Passion for the Heist, page 20
“Spoken like a woman who is still trying to figure out her worth,” Pain said.
“No, the problem is that I do know my worth and I’m sparing you the heartache that’s gonna come with all this,” she made a sweeping gesture over her curves.
Their flirting session was broken up by a low rumble approaching from the distance. It was faint at first, sending a soft vibration through the street. As it got closer the rumble grew into what was closer to a growl. Pain knew that sound and what was making it: a 1973 Harley-Davidson Panhead. Pain would know that sound against the rumbling of a dozen other engines and pick it out of the crowd every time. It was a sound that he had spent years of his life hearing day after day. For several months he even had the fortune of being amongst the pairs of hands that were entrusted to restore the old classic. No sooner than Pain had the thought did the Panhead come into view. It was black with gold trimming. Bringing up the rear were two more bikes. These were newer models, mostly made up of plastic and metal. Nice bikes, but they didn’t deserve to share the same road as the Panhead. Traveling in the center of the triangle of bikes was a large black SUV. People gathered around to watch the motorcade, which happened to come to a stop right where Pain was standing.
“I wonder what this is all about?” Passion asked curiously. She had seen the bikes around town before, but never out in force like this. Something was going down.
“War,” Pain whispered and abandoned their conversation.
* * *
After the scuffle, Case was able to smooth things over enough for Dice and his team not to ask them to leave. The night was young and Case wasn’t about to let some bullshit fight cut it short. The two hundred dollars he had slipped into Dice’s palm helped to make it all go away. Had it been anyone else, Dice would’ve had his team toss them out on their asses, but he knew Case. Letting him stay was the lesser of two evils. With Pain, you knew what you were getting. He would come at you head-on, but Case was sneaky. If Case ended up feeling some type of way over Dice doing his job, Dice would probably have to spend the next few weeks looking over his shoulder, until the petty muthafucka was ready to let it go.
Across the yard, Case watched Jay talking to a young girl in baggy clothes. If he recalled correctly it was his sister or niece. He couldn’t remember, because Jay kept his family dynamics close to his chest. Case hadn’t missed how Jay played the outskirts when Case finally did decide to step in on Pain’s behalf. Jay wasn’t soft, but he picked his battles based on which ones benefited him. Pain held no value. At least not yet. So why run the risk of souring potential business relationships with Lee, or Dice, over a nigga he barely knew? Case always thought that their relationship was tighter than that, but lately Jay had been feeling himself. Their conversation over the guns was further proof of that. Jay suggesting that Case couldn’t handle his order in front of Tyriq could’ve been taken as a sign of disrespect. Case was a general and Jay had addressed him like a bum-ass nigga in front of one of his soldiers. Case wouldn’t make a thing of it right then and there, but after he got what he needed he was going to remind Jay of his place in the pecking order.
“I’d say the dog still has its teeth, wouldn’t you?” Tyriq nudged Case, pulling him from his scheming.
“I’m inclined to agree with that.”
“I never had any doubt. I don’t know why you did either? To keep it funky, I wasn’t feeling that move. Having us fall back while Pain was scrapping,” Tyriq told him. He was a proud and loyal young man, and not immediately coming to the aid of a comrade made him feel like a sucker.
“I was never worried about Pain getting hurt in that fight. If anything, I had my money on him killing one of those fools before it was said and done,” Case said honestly. He knew what kind of monster Pain could be.
“Still, we should’ve popped off with him,” Tyriq insisted.
“I know you would’ve handled it differently, lil bro, but this had to go down the way it did. I need Pain to remember who he is.” Case was about to add to his statement when something caught his attention. He couldn’t really tell over the music and people talking, but it sounded like motorcycle engines.
No sooner than the thought entered Case’s head, he saw people spilling from the Yard and onto the street. Something was brewing. Case and Tyriq followed the crowd to see what was going on, and it didn’t take long for them to figure out what it was. Case made it outside just as a man was pulling a beautiful black and gold motorcycle just short of Pain. When the rider removed his helmet, Case’s mouth suddenly became very dry.
