Reprise (22 page)

“I saw her after that throw down with the Dirty Rats for broken ribs. Her touches got a little inappropriate, not that I’d report her.”

Knuckles giggled. “Shit. Give me the details. How inappropriate?”

“Shut up.”

Again with that manic giggling.

“Is it a problem?” Jayce asked.

“No. She just wants to play. She made that clear.” He had no idea if it was anywhere near the truth but he’d keep the ends tied up on the Doctor Webber account. “Who’s coming with us to get the pot?”

-oOo-

The Bastard Banshees was a famous club, bigger, with a national reputation and PR teams. Some chapters were recreational, some were hard core outlaw. Others rode a middle line, a lot like the Red Rebels.

The chapter that supplied the bushels of pot to the Red Rebels were hard core. They were based out of Morgan Hill, and they’d been ordered to use the Rebels to distribute throughout King and Kern counties by their mother chapter, which was based in White Rock, New Mexico. They were into much heavier shit than pot but money was money, and this deal was palatable to the Rebels to keep Mad Dog breathing in prison. Breathing and not beaten, that is.

The men that showed up with the pot delivery were varied. The Banshees had chapters of no less than twenty members and they rotated duties. Just like the Rebels were trying to do with their dealers.

They had a team of four riders to escort the late model Intrepid to the pickup point. For this ride Tiny was back on his Bobber, and feeling like a new man because of it. Traffic was heavy on the freeway, which was what they wanted. They wanted the car to blend in. They’d be following, and if the road looked like it held trouble the bikes would cause distraction.

The pickup point was a GPS land location, no other information. It turned out to be a very flat, very wide open stretch of desert that you had to know to find. It was perfect. You’d see unwanted visitors from miles away.

The Intrepid beat them out there. It was clean but not too shiny, not too dusty or filthy. The license plates innocuous enough to not be run. And when the door opened, the driver stepped out with a combat boot clad foot and straightened, pulling her red tartan skirt down to a more respectable mid-thigh length.

Tiny shook his head. He thought Jayce was insane when he’d suggested that Piper Fontaine be brought back in to drive. She’d nearly been stabbed back when the Mazaris were picking on their dealers. Sure she’d been able to take care of herself against a few grabby customers before that but they were nowhere near as serious as the Mazaris, or any of the current Red Rebels’ enemies.

But Piper was being a pain in the ass, wanting to be cut in on something. Anything. Her dad was a gearhead in Grainger’s shop, the only daughter and he her only parent. She was a bit of a rally driver, not too shy to use fifth gear and throw up gravel. But by all accounts she was quite good, and they hoped they wouldn’t have to find out one way or the other. For all the world she looked like a late-teens girl out driving her mom’s car around. A car with a generous trunk.

“Hey Piper,” Knuckles greeted her in his usual greasy way. She was unaffected by him, which only served to egg him on. “Looking good, honey.”

She rolled both darkly-lined eyes. “Wish I could say the same, pervert.”

“Any troubles getting out here?” Tiny asked, peeling off his riding gloves.

“Nah. Other than people not getting the fuck out of my way.”

“Remember that we don’t need Danicka Patrick unless there’s actually trouble,” Knuckles requested. “Otherwise, keep it to the limit and obey all traffic laws.”

“Yeah yeah. I didn’t have a trunk of pot before so I wasn’t really worried. I promise to be more careful on the way home, granddad.”

Knuckles laughed as though she was actually delightful. Tiny thought she was a mouthy little brat, but she was calm and didn’t put up with shit, at least. Likely came from growing up in a garage.

“What time is it?” he asked Fritter.

The kid checked his watch. “We’re ten minutes from the arranged time.”

Buck leaned on the back panel of the Intrepid, crossing his feet at the ankles. Tiny took up the same position next to him, waving away the cigarette Buck offered him. “I thought you were quitting.”

“I’m cutting it down bit by bit. Not cold turkey. But I don’t smoke around the house or Gertie or Davie.”

“Good call.”

“You’re smoking less, too.” Buck was one of those strong and silent types. And true to type, he missed very little.

“Yeah. I don’t know. No urge lately.” That wasn’t entirely a lie. His body felt ill as soon as he found himself craving a nicotine fix.

“Well, you’re lucky. This is a tough thing to kick.”

A dust cloud was visible on the horizon, just as Fritter pointed it out. Tiny could make out six bikes and a truck.

“Get in the car, freak,” Knuckles mumbled, pushing Piper to the driver’s door by her hip.

Piper also picked up on nuances; not a peep as she opened the door and slid in behind the wheel.

Tiny was pretty sure that the Bastard Banshees wouldn’t hurt her, but better to have her out of sight just in case. The Banshees were, again, a bit more outlaw than the Red Rebels. He agreed that not laying eyes on her was a better deal for her.

