Tess had never been in the clubhouse of a motorcycle gang before. She’d watched plenty movies and TV shows, and read a number of accounts in novels and such, and knew what to expect: hairy men in leather vests, loud music, flowing alcohol, ribald humour and bursts of spontaneous aggression. But on entering the establishment, her bubble of expectancy burst, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Going into a potentially dangerous snake pit, she was on edge, prepared, and meeting this innocuous sight threw her off-kilter.
Instead of the clichéd scene, she found herself standing in a short foyer in front of an elderly woman sitting at a desk. Beyond the woman, a set of double doors were wedged open to allow some air through to a room reminiscent of a high-school classroom with tables and chairs set out in rows. A corkboard was chock-full of flyers and posters for upcoming events and rallies. There was a bar, but it was a small podium in one corner, currently unstaffed, and with cloths over the pumps. Two men played checkers at a table while a third observed them, leaning in to study each move. They were hairy, bearded types, but right now more studious-looking than outlaws. None of them was Crawford Wynne. Tess looked at Po but he offered nothing. Had they found the correct place? Po had based his assumption on the motorcycles in the parking lot, but this was nothing like any clubhouse Tess had heard of. Even the name didn’t inspire the same visceral response as other gang names did. Most sounded aggressive, or subversive at least. The Cottonmouths sounded wussy, until she recalled that the cottonmouth – also known as the water moccasin – was the most dangerous venomous viper in these parts.
The woman glimpsed up at them.
She was no Hell’s Angel, just a regular woman dressed in a baggy T-shirt and pale grey slacks. Her hair was dyed copper, but the grey was showing at the roots. She was wearing spectacles, and her lipstick required reapplication. She smiled at them.
‘Can I help y’all?’
After a flicker of curiosity for Tess, she’d directed her question at Po. He looked the type to be at home astride a Harley Davidson. But this time, Tess pushed in front of Po, and extending her hand to the woman she said, ‘Hopefully you can help.’
The woman accepted Tess’s handshake, and her fingers felt cool and leathery.
‘I’m Tess, and this is my friend Hank.’ It wasn’t a good idea to mention Po’s real name, and it was the first name that came to mind. ‘We’re not even sure if we’re at the correct place. This is the HQ for the local motorcycle fanciers, right?’
The old woman frowned slightly at Tess’s description, but she nodded. ‘Yes, honey, it is. I’m Marnie Ross, club secretary. There something I can do for you?’
Tess made a show of looking around before settling her gaze on Marnie again. ‘We thought we might be able to take a tour, maybe see a few of the club members’ motorcycles.’ She touched her chest. ‘As you can probably tell, I’m no aficionado, but my friend Hank is a huge Harley fan. A club member, and a mutual friend from up north, told us that we could stop by and take a look at your cycles while we are in town.’ Tess feigned embarrassment. ‘Mind you, that was a few months ago now. We’re not even sure he’s still a member of your club.’
Marnie pursed her lips. ‘Most of our members are out, as you can probably tell. We have a charity ride scheduled for later today and they’re out at the rally point getting ready.’
Tess turned to Po. ‘Man, did we choose the wrong day, Hank. Isn’t that just typical, though? I told you we should’ve called ahead first.’
‘And I told you I lost his number.’ Po rose to the part admirably, playing the dumb boyfriend to a T. ‘But he told me he could be found here most days.’
Tess threw up her hands, turning back to Marnie wearing an exasperated look. ‘I don’t suppose you can help us get in touch, could you? Hank has lost the number and we have no home address for him. Does Crawford Wynne come in most days like he promised?’
A tremor passed behind the woman’s features. ‘Crawford Wynne’s your friend, huh?’ She turned and looked at the three men playing checkers in the back room. Tess worried that the game was up and that Marnie would call the men through to throw them out. Instead, the old woman leaned forward and lowered her voice. She patted the air with her long, dry fingers for emphasis. ‘Wynne isn’t a name mentioned with much fondness round here, honey. And it surprises me that you’d be his friend.’
‘Well,’ said Tess, reading the situation, ‘he’s not exactly a friend, just an acquaintance of Hank’s.’ She leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Personally I found Wynne a bit of a creep, but Hank thinks he’s OK. Mind you, Hank isn’t the best judge when it comes to his friends. I take it Wynne has made himself unwelcome here?’
‘That would be an understatement.’ Marnie fired a dour look at Po for his stupidity. ‘If you want my advice, miss, I’d steer well clear of him and his sort.’
‘If it were down to me, I’d be happy if I never saw him again. But Hank was looking forward to catching up with his old buddy. You don’t happen to have any idea where we might find him, maybe you’ve an address or cell number we can try?’
