Kick (The Jenkins Cycle Book 1) (7 page)

For a moment, I felt genuinely sorry for him. These little reveals were never easy.

Gentling my tone, I said, “All I can say is I’ve changed, and no, you never did anything to me. But we can’t be friends anymore.”

Dave’s face turned agreeable.

“I can live with that,” he said. “But you can’t keep me here forever. Where we going with this?”

“Don’t you want to know why you’re so special?”

“Fine, yeah, I do. Why am I special?”

“Your daughter, Tammy. That’s why.”

His face flushed in anger and he half rose from his seat. I angled the gun from his chest to his head.

“Hey,” I said. “None of that. Quit being such a hot head.”

Dave settled back, fury in check, though barely.

“You touch my kid you may as well kill me.”

“See? You’re a good dad—I like that. Now, if you could have mustered that kind of feeling for Z and
his
daughter we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.”

“Z was a snitch,” he said, guardedly. “That couldn’t be helped. Then everybody’d snitch, wouldn’t they?”

Honestly, I didn’t have any problem with Z snitching, considering they were all a bunch of criminals, but I kept that to myself.

“What did he do, specifically? You guys keep calling him a snitch, but …”

“Oh for God’s sake, would you quit the crazy act? You knew he was an informer for the Feds. That’s why you’re here—what, you got amnesia? Look, I’m gonna need to take a piss in a minute.”

“We’ll be done in a minute.”

“What’s any of this got to do with Tammy?” Dave said, glaring at me like an angry dad.

I paused, searching for the words I hoped would save me another trip to Home Depot.

“She seems like a sweet kid,” I said. “Doesn’t want anything to do with all this. With the Howlers. Was that your doing?”

Dave smiled like he’d found me out.

“You like her, don’t you? I don’t mean that way—course that’s probably true too. But she got to you, didn’t she?”

I surprised myself by smiling back.

“Yeah, I guess she did,” I said. “And no, not that other way.”

He laughed like he’d scored a point.

“That’s all Linda’s doing. She didn’t want her being someone’s ol’ lady, getting slapped around and told what to think.”

“Only Linda’s doing?”

Dave shook his head.

“No, me too, I guess. But if I blame it on Linda, everyone understands.”

“The Howlers.”

“Yeah. Tammy never visits the clubhouse. And stuff like the charity ride, when they go pawing at her and she slaps them down, that’s when I say, ‘Don’t blame me, I didn’t raise her.’ I got Tammy to ask you to dance for a laugh, see if she’d slap you when you did something dopey. When she does stuff like that, I get to blame Linda. Just be glad she’s not here now.”

The way he said it, I was.

I leaned forward and said, “For you to get out of here alive, I need you to agree to a few things, and I need your word on it.”

“You trust my word?”

“Not really, but if you break it I can live with the disappointment. I think it’ll bother you, though, so I’m willing to risk it.”

Dave’s expression grew thoughtful.

“What I want,” I said, “is for you to walk out of here and tell everyone who asks that you don’t know where Billy or Stump went—that they’re not here because you already checked. Then I want you to tell them you think they left the state with the money and the drugs and that I went after them. With any luck, in about three weeks you won’t have to lie anymore. By then, everyone will know I killed them and nobody finds out your small part in it.”

Raising his voice, Dave said, “You want me to lie about my brothers, say they stole from the club?”

“What if it was your daughter here last night with that animal, chained and bloody on that miserable bed?”

He looked away.

“What else?”

“After you tell them about Billy and Stump, take everyone out of Memphis. How many members live here?”

“Just Stump, part time—too many niggers.”

I winced at the word, always surprised when confronted with casual racism.

“What?” he said. “Now you got a problem with that too? I’ve seen your tats, man. It’s just an expression, ok? Jesus.”

“Never mind,” I said. “Just get the Howlers out of Memphis, keep them busy doing something else. While that’s going on, I’ll be out ‘goofing off,’ as you say. In a few weeks, I’ll bring the police here, show them the bodies, confess to the crime, and then I’ll be out of your hair for good. Well, except for one other thing.”

Dave laughed at me.

“What, you’re gonna turn yourself in to the cops? Now I know you’re shitting me—you had me going for a minute there, I swear.”