The group pulled to a stop in a rolling plume of sand, the truck reversing its tail gate towards the car’s trunk. Four of the Banshees on hogs dismounted, the other two remained astride, looking uninterested. The truck driver stayed in his seat.

Tiny, Fritter, Buck and Knuckles moved forward as the tail gate was dropped and set to transferring the black bags into the Intrepid’s trunk. No one said anything but Tiny was clocking how the four riders circled the car, checking out the ride and the driver. He couldn’t hear Piper mouthing off so something in the air must have smartened her mouth up.

When the load was moved one of the men came forward and shook Fritter’s hand since he was the only officer in attendance. The rest got a wordless nod, then the riders mounted up helmetless and followed the pickup truck back the way they’d come.

Knuckles blew out some air, saying what they were all thinking. “Fuck that’s always so tense.”

Tiny crouched at the driver’s side window. “You okay with the route home?”

Piper nodded, sliding on a pair of cat’s eye sunglasses.” Yeah, as long as you boys can keep up.”

Tiny grinned, and she actually grinned back. Then he stood, tapped the roof of the car and she started the engine. The Red Rebels headed for their bikes as Piper pulled away at a casual speed. Once they were out on the freeway the entire group opened up a bit, hitting sixty miles an hour and humming along in the setting sun.

The pot could have been stored at the clubhouse or the strip club, of course. But that was a pretty obvious target for anyone wanting to get in their business.

Instead the group headed towards Hazeldale. The Nomad chapter had made a rental deal with the owner of a club there, a building once used by the Mad Gypsys. They had guards on the place at all times, and the pot would be safe there for the few days they needed to get it sorted for the dealers.

Two Nomads opened the gates to let them roll into the lot as twilight was falling. The yard light was turned off as Piper parked by an open door where a man was motioning her back, directing and then holding up a hand for her to stop.

Tiny passed the driver’s window with a finger pointed at her, pretty much a
stay
motion. She nodded and help up both hands.

The Nomad in the door was called Bubba, and yes his accent was from the deep south. His skin was dark as coffee, with a smile as warm as a southern greeting.

“Tiny,” the man bellowed, his voice even deeper than Tiny’s, and the hand that came out to grasp his was big as a basketball.

“Bubba.”

“You bring any gash with you? There ain’t a lot in this town and what we got is a bit used up.”

Tiny laughed. “Sorry man. But you guys are welcome to pay us a visit when the rest of the crew is back.”

“Couldn’t even bring a couple of strippers, huh?”

“Just work today, my friend.”

“What about girly there? She looks fun.”

“Just a driver. She ain’t club pussy, man. She’s protected. Her old man is an acquaintance.”

“Shit. That’s too bad.”

“I hear ‘ya.  But I think she’s got teeth in her snatch anyway, so consider yourself lucky.”

Bubba shuddered, then slammed the trunk lid shut. “Tell Jayce I said hi, will ‘ya?”

Tiny nodded, shook hands again, then tapped on the trunk lid. The Intrepid’s engine turned over, and Piper eased the old lady ride out of the lot. She’d been told to wait for them around the corner, and Tiny was pretty sure she would.

The Markham Rebels exchanged goodbyes with the Nomads then mounted up and left the lot themselves. They met up with Piper at the appointed spot, then headed back to Markham as dark was falling.

Chapter Seventeen

Mal kicked snow off her boots while she waited for someone to answer her knock, huffing out breath that clouded in the cold. Of course, in the short time they’d been in California, winter had claimed Montrose County and there was a full foot of snow all over everything.

The last week they’d managed to get Hal back home. He’d spent two days in the hospital in Ukiah, and while he had very minimal coverage through work, it would come nowhere near covering the entire bill, which included an EKG. Nothing was out of the ordinary and the doctor attributed his heart failure to the fake Oxy. The doctor was cool about it, didn’t go into righteous rants about the dangers of illegal narcotics. He just warned them away from the orange Oxy because it was “inconsistent” and the green stuff from Canada because some of it was laced with fentanyl.

They couldn’t convince him they weren’t Oxy fiends, but it could have been worse.

Now they were back in Cleary, and luckily Hal had booked paid time off work from the lumber yard where he worked. He could take it easy for a week to make sure that he was really okay.

Mal was able to get back to work at the bakery right away, so thank God for that. And the bar at the hotel was going to take them back that very weekend so they could get one paying gig for the week at least.

The band took turns checking in on Hal, too. He knew they were mothering him and he resented it a little, but for Mallory personally she kept flashing back to him hitting the floor, as good as dead. Thank Christ for V.

Yeah, these guys drove her up the fucking wall, but she had to admit she loved them like a makeshift family. But she was certainly done fucking Hal. No more of that.

He answered the door, smiling when he realized who it was. “Mal, hey.”

