| |
Bikers straggled into the room in pairs and singles. Biker women appeared out of nowhere. Phones were out; they were going to vid this. Some were smoking and I was caught off-guard. Smoking laws prohibited smoking indoors at a place of business, but I was guessing this room wasn't open for business. Those who grabbed glass mugs of beer did so without paying. Two of the bikers started braying the stupid "One Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall" song.
Dealer was leaned casually against the pool table. Sonar was near the door, watching everything, his black beard and long black ponytail swaying slightly as he moved his head.
Somebody approached me, beer mug in hand. He was a hefty guy, smiling, and sporting a long beard. His name patch said "Big Pizza." He thrust his chin at me. "Hope you forgive me for hitting you in the head the other day."
I remembered the metallic thunk to the back of my head that had produced a splitting headache. "That was you?"
His eyes danced with an upward thrust of his chin. "Yeah, you knocked over Dealer's ride and then punched him. It seemed like the thing to do."
I ignored everyone else for a moment. "You guys really fight gangs to keep them out?"
His eyes went from dancing to sharp in an instant. "I don't know if I can say much about that. Maybe you should ask an officer."
"Chaplain said so."
His face relaxed. "Ah, so... Well, yes, we fight against gangs. It's not like we go out at eight in the morning and fist-fight gang-bangers until five every day. We keep a watch, then move when we see definite signs. Most days are just ordinary days."
"So what do you do all day?"
"Me?"
"Any of you?"
"Well, I work in the casino behind the cage."
I nodded.
He said, "Others work at our two bars, a couple at the pawn shop and a few at the strip joint."
"There's a strip joint here? I didn't know."
"Yeah, it's clean, though. Just dancing. No full stripping. Only down to topless."
"I thought Keystone was filled with Christians?"
"It is." He shrugged. "A little tit never harmed anyone. Most of our regulars come from the city."
I grunted assent, not sure how else to respond. "So...no prostitution?"
He gave me a look. "Well..."
I waited.
"We have Angela...but we closed down this place years ago when we bought it out." He waved his hand around to indicate the place.
"This was a cat house?"
He nodded, smiling. "We didn't think it was good for the community."
"But you have a prostitute."
His smile evaporated a little and his eyes hardened. "You have to understand, Jimmy, that some women have no other options or hope. They do what they know. If we didn't keep her, where might she end up? Strung out on drugs? Murdered in some alley somewhere? We consider keeping her an act of charity."
I had very much noticed his change. "Sorry."
The smile returned and he clapped my shoulder. "Quite all right, son. Now you know. Kristy tells me you're looking for a job?"
I blew out a breath. "Have been for some time now. She's been supporting us with her bookkeeping work." I looked down at my feet, embarrassed. I wanted to talk about anything except my lack of work; it made me feel worthless. "So no chop shop, then?" I saw a black haired, scowling biker with silver in his hair edge close, obviously listening.
He laughed, shaking his head. "We're not a gang, Jimmy. We don't steal cars."
"You don't have to steal cars to operate a chop shop."
Big Pizza regarded me for a moment. "Cars don't just magically appear..."
I shook my head. "Think ahead a little. People are hurting for cash and the internet provides opportunities. You put an ad in the paper offering two hundred dollars for a car—"
Big Pizza shook his head. "Scrap, you're only getting fifty to a hundred. Prices are low."
I placated him with a hand motion. "Two hundred. Then you siphon the gas out. Free gas for your rides. You pull the serviceable parts out and sell them on Craig's List. A four-set of rims with tires can get you the cost of the purchase back right there. You take out what you can sell first and then you scrap it."
He raised his eyebrows at me. "Why aren't you doing it?"
"I don't own a garage or know how to chop a car. I know computers. But I know car parts sell – even ashtrays."
The black-haired biker had edged closer, his head tilted, listening. His name patch said "Ghost."
I glanced at him occasionally, but he seemed intent to listen, not butt in.
Big Pizza had seen him, too. He said to me, "Don't mind Ghost; he's our Treasurer. Might be listening for ideas."
"My wife's a bookkeeper—"
Big Pizza was shaking his head. "We're fine. We make a lot of money sitting on what we have. More is always nice, but not entirely necessary."
Kristy had come over, cradling a beer in two hands. I doubted she would be able to drink half of it. "Talking finances?"
Big Pizza smiled at her. "Hello, sweet thing. Yep, talking finances. He was trying to offer your services."
"I'm a good bookkeeper."
"I think Ghost does well."
The black-haired, scowling biker straightened and came close enough to be included. "I'm interested in the chop-shop idea. Sounds plausible."
Kristy was brash. "So you're the bookkeeper?"
"Treasurer."
"So you keep the ledgers and balance—"
His scowl deepened. "Ledgers?"