* * *
He was gone without another word, leaving Passion standing there feeling somewhere between rejected and confused. Pain’s departure was abrupt and cold, leaving her to wonder what the hell was going on. She watched him curiously, approaching the rider who had just climbed from the black and gold bike. When he removed his gold helmet, she got a better look at the grizzled brown face beneath it. He was an older man, sporting a shaggy salt-and-pepper beard that was braided. His bushy hair spilled from a red, black, and green bandanna which was tied snugly around his head. Wearing dark glasses and a scowl, he looked every bit the outlaw biker. She could see Pain’s shoulders tense when the biker moved in his direction. The crowd parted for them under the threat of violence, and Passion could feel her pulse quicken. She hadn’t known Pain more than five minutes, if that, yet she felt vested in the outcome. Hopefully it went in his favor. A bubble of tension built between the two men, but before it could pop, someone grabbed Passion’s arm and yanked her away.
“D’fuck?” Passion turned angrily, ready to bark on whoever had touched her uninvited. It was Juju’s brother Jay. He had his little sister’s arm in one hand and hers in the other.
“Time for little girls to get themselves out of harm’s way,” Jay said, pulling Passion by one arm and Juju by the other. There was an Uber waiting for them at the corner.
“Harm’s way? I was just standing there. That fight didn’t have anything to do with me!” Passion protested, half stumbling to keep up. Jay was in an awful hurry to get them off the block.
“That’s how it usually happens. The bystanders catch the strays meant for somebody else. Not on my watch and not with my little sister,” Jay said in a tone that let her know it wasn’t up for debate. He snatched open the door to the Uber and motioned for the girls to get in. Passion was hesitant.
“Ju?” Passion gave Juju a questioning look. She felt like Jay was just tripping, but the nervous look on her friend’s face said that it might’ve been more serious than she thought.
“Let’s just go.” Juju confirmed Passion’s suspicions.
Passion rolled her eyes at Jay before sliding in next to Juju. Her leg had barely cleared the door before Jay slammed it behind her, patting the hood of the car for the driver to pull off. She turned around in her seat and peered through the back window to catch a last glimpse of Pain.
“Who was the dark-skinned cutie you were talking to?” Juju wanted to know.
With eyes still on Pain she replied, “Just another damaged soul.”
CHAPTER 16
Pain stood there on the curb, arms folded and eyes defiant, watching the old-timer as he moved in his direction. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, with no one wanting to get in the way of the hard-looking biker. He stopped just shy of where Pain was standing, and glared up at him as he was shorter. Pain returned his glare, refusing to be punk’d.
“What up?” the biker finally spoke. His voice sounded like he had smoked thousands of cigarettes in his lifetime.
“I was hoping you could tell me, since you’re the one who pulled up shooting daggers,” Pain flexed.
“Slick as you talking, you must not know where you at,” the biker said in a threatening tone.
Pain surveyed his surroundings. He had already spied three things that were lying within arm’s reach which he could use as weapons. He felt a kinship with a broken umbrella that occupied the same trash bin as his discarded sweat jacket. “I don’t. Why don’t you show me?” he taunted, knowing he had his next three moves planned already.
That was it. The gauntlet had been laid and the only question that remained was, who would pick it up first? As it happened, it was the old biker who made the first move. His hand whipped into his jacket faster than you’d have expected of a man his age. Yet as fast as his hand moved, Pain’s was faster. The biker had barely cleared whatever he was pulling from his jacket before Pain had one hand gripping the back of his head and the other on the broken umbrella, holding the point level with the biker’s eye. “Man can’t ride a fine machine like that one with one eye,” he nodded toward the Panhead, “now, can he?”
“One-eyed man on a hog is about as useless as a stud with no dick in a whorehouse,” the biker replied. With his eyes he motioned for Pain to look down. When he did, he saw the small .22 pointed at his nuts. “Prison has made you slow, boy.”
