Through a Glass, Darkly (Assassins of Youth MC #1) (25 page)

“It helped me with my math,” Vonda explained, hanging her head. But she perked up again when she told Carradine, “It’s a high-stakes sports betting place. Guys come in with concealed weapons. Ordinary Mormons on the outside, gambling
fiends
on the inside. Some teenagers I know take their dad’s credit cards back there, and rack up the debt.”

Eventually, Carradine agreed not to nark on our location, and to give us a heads up about his raid, but only about two hours ahead of time. I understood he couldn’t risk having a loyal or freaked sister-wife go running to Chiles with that information.

“I don’t suppose,” he said, “you could give me the names of any recently departed brethren. You know, someone whose name is likely to be a password. That way we can get through the gate a lot more quietly.”

“Shiz,” snorted Mahalia. “For all I know,
my
name is a password now. Would you like a root beer?”

So we sat there another hour, this unlikely group, just as though we were chatting around a campfire. We stayed in Black Rock City to the end, Bronson Carradine included, watching the giant cornucopia burn, after Mahalia placed a photo of her dead husband inside the temple. I left a photo of my brother Chad. I admit it was a copy of a photo. The original was too dear for me to leave to burn, and I wasn’t too sure how much I believed in the “woo woo” concept of trashing a temple to your loved one’s memories. But after the temple burned, I actually
did
feel much better. I
did
feel that Chad had somehow been released or freed. He was still with me all the time, but he’d been allowed to move on, if that makes any sense.

I took a lot of things away from Black Rock City. But the most important seemed to be a new concept of love. I remember hearing that true love is finding a person who loves the things about you that you love about yourself. I realized I’d always had a low self-image, a worthless combat veteran, a biker who ran a quarry. But Mahalia seemed to love everything about me. She was fascinated with my MC, my geology, my Afghanistan tales.

I realized I
did
have something to offer besides a killer body and a talent for getting chicks off. At first I felt shy when she’d praise me. It didn’t take long for it to grow on me, and I started seeing myself through her eyes, more clearly.

I was seeing everything more clearly.

MAHALIA

T
here followed a
week of serenity for us. For awhile it looked as though we’d be left in peace. More and more I was seeing that my journey was a book I could edit. I had the power and the control to change the script in a way that would shape my own needs and cravings. I wanted to take responsibility for my leaning toward the dark, because I knew Gideon contained dark elements. I knew he was a “bad” man in the eyes of many. I myself had overheard his dealings with Allred. I’d even seen him shoot a man to death, although he was entirely justified.

Now I was watching him blackmail Allred into leaving us alone—and perhaps even giving him the entire mine—and I was saying the end justified the means. This was a new way of thinking, letting me know that we form our own reality. I may have been mapped to be the fortieth wife of a charlatan “prophet,” but I alone had the power to alter that map by rubbing out the blueprint.

Gideon went back to work at the mine with Dust Bunny and was unmolested by any goons. But he really worried about his Papa Ewey, the “Prez” of his club. He worried that the guy hadn’t called him yet, and then he did call.

“He wants me to start a new chapter here in Avalanche,” Gideon explained.

We were sitting on the back deck having coffee before he went to work. The sun hadn’t peeked over the red bluffs, but the reflection from the orange bowl cast a holy look to his face. Not that he needed it. He was above all reproach in my book.

“You figured as much. But who will you have? You’ll be the only patched member with a dozen Prospects.”

“That’s the catch. I want to ask that Maximus, the older guy from the riding club.”

“The Lazzat Un Nisa club? You know that means ‘the pleasure of woman’ in Arabic. It’s an old erotic manuscript from the fifteenth century.”

Gideon cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Don’t worry,” I explained. “I googled it. I didn’t automatically know that.”

He smiled. He was always saying what a brainiac I was when I just read a lot of books. “Well, a brother from a club that wants to pleasure women is okay in my book. Then there’s Dust Bunny, who’s been around for a hundred years but has never patched into any club. I guess he’ll have to start at Prospect level, too.”

