Through a Glass, Darkly (Assassins of Youth MC #1), page 16
Wheeling my case with one hand and taking Vonda by the other, I shouldered my way past Parley. Maybe he’d never shot anyone before. I guess I had been banking on that. He sure had vanished in the book bindery when the bullets had started flying.
We bumped and wheeled our way down the stairs. The women stood in a gaggle open-mouthed.
“Where are you going?” Emersyn dared to whisper.
I didn’t whisper. “Someplace where I can be myself. Where my daughter can be a fashion designer. Where I can love a man who doesn’t beat me, and know that that’s normal.” I glared at Allred, who seemed stunned into submission, for once. “Because it’s not normal. Women are not sheep or lambs. We weren’t born your servants. It’s not in our nature to bow with our heads down and do your bidding mindlessly.”
Allred snarled, “You’re making a giant mistake, Mahalia.”
I snarled back. “You always said the call to faith shows us who we really are, what we love the most. Believing in something is the finest mirror image of what rests in our hearts. What lies in my heart had been sleeping until your abuse called it to action. I choose my actions freely, Allred. My terror of making a mistake is not bigger than my passion for the truth.”
I yanked Vonda, maybe violently now, down the front steps. I’d seen Kimball joining the group of women, clinging to the arm of one. Maybe her bravery failed her. I never looked back, but I could feel the women and Allred gathered there, watching us. Who the hell would give us a ride out of here, especially hauling suitcases like we were?
Maybe no one. Maybe I’d have to use the name of Immanuel Zabriskie to get the fuck out of there. But no one was forcing me to turn back.
“Is this it, mom?” I’d never heard Vonda that scared, and it angered me. They had done this to her.
“This is it, baby.” I maintained my stride past several cars whose drivers peered at us quizzically. Of course, no one dared stop to ask us what we were doing. “This is it.”
GIDEON
We were in Dingo’s room at his desk setting up “Operation: Blackmail” as he called it when my old roommate Sledgehammer came to our front door.
After bro hugging it out, we went into the kitchen and cracked a couple of beers. I’d been drinking less and less since hooking up with Mahalia—one of her many good influences on me. But bringing Sledge into our operation called for one.
“What’s Papa Ewey up to?” I asked. “Has he wondered where Breakiron could be?” I’d told Sledgehammer a lot of the story, up to and including the glorious death of Breakiron in a warehouse shootout. I knew there was no love lost between Sledgehammer and Breakiron. They’d issued each other many a beatdown, usually over something moronic Breakiron was doing.
“Not a word,” said Sledgehammer, inhaling his joint with a hiss. His carrot-apple red hair was cut in a bald fade with a flat top, his bulging biceps decorated with sexy bomber cartoon gals and airplanes in a WWII style. He was a former military man like myself, so of course he had an anchor on his forearm. With his mutton chop sideburns and insane walrus mustache, he looked like the baddest motherfucker around, which he was. Aside from me. “No one’s losing any sleep over it. Yosemite Sam mentioned he tried to leave Breakiron a message, and that was about it.”
“I didn’t figure there’d be a giant stampede to get over here. I’ll need to face the music eventually, of course.”
Sledgehammer snorted. “Yeah, I suppose so. It’s cut and dried that it was self-defense though. Your scar and missing liver attests to that. I hear your new boy here put ears in Chiles’ guest house. Rocking.”
“Yeah, he’s been coming along fast, learning about new technology. He’s way surpassed me. Then again, a fucking sloth would be faster than me. Come check out what we put together.”
We went back into Dingo’s room where he proudly played us the video of Pipkin threatening me with a gun, Chiles taking my mine deed, me accusing him of marrying off an underage girl. Dingo had omitted the part where I was making time with Allred’s “wife.”
“Edited for plausible deniability,” was what Dingo said proudly. “The dramatic black moment is when Gideon here brings up the dead bodies.”
“What dead bodies?” asked Sledgehammer.
Dingo continued, like a film critic. “The tension, the crescendo, the way Chiles tweaked and bellowed ‘we will be avenged!’ is Oscar-worthy.”
Sledgehammer offered the joint to Dingo. He declined. “Yeah, but the big question is, how are you gonna use this to blackmail the polyg? If he calls your bluff, he goes telling this fed about you selling him Russian ladies.”