“Bullshit, you pulled that peashooter way after I had the drop,” Pain challenged. “Now stop fucking around and welcome me home properly.” He spread his arms.
The old biker grabbed him in a bear hug and lifted him off his feet. For a man his size, he was far stronger than he looked. “Good to see you, Blackbird.”
“You too, War. You too.”
Warwick P. Jones, known to friends and enemies alike as War, was one of Pain’s oldest friends, next to Case, and his mentor. He was one of the first dudes Pain had seen, besides on television, riding a chopper. There were other guys in the neighborhood who rode motorcycles, but not like the ones War fancied. He only fucked with Harley-Davidsons. The fiberglass numbers that most people rode around on he referred to as “crotch rockets” and wouldn’t be caught dead on one.
Pain used to love to sit around and watch War ride through the hood on his metal steeds, robbing shit and raising hell like a modern-day Black cowboy. War’s bikes always fascinated Pain, and he would steal a closer look whenever he could. When War would park his bike to go into one of the local gambling spots, or visit with one of the many young girls he was bedding in the hood, Pain would sit and stare at the machine for hours, imagining himself riding one on the open highway. One day War offered the curious boy a ride. From the moment Pain felt the powerful bike vibrating between his legs and the wind on his face, he was hooked. Most of the kids his age dreamed of riding around in Benzes or BMWs, but all Pain wanted was an Indian Scout.
When Pain got a little older, War started letting him hang around the Crow’s Nest, a shabby repair shop where old bikers would hang out working on their bikes, drinking, and talking shit. Hanging around those old-timers, Pain got a better education about motor vehicles than he could’ve gotten at any trade school. Pain became the unofficial mascot of the Crow’s Nest and a regular grease monkey. Working with the old-timers on their rides taught him the ins and outs of engines, and allowed him to make some cash on the side. Not only did Pain’s time at the shop turn him into an ace mechanic, but it was there that he would meet the woman who would change his life.
“I see you’re still running around with these hooligans,” War said jokingly, nodding toward Case and Tyriq, who had just walked up.
“Crows always fly in a murder.” Pain looped his thumbs and made the same bird-like shape that Jay had mimicked earlier.
“Some do at least,” War said with a twisted smirk. “Sup wit y’all lil niggas? Can’t speak?”
“What’s going on, War?” Tyriq greeted him. He didn’t know War as well as the rest, as he was the youngest of the group. What he did know was that he was a man of respect.
“Staying sucker-free,” War replied. He then looked to Case, who was shooting him daggers. “You good, shorty?”
“I’m great, old head,” Case replied in a cold tone.
“Let’s see how long you stay that way. Cold world out there, man,” War told him.
“Good thing I keep a heater,” Case shot back.
Pain watched the awkward exchange between his best friend and his former mentor. Case and War had never had the same relationship that the old man had with Pain, but they all flew the same flag. From the way they were looking at each other you’d have thought that they were enemies. Pain got that feeling again. The same one he had gotten earlier when Case had hushed Tyriq before he could say whatever it was that he had been hinting at. If he wasn’t sure earlier, he was absolutely sure now that there had been some kind of shift in the dynamics of their crew while he was away. Pain was trying to think of a subtle way of asking what the hell was going on.
“Let me introduce you to a couple of the boys.” War took the attention away from the tension between him and Case. He motioned for the two riders who had brought up the rear. In almost military unison, they dismounted their bikes and came over. When they removed their helmets, Pain understood why they moved with such precision. They were twins. Both were brown-skinned, with large brown eyes and gaunt faces that gave them somewhat skeletal appearances. The only difference between them was that one bore a jagged scar that ran over his lip and stopped just short of his nostril. “These are Mike and Mick,” he introduced scar-lip and the other twin.
“What up?” Pain greeted them. Mike, the twin with the scar, gave Pain a cold nod, but Mick was friendlier and extended his hand.
“Heard a lot about you, Blackbird. It’s an honor to finally meet you,” Mick told him.
“The twins been with us for a few months now. They ain’t earned their wings yet, but they’ve got the makings of good young Crows,” War said proudly.