“And Dingo’s already a Prospect.”

“And Dingo, of course. Oh, and I’m going to ask Papa Ewey if I can take Sledgehammer and Yosemite Sam.”

I chuckled. “Yosemite Sam? Seriously?”

“He’s called that because he likes to carry a Smith and Wesson fifty cal. And he’s a short, scruffy, scrappy guy that no one wants to mess with. Those are my two true brothers from the Assassins in Bullhead. I think they’d make excellent Avalanche charter members.”

“Sledgehammer is a true blue friend.” As we spoke, Sledge was already at the mine. He’d taken over the thankless job of unearthing and cataloging dead bodies. He’d found ol’ Reed Smoot, and was pretty sure he’d dug up Monte Brough. He’d just texted Gideon a side-by-side comparison of a gruesomely decomposed man next to a photo of the old mine manager, Immanuel Zabriskie.
That could’ve been Gideon
, I thought.
It still could be, if we don’t play our cards right.
“And I’m sure Yosemite Sam is too.”

“I came up with Sam since the short pants days. We were together during some…well, some pretty fucked-up times as teenagers.”

This was the first time I’d heard about his rough childhood. I wasn’t one to pry, but I had a burning need to know everything about Gideon. This part of his life was one enormous blank. His mention of it seemed like an opening he wanted to give me. “Yes, in Bullhead City, right?”

“Right. You know I had a horrible son of a bitch for a father. A major alcoholic who took all his frustrations out on me and my brother.”

Yes. The brother in the photo at the Temple. “Right. I take it he was abusive?”

“Oh, when
wasn’t
he abusive?” Gideon snorted. “He could hold it together sometimes for Sunday pancakes, and that was it. He’d race out the door for his bar. Anyway, that’s why I was on the streets at a young age. It seemed better than sitting around waiting for the next beating.”

“Yes, but how’d you provide for yourself? Minimum wage doesn’t pay much more than rent.”

“Minimum wage? Hell, I didn’t need no McDonald’s job. Not a looker like me.” He stabbed out his cigarette angrily. I had no idea what he was driving at, so I kept quiet. He finally added, “There’s plenty of easy money to be made if you’re willing to inhale the oyster.”

I was confused. “Is that some kind of drug?”

I could tell by his cynical look that it wasn’t. “Give a piston job, swallow the sword, slob the knob. Or let them do it to you.”

My heart nearly stopped. This explained a lot about why Gideon felt such a camaraderie with poor Dingo and his compatriots. They’d all come from the streets, from a hustling lifestyle. I didn’t know what to say.

“That’s where I met Sam. We joined the Marines together, but he was assigned stateside while I was shipped in country to Afghanistan. When we got out, we looked around for something meaningful. We wanted to have muscle behind us, so we’d never be taken advantage of again.”

I nodded, serious. “And your brother Chad? He was…living with you and Sam?”

Gideon couldn’t even look at me now. “No,” he said tightly. “Chad was stuck at home. Dad said he’d kill him if he didn’t get his high school diploma. So one day he beat Chad to death.”

I sucked in air loudly. Holding my hand to my chest, I was overcome with emotion. Lamely, I put my other hand over Gideon’s. “Oh my squash,” I whispered. “Was he charged with murder?”

I could tell Gideon was holding back tears, looking at the warm scarlet red mesas. He gulped, and gulped again, keeping it down. “No,” he finally said. “He claimed Chad fell off the balcony of our apartment. My mom was equally to blame, because she covered for him. She…she sold herself to strange men, too.”

“Sweet Jesus. He got away with it?”

“Yes.” That one terse word told me everything. He exhaled in a whoosh and said quickly, “Once I get this mine business sorted out and sell my Bullhead house, I want to buy another house that’s for sale down on Little Wing Street. Kimball and her kids can stay there, maybe protected by Sam or Sledgehammer. We need our privacy. I know you’re used to being crammed in with other people, but I’m not. I like to spread out.” He grinned and squeezed my hand back. “We’ll keep Dingo, of course.”

