Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (10 page)

Willie unzipped the bag. In among some pants, sweaters, and T-shirts, there were two cardboard boxes. Willie picked up one, and André picked up the other. From a lining of foam pellets, they both pulled out black automatic-style handguns. Ned couldn't see much difference between them, but he could tell that Willie and André could.

“I see what you mean; this is a nice piece of iron,” André said. “Don't get me wrong, the Glock is a quality product, but the Smithie has a much nicer design.” He handed the gun to Ned, who almost dropped it because he didn't realize how heavy it would be.

Ned stood up and posed with the gun. He was careful not to point it at anyone. As he held it, he began to understand why some guys really, really liked guns. He looked at Leo and said, “Dibs.”

Leo protested with a half-whined, half-shouted stream of invective.

Willie silenced him. “You gotta pay for quality like that,” he said as he handed the Glock to Leo. “It's a prettier gun, it don't work any better, don't kill no quicker, it's just prettier; and—as people who look like Dré learn to understand—you gotta pay for pretty.”

André chuckled. “That's true, that's true. If I didn't have lots of cash, I'd never get laid,” he said. “So how much of the pretty stuff are we actually talking about?”

“Well, the Glock retails for five-something, so that's a bill,” Willie told him. “And the Smithie retails for seven-fifty or eight, so I'll do fourteen for it—but only 'cause I like you.”

“Twenty-four hundred for two lousy used and abused popguns? I have half a mind to take my business elsewhere,” André exaggerated taking offense. “Will, Willie, William, can we come to some kind of civilized deal?”

Willie pointed to Ned and Leo, who were posing with their guns in the living room. Debbie had wisely vacated the house. “You gonna say no to them?”

André shrugged. “But Willie, I'm your drug dealer—to you people, that's like family.”

“Twenty-
five
hundred,” Willie said, then chuckled. “Dré, Dré, Dré, what am I gonna do with you? Okay, okay, it's a rare win for the French—for you, two bills and I am literally cutting my own throat on this one.”

“Yeah, I'm sure. Probably cost you about $25 for the pair,” André said. “But you got 'em and I want 'em—so what will it be, cash or product?”

“Product,” he said. “School's starting up again, that's the hot season for weed.”

“Hey, assholes,” André shouted. Ned and Leo put their guns down and fell silent. “This is coming out of your allowance.”

He was serious. André would connect the boys with Willie, negotiate the deal, and front them the money, but they would pay him back. In full. With interest.

“Okay, put those tools away and get to work,” André ordered. “Get the stuff out of the truck and bring it in here.” He threw the keys to Ned.

André had a false floor put into the bed of his pickup. It was shallow enough to make it hard to detect, but generally held enough to make a single trip worth the gas money. Ned opened it and the herd of young armed men who were surrounding the truck marveled. It was the most drugs any of them had ever seen. A few of them offered to help Ned and Leo carry it into the house, but the boys politely refused.

When they got inside, they saw André counting a large amount of cash. When he was done, he shook Willie's hand. As he headed out, the guys outside crowded around him. “Hey Santy Claus,” the most stoned-looking one said. “What did ya bring us?”

“Be a good boy, and you'll find out,” André said, to a smattering of laughter. He and the boys got back in the truck and headed for home.

About fifteen minutes into the trip back, André smacked himself in the forehead. “Jesus, Leo, you don't even work for me, do you?”

“Nope,” he said. “I work for
him
.” He pointed at Ned.

André laughed. “He doesn't have enough to pay for your piece and his own,” he said. “From now on, you work for me.”

“Awesome.”

“What can you do besides smoke up and look stupid?”

“Pretty good at video games.”

“Okay, okay, can you carry a small package to a hotel bar once a week,” André asked.

“How small?”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, the bag is smaller than a sandwich—can you fuckin' do that?”

Leo got serious very quickly. “Of course, sure.”

“Okay then, I want you to take a small bag to a friend of mine at a hotel bar once a week,” André said. “You can't get caught, you can't fuck up, and you can't steal from me.”

“Understood.”

“I'll pay you one hundred dollars a week,” he said. “But to make up for the gun, it'll be seventy a week for the first year.”

Leo didn't bother to do the math. He agreed.

“Can he still work for me?” Ned asked.

“Not a problem,” André grinned.

Daniel “Bamm Bamm” Johansson was falling asleep in Ivan Mehelnechuk's hot tub. Who could blame him? He'd been drinking scotch-and-waters like they were Kool-Aid for four hours. As he grew less and less conscious, his grip on the glass holding the expensive Glamorgan scotch and water grew less and less firm. As he finally gave in to sleep, the heavy glass dropped to the deck and smashed into millions of tiny shards.

This presented a couple of problems. Mehelnechuk didn't like to waste anything. And while the glass was still in the air, he saw it falling and instinctively calculated the value of what was about to be wasted. The glass: $41.99. Two ounces of Glamorgan: approximately nineteen dollars.

Crash!

The second problem was that there were now millions of shards of broken glass on the deck. Johansson dogmatically knew he had to clean it up. He also knew he was far too drunk to do a decent job.

The third, and most important, problem was that Johansson had fallen asleep while Mehelnechuk was talking to him.

Their relationship had begun about four years earlier. Mehelnechuk arrived at the only strip joint in Stormy Bay. He made an impressive entrance. Even though he was small and not very muscular, he commanded respect as soon as he walked in the room. While a big part of that could be attributed to his full Sons of Satan gear—the gang was widely known and feared—his bizarre facial scar and his obviously malicious demeanor completed the package.