"Okay, so you use the computer?"
"No..."
Kristy cocked her hip and dropped her mouth open. "How do you keep track of debits and credits? How do you reconcile—"
Ghost straightened, stiff. "It's club business. We operate at a profit."
She snorted. "I bet you don't even use spreadsheets."
He blushed, but his scowl deepened. I put a warning hand on her shoulder.
Ghost stalked off, his scowl deep and creasing his face.
Kristy looked up at me. "What? I was just trying to help."
Big Pizza shook his head slowly. "You never question an officer about their duties. That's a matter for the meetings."
"I was just trying to help."
His face softened, but the hardness about his eyes remained. "It's a club matter. You can be forgiven for not knowing, being that you're a citizen."
"What if I have good input?"
He chuckled. "You talk through your man. In this case, he doesn't matter, either." He looked to me. "That's not an insult."
"I understand." I didn't. Sort of. I think he knew.
Big Pizza leaned forward, close. "The brotherhood comes before all. Even family. I'm not saying family doesn't matter, it's just club business stays in the club, period."
"All right."
Gunner, the Chaplain, came up and stood with us. He twirled his thin cigar in one hand. "Giving him advice?"
Big Pizza rumbled laughter. "I wouldn't make a good chaplain."
"The shit you wouldn't."
I said, "You don't sound much like a chaplain."
That Chrysler wheeze buffeted me. "Why, because I cuss?"
I nodded.
"Son, the prophets of God cussed and pulled beards. Do you think Jesus cares about your words, or your heart?"
Something clicked in me, inside. Deep inside. I turned to face him completely. "Your heart. Always your heart."
Gunner wheezed again. "Even you could be chaplain."
"I'm serious." I felt it. Something lacking everywhere inside me screamed the affirmation that it was all about the heart. Who was I? Where was I going? Did it matter if I wore sunglasses? Did it matter if I was over-weight? None of it. But my heart mattered. My heart was who I was, who I presented to the outside world. If I was a husk, heartless, wearing sunglasses and a suit, I was nothing. I didn't want to be a nothing. I never wanted to be a nothing again. It burst in me, sending shivers down my limbs. I wanted to scream, "I'm someone." But I knew my words didn't matter. What mattered centered in my heart.
Gunner had fallen quiet, looking at me. "Do you know Jesus, Jimmy?"
"He was crucified, yes, I know—"
"No, do you know Him?"
"What do you mean?"
He moved closer to me, looking sharply into my eyes. Close so no one else was included. "Is He in your heart?"
I didn't know what to say to this grizzled biker. "I...don't know."
His eyes sharpened further. "Then He isn't. If you want Him, you ask Him into your heart to be your savior. It's as simple as that and all your failures are washed away."
My failures. I stood face to face with this gray-haired biker, talking of all things about Jesus. Fuck! I'm about to fight someone and we're talking religion? But his eyes pinned me to the spot and made me think. Never included, never trusted, never brought along, never friended... My life was nothing without Kristy. In fact, it was nothing anyway. I was useless. I opened my mouth and held my breath. I didn't know how to articulate my essence. Instead, I deflected. "God wouldn't want me."
Gunner was still. Big Pizza was standing respectfully a few feet away. His gaze sharpened on me. Kristy was listening and grabbed onto my arm in a gesture of support. I know you want me, my love.
The chaplain slowly began to shake his head. Despite the loudness around us, his words were gravelly and quiet. "He wants everyone like you. Just like you. Every fuck-up the world has to offer."
I realized I was trembling. "But why?"
"God isn't looking for perfect people; he's looking for men and women who will trust Him."
I snapped. Welling inside me was a lifetime of being nothing to anyone, except for Kristy. I couldn't hold back tears, and shame filled me. Here I was, crying in front of a biker who had seen more than I'd probably ever see. I felt the wetness on my cheeks. I knew others would see it and it made me more ashamed. Trust. Who trusted me?
Gunner shook his head. "No need for that, though I understand it."
I couldn't stop. Excuses rose in my thoughts. "But the things I've done—"
"Are forgiven and forgotten. That's grace, Jimmy. Do you want it?"
It seemed like the most amazing gift I had ever heard. I choked back a sob, trying to be firm. "Yes."
He stabbed his cigar into my shirt. "Get down on your knees with me, son." He dropped to his knees and held out his arms.
The room had gone quiet. I swear I could hear each biker in the room breathing. Knowing I would look like a fool to reject him, I realized I didn't want to. I realized with a growing surety that I wanted to be down there accepting what he was going to say. I wanted to trust him. I wanted him to trust me. I wanted to trust God. I sank to my knees. Not a single person laughed.
I accepted Jesus in front of at least thirty bikers and their women in an old whore house.