you need men to help you, just let Rick now. We’ll give you whatever resources you need—within reason,” Mike said. And then he heaved his heavy frame up and out of his chair and stood next to a window that looked down into the clubhouse area. There was stocked bar, a few couches and TVs, but most of the space was given over to the garage where bikes of all makes and models sat in various stages of repair.

The clubhouse felt more like home than any other building David had ever been in. There was always someone at the clubhouse. A member whose girl had kicked him out for a few nights, or a guy who was between jobs and houses. Any time, night or day, David could come to the club and be amongst his brothers—play pool, play darts, work on bikes, drink. He cared about this club more than he cared about anything else. He would do anything to protect it, to save it. He wasn’t scared of those fat pigs in their cruisers; he wasn’t afraid of anything.

“You can count on me, Mike. I would never let anything happen to my brothers. I can handle the cops. I’ll bribe them if I can, but if they don’t want to take the bribe, I can find other ways of making them look the other way. No one will know about the warehouse; no one will interrupt business.”

“Good, glad to hear it,” Mike said. “I’ve always liked you David; you’re a hard worker. It’s hard for the men to accept a non-legacy member, but you do yourself proud, and you’ve come to be accepted. Now, when you have your sons, they’ll be welcomed into the family as well. Who’s your lady these days?”

“Don’t have one, sir,” David said. “Haven’t met one that I wanted to keep around very long.”

“Well, we’ll have to correct that. There’s a lot of sisters and daughters who could use a good steady man in their lives. I’ll keep my eye open for you, David.”

“I appreciate it, Mike. But girls come second, club comes first.”

“Indeed it does David. Now go and figure out who’s watching us and convince them to look the other way,” Mike instructed.

“Yes, sir,” David said, standing up to shake the great man’s hand.

CHAPTER THREE

“Police! Open up!” Olivia called out, banging her fist four times against the weak frame of the ripped screen door. It was hot out and she could feel sweat beading on her forehead even though she had only been out of the car for a few moments. There was a sudden silence from within the trailer. Olivia could imagine the couple frozen in place like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. 

Finally, a thin, bearded man came over to the door and glared at Olivia through the screen. His shirt was in tatters and his jeans were filthy; he wasn’t wearing any shoes, and as he stared at Olivia through the screen door, he brought a cigarette up to his lips and lit it.

“What?” he finally demanded, the word coming out of his mouth like a curse.

“We received a call about a domestic disturbance. Do you mind if we come in?”

“Yeah, I fucking mind, and no you can’t come into my house,” the man spit, looking Olivia and Lance up and down with a sneer on his face.

“I’m Officer Waters; this is Officer Townsend. Can we speak to your wife for a moment?” Olivia said pointing to herself and Lance. She stared at the man in front of her. He was puffed up and attempting to put his face into a stern expression, but his skin was refusing to cooperate. He just ended up looking confused. His attempts to intimidate her were funny; she was well aware that she could take this guy down in seconds if she needed to. He could glare and snipe at her all he wanted, Olivia wasn't afraid of him. She wanted nothing more than to find an excuse to haul him into jail.

“Hillary, the fucking cops you called want you,” the scraggly man yelled into the trailer. He gave them one more glare before walking away from the door. Hillary came over next. She was wearing a skin-tight white skirt and matching top, her hair was bleached blond, and she was holding a cigarette between two fingers on her right hand.

“You called us, ma’am,” Olivia said, taking a step back to allow the woman to exit the trailer and step out onto the sandy yard. “Can I have your name?” Olivia asked, pulling out a pad of paper.

“Hillary Sweetie,” she answered.

“Nice name,” Lance mumbled under his breath as Olivia caught him giving Hillary a quick once over, his eyes resting on her ass and chest before he quickly looked away.

“And that’s your legal name?” Olivia asked.

“Yeah,” Hillary said with a sigh, “I get that all the time.”

“You called because of a fight with your boyfriend. Want to tell us what’s going on?” Olivia asked, putting her notebook away and facing the tired looking woman.

“He just needs to learn that I don’t belong to him!” Hillary said, her voice went up an octave and she began to wave her hands around in anger. “He don’t provide for me. This is my trailer, and I’m the one who does all the work and buys the food and cigs and cable and all he does is work on his stupid bike!” the last phrase was shouted back at the trailer. “You know, I come home with my stuff and all of the sudden he’s all mad because I didn’t bring him any, but I ain’t his mother. He needs to buy his own shit.”