“Among other things,” added Dingo. “Well, that’s the thing. I can always edit it so that the only thing mentioned is the dead bodies.”
“That’s the best card I’m holding,” I said. I slapped Dingo on the shoulder like a chum. “You did good, Prospect.”
Dingo beamed widely. “You know, my mother never once hugged me or told me I did good. The only people allowed to make a child feel worthwhile are the father and The Prophet.”
Sledge said, “The more I hear about this motherfucker, the more I want to bury him.” Sledgehammer liked to bury people. He was a proud member of the “Filthy Few” club, allowed to wear the patch because he’d buried someone. I supposed I could wear that patch now, if I wanted to. I didn’t really want to. “Have you heard from Mahalia since all this shit went down earlier?”
I cringed inside. That she hadn’t responded to my text meant Chiles had taken away her phone and most likely seen my text telling her to join me. “No. Really, we need to move on this dead body thing.” I explained it to Sledgehammer, who nodded sagely throughout.
He said, “Sounds like we need to take a drive to this mine and document this shit. If you want to try to get ownership of the mine back, you don’t want these bodies on your hands.”
“Yeah, before he locks you out of the mine, too,” said Dingo.
I pulled out my phone. “We don’t need to. Dust Bunny already took photos.” As I went to find the dead body photos on my phone, Mahalia’s return text came in.
“It’s Mahalia!” I fled from the room like a star-crossed lover electrified into action. I could hear Sledgehammer and Dingo laughing at me, but I didn’t give a flying fuck. I went onto the front porch so their moronic voices wouldn’t bug me.
We made it out. We’re having a drink at the High Dive. I am thanking the powers that be for blessing me with you. Please tell me how to proceed.
“What the fuck?” I murmured. Striding back in the house, I texted, walked, and talked at the same time. “Guys! They’re at the High Dive!”
“What’s that?” Sledgehammer asked, emerging from Dingo’s room. “Some kind of athletic club?”
My fingers couldn’t fly fast enough on the fucking keyboard.
We’re coming to get you. Stay put. Don’t let that asshole bartender scare you.
Dingo was right behind me. “I’ll take my own scoot in case she needs to ride on your pussy pad.”
“Good idea. Sledgehammer, you take yours too. I don’t know how we’re going to ferry them all here, if she got her sister-wife with her.”
Sledgehammer chuckled. “Sister-wife. Man, Fortunati, you’re living in some reality show.”
I wasn’t in the mood to laugh, although Sledge was right. “What I fucking wonder is, why is she having a drink?”
Dingo was already mounting his ride. “Kimball must be with her. I used to watch her gardening in front of her house. She is very beautiful.”
“Yeah, well, she’s got a traitor for a fucking kid,” I said. I didn’t feel bad about calling a twelve-year-old a traitor. He had it coming to him. “Hope the others have more loyalty to their moms.”
I sped away, thrashing it around the potholes on the street.
The main drag of Crosstown Street was only about half a mile away. Strangely, Mahalia’s pickup truck was parked around the back. I wondered why she took the time and risked coming here for a drink when she could’ve come straight to my house. I proceeded with caution, making sure there was a bullet in the chamber of the weapon I’d borrowed from Sledge.
I waited for the other two before entering the bar, just in case. Dust Bunny, currently working at the mine, had been able to give Dingo a few lessons at the outdoor range. Dingo swaggered with the weight of his Smith and Wesson stuck into his waistband. He was still a weird amalgamation of biker and nerd. He wore the Assassins cut with the PROSPECT patch, but his piece was shoved into a pair of khaki cargo pants with a thousand pockets.
“Okay,” I said, “this could possibly be a setup. Who the hell knows who got ahold of Mahalia’s phone?”
“Right,” said Dingo. “Could’ve been Chiles texting.”
“We’ll go in like a SWAT team,” said Sledgehammer. He was always eager to reenact the glory days with his Marines special ops unit. “Gideon, you kick in the door.”
“It’s a swinging door,” Dingo pointed out.
