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I had toilets down by the second week. Of course, finishing so fast only meant I had to do other things before my shift, or all day on my days off. But I didn't care – anything was better than cleaning toilets.
I was lounging with Kristy when Ghost came out. "Jimmy." He made a head motion. "Come on back." One of the end rooms was his office; he did not stay at the clubhouse. Filing cabinets were all along the back wall and boxes placed perfectly to block out the light. His room was dark, except for the desk lamp. His old metal desk looked at least as old as he was.
I went in expecting to have to polish his desk or something.
He indicated a chair.
I looked at it to see if it was dirty and needed cleaning. I took the shop rag I had out of my back pocket just for quick cleaning purposes and started wiping it.
He coughed and growled, "Sit."
Oh. I stuffed the rag back in my pocket and sat.
He pursed his lips at me, looking closely with his typical scowl. His thin nose and silver strands in his hair gave the impression he was older than he was. "You talked about a chop shop, once."
I nodded. "I was surprised you didn't have one."
"We don't deal in stolen cars, so..."
I nodded.
"Explain to me how you think it could work for us."
"Well, the club does things for charity."
"Couple times a year, sure."
"You look after Angela."
He grunted.
"You keep gangs off the streets and the drugs that follow."
He nodded.
"Sounds to me like you're crusaders. You’re a club for a purpose."
He leaned forward towards me. "We're a club because of who we are. But yes, we have a mission; we don't want our town to turn to shit."
I raised a hand in admission. "Okay, so let's say you expand your charity a bit?"
He sat back, but still scowled with concentration.
"You advertise to buy any car, running or not, for two hundred dollars. Instead of taking money from the community, you're injecting it. So you take those cars, strip sellable parts out of them, and then chop it for scrap. Things like seats, steering wheels, even ashtrays from older cars sell well. Definitely rims and tires. Panels like hoods and trunks sell well. Siphon the gas out of the tanks for some freebie fuel."
He chuckled. I had never seen Ghost do anything other than scowl. But even his chuckle looked cruel.
I continued. "So you sell parts, scrap the rest and that will bring in outside money into Keystone. Plus, if it's a legitimate business, you won't have the police hunting you down for stolen cars. Parts can be sold online or even to auto repair shops. The older the car, the more you want to advertise that shit online – you'd have buyers from across the country."
He was stroking his chin, half his scowl a smile. "I like it." He scribbled on a Post-It note and attached it to his closest filing cabinet. "Thank you, Jimmy. You can go now."
I hoped he thought my idea was good. I had always wondered what a legitimate business might bring in as a chop shop.
He said, "Send your wife in; I think she's hanging around in the hall wondering what you're doing."
"Oh, sure." Out in the hall, I saw her waiting. "He said go in."
She pointed to herself with a questioning look.
"Yes, you."
Ghost called from his office, "Come in, Kristy."
I knew it wouldn't be good to stick around and listen to what should be a private conversation, but I lingered – just a little.
Ghost muttered, "You know bookkeeping, right?"
My Kristy's voice sounded frail. "Yes."
"Maybe you can tell me what you used to do and how I might improve the way I do things here."
"Oh. Sure. Do you have any ledgers? Or do you keep all your records on the computer?"
There was silence for a moment.
He said, "Neither, I sort of write things down on legal pads—"
"Are you serious?"
"Yes and it's worked so far."
"But how can you compare income flows on legal pads? You don't do any spreadsheets?"
I heard him shift in his chair.
He sullenly said, "No."
Kristy sounded careful, but cheerful. "Well, that's okay, Ghost. Let's see what kind of programs your computer has and maybe I can show you how a simple spreadsheet can make things a lot easier to see."
I walked away, leaving them to talk accounting. I was sure someone would be looking for me to go shovel Jonesy's poop or something.
~ ~ ~
I got away with relaxing for almost an hour before two guys stirred the hornet's nest.
Into the clubhouse walked Pulverizer and the vice president Slaughter from the Sons of Aggression. They were wearing their colors.
I had seen the Iron Crows move fast – blindingly fast – when Demon Rider had pulled a gun. The reaction this time seemed a lot more threatening for being so slow. The bikers in the club rose so slowly that you could feel tension radiating from them.
Slaughter saw me and gave me a surprised look, but he waved. Both men then seemed to draw in on themselves as they were surrounded.
Sonar came out of the hall from his office, his eyes searching as if he had heard something. Being the senior officer present, he displaced the chaplain in confronting them. He said, "I am Steve Gillens, vice president of the Iron Crows. What exactly are you doing here?" His voice had a dangerous edge.
Other members of the Iron Crows were circling around them.
Pulverizer spoke after swallowing. "Jim invited us. Said we should approach you and get to know you."
Slaughter nodded. "We're breaking up, basically."
Sonar shot a glance to me that conveyed little. He addressed them, "That's the problem with pop-ups; they haven't learned the right way to do things." He addressed Slaughter, as he was wearing a VP patch. "What's your name?"
"Slaughter."
"No, your real name."
"Oh, uh, Robert Stiles."
Sonar's voice was very quiet. "Listen, Robert Stiles, bikers do not just walk into another club's clubhouse wearing colors unless invited or looking for war."
Slaughter and Pulverizer swallowed visibly.
Sonar went on, "We don't have any problems greeting you as fellow riders, but definitely not while you're wearing colors you haven't earned. Walking in here like this basically slapped every single one of us in the face. If you're smart, you'll go back outside, remove those colors, and come back in again with respect."
Slaughter nodded nervously. "Sure, no problem."
The Iron Crows between them and the door parted silently and allowed them to exit.
Sonar turned to me. He shook his head. "Didn't you tell them protocol?"
I shrugged helplessly. "There wasn't time; it was a fast conversation. I didn't think they'd be ballsy enough—"
He pointed a finger at me. "Always be clear. Always expect to have to tell others – especially posers."
I nodded gravely. "Understood."
He blew out a breath. "Go clean my toilet again; I want the entire thing polished. Not just cleaned inside."
"No problem." I hustled.
I was rolling the cart past the common room and saw a few of the bikers chatting with Slaughter and Pulverizer over beers. They looked at ease. I shook my head as I hurried to the end and rolled the cart into his office and parked it outside his bathroom. Just as I learn something, I discover there's more to learn. I polished his toilet on the outside, wiping even the base free of dust. Whenever I did a very good job, I usually got a little more free time to kick back.