“And one more thing,” I said again, with more emphasis.

“Sure Mike,” he said, smiling, playing along. “Anything for you.”

Looking at him directly, I lowered the gun and said, “When I’m sitting in my cell, locked away from the world under a million tons of steel and concrete, watched by guards and cameras and everything else, I promise you: I can still get to you. If I take this pistol and stick it to my head and pull the trigger, I can still get to you. If you think I’m still the Mike Nichols you knew yesterday, you’re wrong. That man is gone.
I’m
the man who can get to you. Now, look me in the eyes and tell me I’m lying.”

Dave looked at me all right, mouth agape as I sat there spouting nonsense at him. Craziness. Some kind of tough talk meant to scare him. That’s what his reason told him. But I could see something else at work behind his eyes telling him otherwise, warning him to be cautious. Here echoed a memory of quiet scratching from the closet. Here was a reason to dread the night.

“So what’s the other thing?” Dave said, breaking my gaze, trying to remember he was the Howlers club president.

“Leave the women alone,” I said. “Kids too. And throw in grandparents, brothers and sisters, and long-lost neighbors while you’re at it—anyone who isn’t connected directly to your world. If you agree to that I’ll do what I said and let you leave here alive.”

Dave snorted, clapping his hands.

“Man, you’re so full of shit it’s almost convincing.”

Still clapping his hands, he faked the last clap and went for his gun, hoping to get the drop on me.

I didn’t want to kill him—really, I didn’t. So I threw my gun in his face, hard, knocking him off balance and toppling him from the chair. He still got a shot off but it didn’t hit me. I ducked back to the living room and flattened against the wall, then pulled my other gun. Between us, some drywall and the refrigerator offered a measure of protection.

“Fuck!” he said. Then his gun went
BAM!
BAM!

I wondered what he was shooting at.

“Dave!” I shouted, around the corner. “What are you doing? This is ridiculous. All you had to do was give me your word.”

“Like I believe you, the crazy shit you’re saying? Did Stump give you his word, too?”

“I honestly don’t think Stump knew that many words. He was an animal. More of a paramecium, really. You’re a bit better—more like a chinchilla. Cute, cuddly, with tiny pointed teeth. Means we can work together.”

“Jesus, listen to you!”

“Dave, I’m joking, lighten up. Just put the gun down.”

“Can’t do that—I need it to kill your crazy ass.”

Things were tense and Dave seemed to be having a bad day. I kept that in mind as I made my final argument.

“Dave, here’s the thing. If you don’t put that gun down and talk this out with me, I’m going to kill you and leave Tammy alone with all those Howler maniacs—with no tough biker dad to protect her. Linda too. You want that? Your wife sounds like sort of a hardass, probably made a lot of enemies along the way. They need you alive. You’re seriously going to risk everything for some twisted, anti-snitching policy?”

He didn’t say anything, but I’d take that over shooting things and calling me names.

A cool two minutes went by without a peep. I wondered when he’d try to surprise me. Another minute passed and I shook my head.

This wasn’t the first time I had tried to reach someone—pull them from whatever hole they’d dug for themselves. It almost never worked. People don’t really listen, especially the ones who need to the most. Over time, I’ve learned when someone’s really screwed-up it takes a hard slap in the face to show them what they’ve become. I should know, having received the mother of all such slaps back when all this started.

I held the gun close and readied myself for the most important game of dodgeball anyone had ever played.

Halfway into launching around the corner, guns a’blazin, Dave said, “She’s my sister.”

Surprised, I barely checked my momentum.

“What? Who is?”

“Linda. She’s not my wife—she’s my sister. Sandy died years ago, of cancer. You went to her funeral, man. Linda never made it home in time, but said she’d raise Tammy. Why you acting like you don’t remember? Why you doing this?”

Glad as I was to be talking instead of shooting, I wasn’t about to tell him the whole truth.

“Like I told you, I’m not the Mike you knew. Now can we get back to the table? Keep your gun, just don’t shoot it anymore.”

A moment later, Dave said, “Fine. Let’s get this bullshit finished.”

Together, we each walked to the table, warily eyeballing each other, though neither of us pointing our weapons. Then, as one, we put them away.

