Page 98 of Existential
THIRTY-NINE
Hooch
Six patched Harley riders cruising into the parking lot would make any motel owner nervous, but when we’re miles from somewhere friendly to layover our options are limited. Money talks, and before the hour is out the guys have crammed themselves into one of the four rooms we rented for the night, playing caps.
I hang around in the covered walkway, enjoying the laughter that drifts from the open door. Murphy steps out, joining me in the cool night air, his eyes immediately honing in on the same thing I look at.
Digits sits astride his bike on the far side of the lot, talking on the phone.
“Who does he need to dial up this time of night?”
“Fucked if I’d know, considerin’ he shot the only piece of ass he’s got to check in with back home.”
“Kind of what I was gettin’ at, brother.”
We’re somewhere around three hours from our destination—a house in the suburbs, that’s all I know. The snake’s kept his cards close, and to say that pisses me off would be an understatement.
“I want this to be one big fuckin’ misunderstanding, you know?”
Murphy nods, plucking a smoke from his pack. “Aye. You know it won’t be though.”
“Yeah, I know.” My gun’s loaded and on me at all times, and it’s not from risk of enemies stumbling over our whereabouts.
It’s friendly fire I’m ready for.
“None of this is your fault, you realize that?”
I glance at Murphy as he lights his stick, eyeballing me to make sure I understand. “All I want is for our club to get back to basics. For the guys to fuckin’ get along.” I turn my head and watch Digits as he pockets the phone. “But it seems like such a goddamn pipedream these days.”
“It won’t always be like this.”
“Won’t it?”
The day King sat me down and detailed his dream to steer our clubs away from the illegal business we’re wrapped up in, and streamline our profits from above board, moral avenues, I was so goddamn proud of him. Everything he said made sense, and although it would mean a huge hit to earnings, I could see it working.
Cut the drug supply out of our cities, work with youth to deter beginner crimes and steer them in the right direction, encourage growth within local businesses so that the young and restless had legitimate ways to earn.
Do the fucking things we’ve always pretended to do to keep the heat off our clubs. Be the men we say we are.
And it worked for a while. Coke and ice usage dropped within the first months. Youth crime rates dropped by seven percent, and the Fallen Aces hired a lawyer to look over some legitimate investment options for when our debt to the Koreans is paid off.
We had a five-year plan that looked like it would be done in three. And now I look across a cracked and rutted fucking parking lot at the man I used to trust with these kinds of ideas, and wonder how many others in the room behind me are fucking me over without my knowledge?
Who the hell can I trust? You know who. Yeah, I do, but what’s the point in fighting for Dagne if I don’t have any way to provide for her? I’m male—it’s in my DNA. I provide for and protect those I care about. It’s just what I do.
Murphy stamps his cigarette out and pats me on the shoulder as he turns for the motel room. “Don’t think too hard on it, son.” His gaze flits to Digits as he climbs off his bike. “We go to this address tomorrow and see what we find. Maybe we shut down whoever is using the Wingmen, maybe we don’t. Either way we’re ridin’ back one lighter.” His dark eyes find mine, the wisdom and experience in them almost tangible. “Best you remember that.”
I pull out a cigarette of my own as he disappears inside and Digits crosses the lot to where I stand. The fucking snake has the audacity to smile as he approaches.
“Everything good, pres?”
“Don’t know.” I light the stick, sucking hard. “You tell me.”
“Look,” he says, leaning against an upright for the walkway roof. “I get you can’t trust me at the moment.”
“Oh, it’s not just now,” I scoff. “I don’t think I will ever again.”
His eyes narrow, his jaw hardening. “Anyway.”