“That sounds fine. I’ve got an interview today in St. George. Bookkeeping for some trucking company.”

To my surprise, Gideon said, “No. I want you to focus on this nonprofit shelter.”

I frowned. “
What
nonprofit shelter?”

He stood, patting his jean pockets to feel for his wallet, his phone. “The one on Little Wing Street you’re going to run.”

“What?”

“You’re going to get more sister-wives out of Cornucopia, aren’t you? This sounds like a human welfare situation that you can get 501 exemption for, no?”

“Well,
yes
.” I’d never thought of it that way before. I could benefit Gideon by being a nonprofit tax write-off. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? “But Kimball wants to get a job. She wants to help. There are some babysitting jobs in St. George she could do.”

Gideon frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. Why go all the way to St. George and leave your kids alone? She’ll just wind up paying a babysitter the same amount of money she’s making. No. Tell her to stay here and be a mom. She can help you with the Little Wing project. We’re going to repopulate this ghost town.”

“You’ll be mayor,” I joked.

Vonda came out then. “Mom, Dingo’s going to give me a ride to school.” It was her fourth day at the new St. George school, and so far, she loved it. She’d made a few friends, even. I wasn’t so keen on her riding on Dingo’s pussy pad, but if I did it, I couldn’t forbid my daughter from doing it. “Hey, Dingo told me a Mormon joke.”

Dingo appeared behind Vonda, a motorcycle helmet in his hand. “Yes. Listen to this. Take my wives. Please.”

Gideon burst out in a guffaw, but I didn’t get it. In fact, Gideon held his stomach, it was so funny. The three of them were lost in their own hilarious world, and I was vexed. I thought about my secret hair appointment in Cedar City. I was going to cut off some or most of my waist-length hair as a symbol that I wasn’t attached to Allred or Cornucopia anymore.

“It’s all right,” Gideon finally wheezed. “The busses don’t go where you live, Mahalia. It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

“We all love you,” corrected Dingo.

“Hmph,” I said.

Gideon said, “Dingo, meet me at the mine when you’re done at Vonda’s school. We’ve got a sit-down in Bullhead with Papa Ewey and the rest. You can’t come to the table, but you can meet some of the other Prospects down there, serve beer, that sort of shit. I’ve finally got to face the music about Breakiron.”

Vonda asked, “Wasn’t that that big colossal asswad you used to hang around with? You gave him a beatdown in Cornucopia in front of The Prophet’s office.”

I shot Gideon a warning glare. We’d kept the details about Breakiron’s demise from her. No sense in her fearing my old man. Gideon said, “Oh, he decided the club no longer held any value for him. He took off for parts unknown.”

“The Streaked Wall Bench,” giggled Vonda.

Gideon and I shared glares now. I asked, “What about the Streaked Wall Bench?”

“There are bodies in there.”

Gideon took a step toward Vonda. “No, there aren’t. If anyone says that, tell them it was an old miner who fell into the pit a hundred years ago and that’s it.”

“Old miner,” repeated Vonda dutifully, but I could tell she was repressing a laugh.

When they left, I put on my new red dress. It came to just above my knees and was held up only by narrow, one-inch wide straps. Some of my ample cleavage was even on display, and I loved it. Gideon had bought me red shoes to match. It was still hard getting used to the two-inch heels, but practice would make perfect.

My truck’s radio was turned to rap when I started it up. Vonda. She was reveling in everything the newfound world had to offer, but rap wasn’t on my agenda. I turned it back to the R&B I loved in Provo. I passed by the High Dive bar. A few Lazzat Un Nisa “scoots” were parked outside at this early morning hour. It struck me that the bar would make Gideon and his Assassins a great clubhouse, if only they could get rid of that Skippy Cavanaugh creepazoid. I was learning new words from Vonda, too.

The hairdresser recommended by my sister did a wonderful job. I’d succeeded in keeping this appointment a secret from Gideon, and I couldn’t wait to show my short hairdo to him. Then I realized he might not be back until late if he had that “sit-down” in Bullhead City.