“Good luck to you boys, and don’t let this old fucker work you too hard. He can be a little intense sometimes,” Pain joked.
“My intensity is what whipped your sorry ass into shape and made you one of the greatest to ever sport them black wings,” War reminded him.
Their playful moment was broken up when the door to the SUV slammed with such force that it was a wonder the windows hadn’t shattered. From the driver’s side stepped a man—at least he walked upright like one. The truth as to whether he had been spawned by a mother or a monster was still up for debate. He wore a beautifully tailored white suit, with a golden crow pinned to the lapel. The suit was where anything that could be considered beautiful about him ended. He easily stood six-four with long gangly arms and large hands, one of which was covered by a black glove. This was to hide the fact that he was missing two fingers. It was dark out, but his signature black sunglasses covered his eyes. His skin was completely devoid of pigment, a defect of his genetics. The only color on him came from the mural of tattoos that an artist had painted over almost every inch of his body, including his face. Six gold hoops dangled from his ears, and a large seraphim ring pierced his nose. He looked like something out of a freak show, and he prided himself on the effect his bizarre appearance had on people.
“Why are the two of you standing around like two fucking groupies instead of doing your jobs?” the tattooed albino barked at Mike and Mick. Mike opened his mouth to respond, but a nudge from his brother stayed his tongue.
“Good to meet you, and hope to share the road with you soon,” Mick said to Pain.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one,” Pain responded.
The two brothers moved to do as they were told, with Mike taking up a defensive position alongside the SUV and Mick speaking with someone through the partially cracked back window. This was all done under the watchful eyes of the albino. “Fucking idiots,” he muttered.
“Why don’t you take it easy, Prophet. We’re amongst friends here,” War told him.
“Says you, old man. Ain’t no such things as friends; only Crows and carrion!” Prophet spat. He turned in Pain’s direction, and though he couldn’t see his eyes, he could feel them on him and it made his skin crawl. “If it isn’t the fallen angel. I’d heard the rumors that you were out, but hoped that they weren’t true.”
“Hello to you too, Prophet.” Pain wiggled his ring and pinky fingers at Prophet, taunting him for his missing digits. The two of them hadn’t gotten along during the years they had been forced to share the road together, and absence from each other’s company hadn’t changed that. This was how it had always been between Pain and Prophet, and it probably wouldn’t change.
His name was Prophet, but his purpose in life was chaos. This much had been certain from the time he came into the world. Prophet was born into a gypsy clan, and had the misfortune of being the only one amongst the troupe who suffered from this particular pigment defect. This made him an outcast amongst not only the other members of the traveling group, but his own family. They treated Prophet like a leper, and the only reason they hadn’t murdered him as a child or left him on the doorstep of some church for the nuns to look after was because he had value. Prophet was born with what the elders called “the sight”: the gift of being able to see the futures of others. This was why he always wore the dark glasses, to help ease the visions of other people’s lives that constantly assaulted him. The troupe made him a part of their traveling act and exploited his abilities to line their pockets, but continued to treat the boy little better than a beast of burden. Prophet would find himself freed from bondage when a mysterious fire broke out at their camp, killing almost every member of the clan, including his entire family. No one could say for sure what had caused the fire, but some speculated that the albino had had a hand in it.
After being unceremoniously exiled, Prophet spent the next few years roaming throughout the South, breaking laws and bones in the name of survival. His life would change when a group of Crows passed through one of the towns he was then calling home. Their leader at the time had taken a liking to the pale boy and brought him into the murder. Prophet had been riding with the Crows long before Pain had come into the fold. At that time Prophet had been locked up in DC for drugs and assault. By the time he was paroled and returned to New York, Pain had already clawed his way up through the ranks and become the new favorite of the gang’s leader. This put him on Prophet’s shit list. He felt like Pain had stolen what rightfully belonged to him: the leader’s favor. The few short years in which they shared the road after Prophet’s release were spent trying not to kill each other.