Marnie sat back in her chair. Her head shook as she considered. Coming to a decision she pulled open a desk drawer and hauled out a large ledger. In this enlightened age most people kept their records on a computer: the ledger was anachronistic, a dog-eared thing frayed along the edges, with Post-it notes stuck in the top to mark some of the pages. She opened it like a preacher laying a Bible on a pulpit. She licked a finger to turn leaves. After a quick sift of the yellowed pages she looked up, shook her head again, but this time in the negative. ‘I don’t have Wynne’s address. Say’s here he was staying with Ron Edgerton, but I can’t imagine he’ll be welcome at Ron’s place now.’
‘Had a falling out?’
‘And some. Ron caught Wynne with his wife, Celia, and there was a huge bust-up. Their dispute spilled over right here a month ago and they had to be pulled apart by the other boys. Most of them took Ron’s part and hustled Wynne outside. I didn’t see, but Wynne was sent packing – if you catch my meaning?’ Marnie didn’t elaborate, but didn’t have to. There had been some old-fashioned retribution laid on by the Cottonmouths. ‘I’m doubting that Wynne left a forwarding address with Ron or Celia, ’specially seeing as they’ve patched things up between them now.’
Tess mopped her brow with her fingertips, unconscious of the motion. Po brushed against her as leaned over the desk. ‘You said “most of them”,’ he said to Marnie.
‘Huh?’
‘Most of them took Ron’s part. Somebody didn’t.’
Tess was impressed, though mildly irritated. She was the details person and she’d missed the obvious, whereas Po had been right on it. Marnie shrugged slim shoulders with barely any effect on her oversized T-shirt. ‘There were a few of the boys thought Ron was overreacting.’ She made a face that said she disagreed strongly with the rebels. ‘You think maybe one of them stayed in touch with Wynne? Possibly.’
‘Can you put us in touch with any of them?’ Tess asked hopefully.
Marnie exhaled through her nostrils. She leaned back, meeting first Po’s gaze, then Tess’s. ‘I wasn’t entrusted with my chair position for being green.’ Marnie took off her spectacles, and cleaned the lenses on the tail of her shirt. Placing the glasses back on, she eyed Tess spuriously. ‘I know y’all ain’t friends of Crawford Wynne. Hell, girl, you’re the corn-fed type he’d eat for breakfast, and I don’t think ol’ Hank there would take too kindly to that kinda behaviour. There’s some other reason y’all are looking for Wynne and I can’t imagine it’s a good one.’
The old woman had apparently been around the block a few times and wasn’t as gullible as Tess hoped. The game was up, then. It was time to go for broke and tell the truth, but again Po interjected. ‘He owes me money. Wasn’t sure you’d tell us where to find him if you owed Wynne any loyalty. But I can see now that you don’t regard him too highly.’
‘Must be a lot of money to warrant a trip all the way here to Morgan City.’ Marnie sneered to show she wasn’t buying Po’s explanation either.
‘It’s not so much the cash that counts, it’s the principle,’ Po said without missing a beat. ‘Wynne owes me and I intend to make him pay.’
Marnie grinned. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ But then she held up a finger, and Tess noted that the polish was in need of reapplication as urgently as her lipstick. ‘If you’ve a personal beef with Crawford Wynne, then that’s your business. But this here club is my responsibility. I don’t want you bringing trouble to its door, not when I’ve tried so hard to clean up its image. These days the Cottonmouth MCC is a charitable institution and we ain’t losing our licence for nobody.’
‘So point us in the right direction,’ Po said, ‘and we’ll go away. You won’t see or hear from us again.’
Marnie squinted behind her spectacles, cocking her head like a quizzical dog. A tiny rainbow flared off an oily smear she’d missed cleaning off the right lens. She glanced back at the trio playing checkers, and not a one of them returned the look. She leaned forward, flipping pages in the ledger. Then tapped a chipped nail on one name. ‘Jerome Benoit. You might try him.’
‘Thanks,’ Po said, ‘an address would be helpful, though.’
‘I’m not giving you his home address, but you could try speaking with him in person. He’s along with the others getting ready for the charity rally. You’ll find the club massing on Pine and Lakewood, readying for a ride to raise funds for Teche Regional.’
‘How will we recognize him?’ Tess wondered.
‘He’ll be riding the trike, the only three-wheeler in the group. But if he doesn’t happen to be astride it, look for the good-looking boy, looks like that Pretty Woman actor. But I’ll warn you up front,’ Marnie said with a sour grin. ‘That boy ain’t no officer or a gentleman.’
‘Noted,’ Po said.
Marnie held up a warning finger. ‘And I’ll also remind you: the Cottonmouths are doing a charitable rally for the sick children, y’hear? I don’t want to hear of any mess or fuss when you talk to Jerome.’
‘I’ll keep things nice and quiet, under the radar,’ Po pledged.