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We threw away a lot of junk. Not that we had a whole lot. But it's amazing how much plastic shit piles up around the house that serves absolutely no purpose and has no value. Is it worth packing a plastic vase that once held flowers? Especially when glass vases are more attractive?
I was ruthless. I threw away things I thought might eventually come in handy. If they weren't handy right now, why would I think they'd ever be handy? I only saved tools. Things from as small as trash bag ties to as big as sleeping bags went into the trash. We kept things necessary to live. Chapstick? Trash. Hair spray I no longer used? Trash.
We fit all into the smallest trailer offered by U-Haul. I didn't think we'd do it, but we did. I even threw away my cheap computer desk. I'd buy a better one, not as cheap, later. With the prospect of both of us working, the hold on potentially usable items diminished. We debated the couch, and even threw that old thing away. I'd sit on the floor; I didn't care.
I called the clubhouse on a Sunday evening. The phone rang several times and I was about to hang up when a female voice answered, sounding harried. "Clubhouse."
"Hey, this is Jim Butcher."
"Who?"
"I was there a couple weeks ago. Fought Gripper—"
"Oh, right."
"Is Dealer available?"
"No."
"Okay, would you let him know I'm in town tomorrow morning?"
She hesitated. "Sure... Writing it down. He'll get the message in the morning."
"Great, thanks."
She clicked off without saying goodbye.
I turned to Kristy. "We're set."
She was searching my eyes. "You're sure about this?"
"Definitely. I can't find shit here for work. I've been looking for a year and a half now?"
"You could have worked at McDonalds."
"No way."
"But you could have."
I sighed. It was the lowest of lows. Despite having nothing, I considered myself better than that. "I would have rather worked at Walmart. At least they have some amount of upward potential."
"And how far can you go as a bouncer?"
Touche. I firmed my lips. "Bar manager. Casino manager. Those kinds of positions I could take anywhere."
"Bar manager?"
"Okay, maybe casino manager. But still."
She hugged me. "I hope we're doing the right thing."
I felt it, too. We were making a monumental shift towards something unknown. Was it a cliff? Was it the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? I didn't know. Neither of us did. I muttered, "Working for a biker gang..."
She laughed. "Don't say that to them."
"I know, I know. Motorcycle club."
"Is there really a difference?"
"Shades of difference? But maybe these guys are better than a gang. They keep the gangs out." I had done searches on Iron Crows and turned up nothing. But my searching turned up a lot of interesting facts. They weren't just a riding club, they were an accepted three-patch motorcycle club. The dominant 1%ers here were the Outlaws. I didn't see such a huge group letting the Iron Crows get away with three patches on their backs without making a huge stink.
She said, "Maybe it's for a good cause."
I barked a laugh. "Any time you keep a gang out, it's for a good cause."
"Even if the methods are illegal?"
I was silent on that. What was a law? A decision passed by a group of men. What if the group of men was evil? Were all laws just? I knew that was not true. When a city could fine you for watering your lawn and then fine you for not watering and allowing your lawn to die, I knew the laws were not just.
"What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking about lawns." I knew she wouldn't connect it and would think that I was being flippantly irrelevant. Her pout didn't disappoint. I said, "I think we're making the right move."
Her pretty face brightened.
~ ~ ~
I stopped the Suburban and its mini U-Haul trailer with temporary hitch across from the utterly non-descript clubhouse in Keystone. Four Harley's were parked out front. The parking lot of the building off to the side had been turned into a gated enclosure with a high chain link fence.
I got out, eager for the start of a new life. I impatiently waited for my wife, then took her hand and crossed the street. Entering the unlit interior of the old whorehouse, I at first thought the place was deserted. Then my eyes adjusted.
Two bikers were shooting pool – or had been. I recognized neither. A guy I had never seen before, who wasn't wearing a vest, was sitting on one of the couches talking to a very skinny, but pretty girl. At the bar was Grannie. Her face went from hard to soft and welcoming all in an instant. She said, "Well, lookie here." Her gray hair was free and wild; she had it clipped back the last I saw her.
I grinned.
She hooked a finger and beckoned. "I was told to watch out for ya." She picked up a phone and hit a button. "Sonar, they're here." She hung up.
I looked back at the two bikers playing pool. They still weren't; they were just watching us.
She said, "Sonar'll be right out."