“Stuff?” Lance asked, letting the word hover in the air between them.

“Yeah...” Hillary’s face had blanched when she realized how far she had let her mouth take her. Her eyes darted between Olivia and Lance, as she tried to figure a way out of the grave she had just dug for herself.

“Ms. Sweetie, please tell me that you didn’t have two cops come out here because you and your boyfriend are fighting over drugs,” Lance said with a sigh.

“No, no, no, no,” Hillary stuttered. “By stuff, I mean food. Yeah, I went to McDonalds and didn’t get him anything and the next thing you know, he’s throwing a fit and throwing my stuff!”

“Did he physically hit you?” Olivia asked.

“Hell no, he knows better than that. I’ll kick his ass from her to Tuscaloosa if he tried that with me.”

“Do you want to press charges against him?” Lance asked.

“I mean, I guess not. I don’t want him ending up in jail, you know? It was just a fight; nothing that no one needs to get a charge for,” Hillary said, running her hands through her brittle hair. “So I guess ya’ll can go.”

“We will leave,” Olivia said, “but don’t make us come back here unless you got a charge you want to file. We’re cops, not marriage counselors. Kick him out if you don’t want him here, or learn to live with it. But don’t bother us with your nonsense again.” Hillary took a step back as if she had been slapped. But Olivia didn’t care, she was tired of this; she was tired of ticketing litterers and breaking up domestic disputes.

Hillary’s last words kept echoing through Olivia’s brain.
“I guess ya’ll can go.”
They had been dismissed like a waiter or sales clerk. Still though, she knew that answering the call had been the right thing to do. At the academy, they explained to her that even though charges aren’t filed in domestic disputes when the cops showed up, it normally ends the fight. Plus, Hillary looked like she could handle herself. At least she wasn’t one of those poor battered women who made excuses for their terrible abusive boyfriends and husbands. You can’t save everyone; they had taught her that at the academy, as well.

“Well, that was fun,” Lance said, as they pulled back out onto the road.

“You see that bike?” Olivia asked. “Think he’s with the Reapers?” she asked. There hadn’t been any telltale marks on the bike, but it had been significantly nicer than anything else on the property.

“He looks rough, even for the Reapers. He might do some work for them, but it’s doubtful he’s a full member. No biker chick would be dumb enough to call the cops on her biker boyfriend,” Lance answered.

“You ever deal with the Reapers?” she asked him.

“No, and I thank the good Lord everyday for that. Don’t you even think about interfering with the Reapers; they’re beyond anything you’re ready for. They’ll slice your body into a million little pieces and spread those pieces across the desert; no one will ever know what happened to you.”

“That doesn’t sound like a real thing,” Olivia countered.

“It is; I promise you,” Lance said. “Look, the biker guys police their own. Every couple of years the feds will send someone to go undercover and get some big charges. It’ll be a big deal, front page news, lots of arrests, and then the Reapers will go underground for a few years and then pop back up and the whole thing starts all over again. They’re like cockroaches; it’s impossible to get them all. Those bikers are tough, and they look out for their own. Plus, they keep a good handle on the neighborhood—in their own way.”

“You can’t let bikers police a neighborhood. That’s crazy.”

“You want to try and stop them, be my guest, but you’ll need a new partner. They don’t pay me enough to get involved with that.”

They ticketed three litterers and two drivers for running a stop sign. They sat in their squad car, and Lance did the crossword puzzle from the local paper. At the end of their shift, they returned to the station to fill out the paperwork. It was always Olivia’s least favorite part of the day. It wasn’t the paperwork she hated; she understood why it was important and why they needed to do it. It was the information itself that she couldn’t stand. Litterers, people running stop signs, and a fight between a girlfriend and her boyfriend—it depressed her to read about how she had spent her day.

This wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted her life to mean something; she wanted to leave an impact, and so far her impact was one of annoyance. She annoyed people—and not even the right people. She wasn’t annoying mafia bosses or murderers; it was just the lazy and impatient she annoyed, and she could only hope that her actions changed their behavior in a good way.

With a sigh, she looked down at the paperwork for Hillary and her still unnamed boyfriend and wondered what she was doing with her life. She just needed to be patient. There was crime out there, and as a cop, Olivia knew that sooner or later it would find her, no matter how hard her partner worked to make their lives as boring as possible.

On the other side of the room, a group of detectives were standing around a map of the city, consulting it and murmuring between themselves. There was action happening in this town; there were bad guys going to jail. That was some comfort. Olivia just wished she was the one putting them there.