She held up the paper box she’d been carrying. “Cinnamon buns from Ravi. She wants you to know she’s worried and hopes you feel better soon.”

“Cinnamon buns! Perfect!” He snatched the box away eagerly and moved away from the door, holding it open for her. She followed, making sure the door caught behind her, and shrugged out of her coat. She hung it up on a hook by the closet and toed off her boots, then crossed the small kitchenette to the living room. The TV was on a rock concert of some kind, and the couch was made up like a bed. To some extent, Hal was enjoying his down time.

“So, how was today?”

“Good,” he answered with a mouthful of sweet and sticky bun. “Little stir crazy, but good. Rehearsal tomorrow?”

“If you think you can handle it, sure.”

“I can handle it. I’m ready to get off my ass.”

“Good.” Mal sank into his armchair, sighing and leaning back.

“Long day?”

“On my feet for a long time. This is the first chance I’ve had to sit down since six this morning.”

“You don’t have to keep checking on me. Go home and get some rest.”

“I don’t mind.” She squinted at the TV. “What the hell is this?”

“Toilet Ferret.”

The expression on her face must have shown her feelings on that.

Hal laughed. “I like them. See the drummer? I jammed with him two years ago in Pasadena, one of those basement gigs. It was a fun time. And now look at the asshole.”

She had to admit that, while it wasn’t her bag, they had skill and performed like a group that had been together for a long time. And it appeared they were performing for a fairly large crowd. A mid-sized stadium, perhaps.

“I know you’re the artist type, but honestly Mal, I like
performing
. That’s my favourite part. I know it’s really self-centered, and egotistical, but I love it when they’re eating out of the palms of our hands.”

She had to grant a smile. “Me too. But I really like doing our own stuff, too. I mean, no one gets discovered as a bar band. Their own stuff is what makes them.”

“I know. But that’s not a skill I have. So I’m intimidated by that, Mal. You’re an artist. And I’m just a singer.”

There would never be a time where she would have expected
that
from Hal Picard. She knew she was staring with her mouth hanging open, but there was nothing to move her to speech.

Uncomfortable under her stare, Hal shifted on his seat and became irrationally enamored with his second cinnamon bun. “I mean, I’m sorry we keep you from doing what you really want to. You really should make an album, Mal.”

“Oh, Hal—”

“I mean it. Find a way to do it. We can start fundraising. You deserve to do what you want.” Now he met her gaze. “If you need someone to sing back up, I’ll do it. If you want. If you think I’d be any good for it. But you really need to put
Me and Bobby McGee
on it. I fucking love that song when you sing it.”

Honest to God, she thought she might cry. Instead she got up, moved to a spot next to Hal on the sofa, and leaned over to hug him. He returned the hug with one arm, then cleared his throat and pulled away.

“Okay, get the fuck out. I’m fine for Christ’s sake. Go enjoy a quiet evening at home. We have rehearsal tomorrow.”

With a laugh she got to her feet, bundled up for the cold again, and let herself out, avoiding any more uncomfortable words.

Back at her apartment she locked herself in, then flicked on the TV for company. Her first order of business was a glass of wine, sweatpants and oversized T-shirt, and washing her face with her hair piled up on top of her head in a messy knot.

Then she took her wine back to the living room with her, set down the glass and decided that maybe wine would do just fine for supper.

“Don’t mind me.”

She shrieked and stubbed her toe on the sofa leg as she jumped. She turned to the kitchen entry, hand on her chest, her mind rummaging around to determine if this was a person she knew.

He was tallish and lanky, with long stringy hair hanging to his shoulders. His skin was dark, darker than what she’d call Latino. And his large eyes were as dark as his hair. Definitely not a lot of European blood in his family tree.

“Who are you?” she whispered, stepping back but meeting the coffee table at her heels. That hurt, too.

“You don’t know me, but I know a friend of yours.”

“I doubt that.”

“Vernon Mark.”

Well, that made no sense. “V? How do you know V?” Something was wrong. Her skin was crawling, even if this guy wasn’t coming towards her. He seemed happy to stay where we was, leaning on the wall.

“He’s been a good customer of ours for a while now. And he seems to have forgotten how business works.”

Shit. V and his fucking hobbies.

“What does this have to do with me?”

The guy tilted his head with a slow smile, his eyes running down to her chest and back again. She longed for her bra. “He thought you might have some money to cover a portion of what he owes?”

Her fear gave way with a bit of anger. “What? He thinks I’m going to pay off his dealer?”

She moved towards her phone, but the guy took one step in her direction and out of nowhere a handgun appeared. No wonder he was so fucking calm. “Tut tut tut,” he chided, smile returning. “I’m sure we can handle this, just the two of us.”

Shit. Her phone was on the other side of a stranger with a gun, as was her front door.
Fuckity fuck.
“What does he owe?”