Dave looked at me. I mean really looked at me, as if digging a well through my head with his eyes.

“I got a club member gunned down behind me, another one stuffed in a freezer. Both by you, someone I trusted like a brother. Tell me why I’m even considering this deal of yours.”

“Were you friends with Billy?” I said. “With Stump?”

“Yes I was.”

“Did they deserve to die?”

He shrugged.

“Yeah, I suppose. But, in a way, don’t we all deserve to die? I mean… if we didn’t, we wouldn’t.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.”

I held out my hand. After a brief hesitation, he shook it, saying between shakes, “I’m gonna need your cut.”

“What?”

“Stump’s too, and Billy’s.”

Noting my puzzled expression, Dave said, “Are you serious about this—what is it—amnesia? Some kind of multiple personality thing? You’re not faking it?”

“I’m sorry, no. I’m not faking it. What the hell’s a cut?”

He leaned forward, disbelieving, and tugged my vest.

“Your cut, man, see? I need it. It belongs to the club.”

Sighing, I leaned back.

“Dave, you’re not thinking straight. If you take them you’ll have evidence tying you to the shootings. You’re also going to have to keep this from your club members. That’s why they call it a secret.”

Dave grew angry then—almost as angry as when he thought I wanted his daughter.

“Listen,” he said, “you’re out of the club. You’re dead if we see you again, deal or no deal. Keep it for now, just don’t go riding around with it.”

“I’ll keep it in the closet.”

He shook his head in disgust.

“So, you’re going to turn yourself in. In what, three weeks?”

I nodded.

Dave stood up and looked for the last time upon the crumpled heap that used to be Billy the Howler.

“Take care of Billy,” he said. “I gotta get back to the charity ride. And if I ever see you again we won’t be sitting at no table shaking hands and shit.”

He barely glanced at me as he pushed past. Leaving me alone in a blighted house with two shot-up corpses. Wanting to get out of there myself, I retrieved the gun I’d thrown at Dave, then set to work cleaning up the mess.

***

The following day, I decided I needed a change of scenery. After the events at Stump’s house, I wanted to get as far from Memphis as I could in case Dave reconsidered our agreement, or in case the cops got wind of something.

Having access to something as cool as a motorcycle is great if you’re into scenic drives. Since I am into scenic drives, I spent a week exploring along the Natchez Trace Parkway after talking to a gnarly dude that morning while getting coffee. The drive took me from Mississippi clear to Alabama. On the gnarly dude’s advice, and with the help of some space-age camping gear I picked up at the mall, I avoided hotels and camped out under the stars.

The guy had mainly described the scenery, but that was enough for me to go. He couldn’t have been more right: endless miles of deciduous forest broken up by lovely green fields and shining lakes, and not too much traffic. But what he didn’t mention, which I learned from the blessedly sparse road signs, was there were ancient American ceremonial mounds at various locations along the way. I stopped at every one of them.

It was a good trip. I didn’t kill even one person.

Returning to Memphis had always been part of the plan. By my count, I had a week and a half, two tops, before the real Mike started to claw his way back from wherever people go to when I enter them. Incidentally, I’ve often considered contacting someone I’ve ridden and let live and quizzing them about the experience, but so far I haven’t. I’m half convinced that doing so would result in the universe exploding or something—like matter and antimatter colliding, or going back in time and shaking hands with yourself, or mixing Coke and Pepsi.

I spent my last night on the Natchez Trace camped next to a creek about fifty miles outside Nashville. When I arrived, an African American family stood together along the bank fishing. I made sure to smile and wave and busy myself with setting up the tent a ways off so as not to worry them. Even without my cut, Mike still looked plenty scary-looking given his choice of tattoos.

If they were worried, they didn’t show it. They stayed and fished for the rest of the afternoon, then packed up and left just before dusk. I didn’t ask them if they caught anything.

Chapter 10

When I finally returned to the hotel I found the money still hidden safely under the mattress. I combined it with the rest from the saddlebags. Altogether, my ill-gotten worth had dropped to about $7,200. Realistically, I couldn’t use it all in the time I had left. Other than memories, it really is true what they say about death: you can’t take it with you.