Even as she was saying it, the black-bearded, ponytailed vice president came stalking out, looking like a human panther on the prowl. His eyes went everywhere: watching; searching. "So, you made it." He gave a quick nod.
"Trailer's out front."
"Let's go." He left out the front without waiting.
We followed him out and crossed the street while he mounted a motorcycle. I heard a high pitched whir followed by a cough and a rumble that settled lower and quietly. He pulled out and circled around, stopping near the front of our Suburban. He looked back, waiting.
We got in and I started. I nodded and he looked forward, pulling off smoothly – looking so much like a boat plowing easily through water. Head hunched forward a little, he led us through a few side streets until we were in what was probably considered not the best area of Keystone. A mix of yards and trailer parks took up about four blocks of town. He led us into one.
He stopped in front of a horrifically old looking trailer.
I glanced quickly at Kristy. She did not look very happy. But she said, "Maybe it's nice inside."
Fortunately, it was. Clean and tidy – in fact, spotless, if old. The only out of place item all alone in the empty trailer was a box of old newspapers and cardboard sitting next to a recently-added wood burning stove. However, no wood was in evidence.
Sonar had entered first and watched us - sharp, hawk eyes registering everything we did, said, or looked at.
Kristy wandered to the back and back up to the front. "Looks good."
Sonar's expression did not change – as if he had expected no less.
I said, "Do you need rent up front?"
His eyes flicked to me without the tiniest move of his head. "Nope. It'll come out of your pay."
At first I thought that was bullshit, but then I realized it was actually for the better. "Sounds good."
He gave a single dip of his chin in a nod and handed me the keys. "We'll make rent due on the first. Means you have an extra ten or eleven days right now free. I'll take it from your first payout, so you're going to have a very small first payment."
I shrugged. Get it out of the way. "All right."
Another quick nod and he turned to the door. "Gripper will want to see you. He's at the Triple Shot. I'll lead you there."
"Okay." I followed him out. I unhooked the trailer from the Suburban. I said to Kristy, "You want to stay here and watch this?"
"Yeah, okay. I can pull some of the lighter stuff in."
I gave her a peck on the lips and approached Sonar. I looked at his motorcycle. "Nice."
He glanced at it, seeming to relax a little. "It's a 2012 V-rod."
As if I knew what that meant. "Looks like a smooth ride."
His eyes turned to me, considering. "It is. You've ridden before?"
I knew honesty was paramount here. "No. Only a mountain bike."
He folded his arms against me, closing me off – I could see it in his body language. But he talked. "Not much different from a bicycle, really. Heavier, but the same balance and fundamentals. You're propelled instead of pedaling."
The sound of his ride had ignited a thrill in me. The deep rumble and the staccato burst when he twisted the throttle sounded primal. "I wish I could afford one."
His expression didn't change. "Even a poor man can afford a Harley."
I scoffed, "Aren't they like ten thousand dollars?"
"More, if they're new."
"I don't have that kind of cash."
"Who says you have to buy new? You can grab up an old working Harley for two grand. Even less."
I was stunned. "That's all?"
His words sounded like a challenge. "That's all."
"You're kidding."
His look went stone-faced instantly and he swung over to mount his bike. "Let's go to the bar and get you acquainted with Gripper." The conversation was over.
What had I done?
I got in the Suburban and waved to Kristy. She was standing, arms folded. She waved back with a hopeful look on her face. I turned the big SUV and followed Sonar out. His big back patches led me. The top patch reading "Iron Crows" and the bottom reading "Keystone." The center design was a black crow outlined everywhere in silver.
I pulled to a stop behind him a few blocks later. He gave the Harley a single staccato rev and killed the engine. He got off and approached my vehicle. He waited while I got out. "Dealer thinks you might make a good bouncer."
I didn't know if I should say anything, so I remained quiet.
He said, "Pay attention to everything he says and you might work out." He offered nothing else before he turned and led me across the street.
One of the Iron Crows was outside, leaning back, foot up against the wall, smoking. He flicked his cigarette in greeting to Sonar and eye-balled me. I didn't know him.
Inside was just a bar. Tables were scattered around a pool table in the center. The bar at the left was long and open. A mirrored wall held bottles of mostly harder alcohols. Different whiskeys, Scotches, and bourbons. I saw no fluffy yuppie bottles up there.
Immediately inside the door was a looming presence: Gripper. He was not wearing his vest.
Gripper smiled at me in recognition. "Fat boy!"
Wow, I really hated that name.