“Roughly seven grand, give or take.”

“Jesus,” she breathed, covering her face. “How much to hold you off and give him time to make it up?”

“Twenty-five hundred should do it.”

Mal could have cried. “I don’t have that much money.”

“Two grand?”

She sighed. “I work part time in a bakery and sing in a bar band, dude. I have three hundred dollars to my name.”

He bit his lip and gave that same leer. “Maybe there’s another arrangement we could make.”

The bile in her throat was perhaps imaginary, but it was still disgusting. “No.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to take you with us.”

“Us? Which us? What are you talking about?”

“I have Mr. Mark downstairs waiting. Come with me. I’m sure someone wants you enough to pay that.”

“Please, I have nothing to do with this—”

“Get your coat.”

“Can’t I change—”

There was a click as he released the safety or whatever. She inhaled just as he said, without a smile, coldly, “Get. Your. Coat.”

Bare feet in boots felt weird. She yanked her coat on while her unwanted visitor stood watching. She was pulling on gloves when he yanked the door open with an impatient, “Let’s get moving. Come on.”

Brazen as anything, he followed her down the hallway with his gun out in the open, pointed at her back. When she headed for the back exit out of habit, since that’s where the parking lot was, he tutted and she felt the gun on her back for the first time.

“Front,” he snapped, and she corrected her route to the stairs at the end of the hall, straight ahead. He stayed in her shadow through the doors, down the front walkway and towards a vehicle that was at the curb, front and center. When they were in range the van’s side door slid open. Another man, dark-skinned like the one behind her, reached out and grabbed her arm, yanking her inside the van roughly. She whimpered as her knee cracked on the door well, but there wasn’t a lot of sympathy.

The man awkwardly muscled her into the back seat, and her knee and fear were momentarily forgotten when she caught sight of V, already in the back.

They’d been downright decent with her in comparison to Vernon. His hands were taped together in front of him, and there was tape over his mouth. Blood was trickling over the tape, running from both nostrils. One eye was also swollen shut.

“V!” she cried, pushing close and pressing a hand to his cheek.

The eyes looking back at her were wide and panicked, and so apologetic.

“What did they do?” she whispered.

He didn’t bother trying to talk through the tape. All he did was shake his head, and she saw a tear roll down from his regular-sized eye.

“Are they going to kill us over a bit of money?”

He shrugged, and there were more tears.

“No one’s going to be killed,” her visitor assured her, sitting on her other side. The gun was gone, and now the van was pulling out into traffic. “We’ll just find some money to cover off this one’s little habit.”

She tried to hug V best she could. “We’ll figure this out, okay? Then we’ll get you help.”

He was shaking and her heart broke. V and Matt were so sweet, she honestly had a motherly affection for the both of them. It killed her that he’d been beaten up, almost as much as it scared her to be in this van.

So maybe she was really fucking stupid.

Such was her concern for V that she didn’t register that the driver of the van was shouting, until the vehicle lurched to one side, hit the curb roughly and slid back into the driving lane. She braced herself on the back of the bench seat in front of her, using one arm to hold V back as well. Headlights shone through the windshield, high beams. Turning her head helped avoid them, and that’s when she saw people moving past the side windows.

The van had come to a stop, sideways on the street. A large truck in front of them was blocking the route, and behind them was another van, but a large cargo van. Not a family one like this one.

The driver, the rough one, and the one that had walked her from her building were shouting at each other, not in English. It wasn’t a dialect she recognized at all, which was surprising since the man next to her had spoken English with no noticeable accent.

She clutched V to her side, and he kept his hands in her lap in return. The driver opened his door and the sound of gunfire made her shriek and duck down into her seat, pulling V down with her. He was hollering too, through the tape, and it sounded like his throat was already scraped raw.

She felt rather than saw the man next to her leap from his seat. She assumed he made for the sliding door, and now there was more gunfire. Nothing seemed to hit the van for a few exchanges, and then the window over them exploded. She was shrieking. It wouldn’t help but it was her first instinct.

This was not happening. It couldn’t be.

When V sat up she tried to pull him down with her but he was stronger, even when bound, and as he pulled himself back onto the seat—whenever they ended up on the floor was a bit of a blur—Mal became aware of screaming silence. Her ears were ringing painfully, but the world had gone totally still.

No, not still. There was glass crunching outside the van because someone was walking towards the side door, which was still open. Mal surged forward to shut it, not sure what that would do against gunfire, but a hand closed around the door’s edge before she could budge it an inch.

She looked up into another face she didn’t know. Not Middle Eastern, definitely white, with long black and steel gray hair and a beard as black as night. He was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and there was a familiar air to him. She didn’t know him but she recognized something in his manner.

“Are you okay? Anyone get hit?” The voice was kind and patient.