He sat alone at a table near the stage, but cast only a cursory glance at the girls. He ordered a club soda from the waitress without looking at her or even allowing her to speak. Then he called her back and told her to get everyone in the bar whatever they wanted . . . on him.

It took Johansson—a foot taller and full of muscles—about a half hour to work up the nerve to approach him. He sat at a table next to Mehelnechuk's, close enough so that they could talk. “Buy you a drink?” he asked.

Mehelnechuk chuckled. “I seem to have one already,” he paused and when Johansson could offer no retort, continued. “You important around here?”

“You might say so.”

“Is it safe to talk here?”

“Three years in business, no arrests.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mehlenechuk acknowledged. “You had a little bit of trouble when you ran with the South Main boys, though, didn't you?”

Johansson was too stunned to react. After a moment, he looked down and mumbled, “Yeah.”

“Well, I'm happy to hear things are going better now,” Mehenechuk said, grinning. “Let me buy you a drink; then we can talk business—you have a place?”

“Yeah,” Johansson said and went over to have a short conversation with the bartender. After a few nods, Johansson smiled and called Mehelnechuk over. Mehelnechuk pretended he didn't see him. Johansson then walked over to the biker chieftain and invited him into a private room behind the bar.

It was a fairly lush office by Stormy Bay standards. Johansson sat in a leather swivel chair behind a big wooden desk. He was surprised to see that Mehelnechuk didn't sit in the chair opposite him, but rather on the couch a few feet away. Johansson awkwardly rolled his chair over so that he could face him.

“So, what goes on around here?” Mehelnechuk asked.

The waitress knocked before entering. Before she could speak, Johansson asked for a bottle of Jack Daniel's, then motioned towards Mehelnechuk who indicated he didn't want a drink.

After she left, Johansson stretched to show his massive, tattooed biceps and replied, “I'm pretty much it around here—weed, meth, coke, H, ladies, you name it.”

His guest chuckled. “From what I hear, you sell a little hash when you can get your hands on it and farm out a couple of local sluts part-time,” Mehelnechuk said. “The rest is fencing, muscle for hire, and the occasional B and E.”

Johansson realized later that he probably should have laughed or said something clever, but at the time he tensed up and said nothing.

“But that's why I'm here,” Mehelnechuk continued. “I can get you all of those things and more.”

“Yeah?”

“You can distribute 'em in the area for me—make some real money.”

“What's the catch?”

“No catch. In fact, the opposite of a catch—an opportunity?”

Johansson looked puzzled.

“If you do a good job, bring in some cash, stay quiet, I may have some work for you with me in Martinsville and on the road—you interested?”

“Who wouldn't want to work for the Sons of Satan?” Johansson said. “It's like going up to the big leagues.”

Mehelnechuk was true to his word. Starting the following weekend, a Martinsville College sophomore took a train to Springfield and showed up at Johansson's apartment. She didn't look like anyone who'd ever knocked on his door before. A little blonde with a high ponytail that never seemed to stop moving, she looked more like a cheerleader than a drug mule. She had a backpack full of weed and a manila envelope containing some small plastic bags full of cocaine. Johansson invited her in, but was disappointed when she made it clear she had no interest in him.

Her name was Ellie, and she came back again two weeks later with another backpack full of drugs. Before she would give it to him, she wanted Mehelnechuk's money. “You owe the boss $6,550,” she said. “You want drugs, you better have the fuckin' money.” She was tiny and he hated being pushed around (especially by a woman), but Johansson knew better than to cross Mehelnechuk. And he actually did have the money. He managed to sell every leaf of weed and every granule of coke—except that which he had taken for personal use. In fact, he had more money than he had ever seen in his life. So he counted out the $6,550 and handed it to the girl. Then she emptied the backpack.

It went on like that for a few months, and Johansson later recalled that he had never been happier. Not only did he have more money (and drugs) than he had ever dreamed about, he had the respect of his community. He was the
man
in Stormy Bay. He bought himself a jacked-up Jeep—one so high, he had to help most passengers get in—and a Harley.

He'd never had an interest in motorcycles beyond riding his cousin's dirt bike when he was young, but after Mehelnechuk's visit, he felt it appropriate to buy one. Mehelnechuk had never given him any kind of patch or anything, so Johansson went ahead and made his own.

He knew a guy, Randy something, who was an artist. Years ago, Randy had airbrushed a mural on the side of his stepdad's van. Johansson hadn't seen him in years, but knew he could track him down at the flea market where he sold romance novels along with his original artworks. Not only was Randy willing to make a patch for Johansson's jacket, he was delighted.

About two weeks later, Johansson was adding a running board to his Jeep when he was approached by two men in Sons of Satan jackets. The first asked him: “You Johansson?”

“Yup.”

“Boss wants you in Martinsville.”

“That's great, but I got a lot of work to do here.”

“That's why we're here.”

“What?”

“We're gonna run this town while you're gone.”

“What?”

“Jesus, man, you're going to Martinsville to see the boss, until you get back, we run this town; it's not rocket science.”

Johansson knew better than to argue. He finished his job and exchanged pleasantries with his visitors. He was instructed to show them who his contacts in town were and to pack his bags. They also handed him five hundred dollars “for his trouble.”

As Johansson put his jacket on, one of the Sons of Satan asked: “What's that?”

“What's what?”

“That, on the back of your jacket—the Mad Vikings.”

“It's not the Mad Vikings, it's the Mad Viking—that's who I am, the Mad Viking.”

“So . . . your patch is all about yourself ?”

“Yeah.”

“So your club is the Mad Vikings and . . . you are the only member?” They both broke into gales of laughter.

Johansson seethed, but said nothing.