I said, “We’re going in the front like regular people, man. No need to scare the fucking women and kids.” I didn’t text Mahalia again before going around the corner. There was also no need to give Chiles warning we were arriving, if indeed he’d absconded with Mahalia’s phone.
I did take the precaution of stepping to one side of the door after entering. My eyes were still adjusting to the dimness of the bar when Mahalia flung herself at me.
“Gideon! My blessing! My dear, sweet blessing!” She buried her face in my neck as I circled her waist in my palms. She smelled fresh, like the pines of the high desert.
The coils of her elaborate hairstyle were soft against my cheek. So many times in that little single bed in the guest house I had jacked my dick thinking of taking her hair down. After such a string of bad luck lately, it was impossible to believe that doing that was within my reach now. Maybe it took Mahalia’s God to smile down on me, for once.
“You’re safe now,” I murmured into her hair. “It’s going to be smooth sailing from now on.”
Holding her tight, I glanced around. Skippy Cavanaugh was wiping the bar with a rag like some old timey western bartender, glaring at us as though we were Negroes—which Mahalia was, partially, in her background. Kimball sat at a table with two kids maybe eight or ten, kicking their legs impatiently. It looked like Kimball was the one who couldn’t wait for a glass of wine. Vonda was there, texting or Instagramming or whatever teenagers did.
Mahalia pulled back a few inches. “I’m sorry we came here.” I thought I could feel her heart hammering in her chest, tapping against mine. “Vonda and I were walking down the highway with our suitcases when Kimball drove up, and she wanted a drink bad after her narrow escape.”
“I’ll bet.” I turned to my men. “I suppose the coast is clear. Go ahead and have some drinks if you want.”
But when I went to sit down at an adjacent table, a white-haired riding club guy approached me. He said in a deep, gentlemanly tone, “Don’t mean to interrupt. But I just saw Allred Chiles and Parley Pipkin drive by, real slow like. Like they were scoping out this place.”
“Really? Thanks, my man,” I said. I sat Mahalia down at the table and went out the side door to look. Sure as shit, Chiles’ shiny black Humvee was in the process of another slow-mo drive-by. As if hoping to intimidate people with their mere glances, they were staring at me like I was a train wreck, slowly moving on down Crosstown Street.
The silver fox said, “They’ve been doing that for half an hour, ever since the ladies arrived.”
“They haven’t stopped or said anything?”
“Nope. Just doing that asinine driving, like they’re striking fear into people’s hearts.”
“We fucking hate it,” said another riding club biker. “They do it all the time to put the fear of God into us.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Just to be big shot bastards,” said the silver fox. He held out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Maximus. Seen you around.”
“I’m Gideon. Yeah, I just bought a house down on Cumming Street, so you’ll be seeing more of us. Don’t mean to infringe on your turf. We’ll get these ladies out of here pronto.”
“Hell, you’re not infringing,” said Maximus. “We don’t consider this our turf. It’s not like we’re one percenters. This is just a convenient spot between St. George and Cedar City for us to meet up, play pool. We’re glad to have you here. See? There they go again.”
I couldn’t resist flipping off the Humvee, and several riding club guys joined me, laughing at their audacity.
“Whoo hoo!” said one. “Feels good to finally tell them off.”
I almost laughed, that they would think such a sign of rebellion was going to affect an arrogant peckerhead like Allred Lee Chiles. But I was too stressed to laugh.
Going back inside the bar, I sat down next to Mahalia. “Ladies. We’ll be taking you out of here in a few.”
“Let me order another glass of wine,” said Kimball.
“I’ve got whiskey and beer at the house,” I said, “and can easily get you wine. Mahalia, you’ve got Chiles’ cell number in your phone. Let me have it.”
“Sure.” Like a good old lady, she didn’t ask me what for. She just scrolled to the number and handed me her phone.
“What are you doing?” asked Sledgehammer, protectively sitting on the other side of the kids, near Vonda.
I held up my phone so he could squint and see the photos Dust Bunny had sent me. “I’ve got a way of keeping them away from Avalanche.” I tapped the photo of the recently dead guy’s gaping mouth. The skin pulled tightly away from his nose and eye sockets, like desiccated jerky. His arm even clawed its way out of the soil, as if he’d been buried alive. I hoped to hell not. Not in my mine.
“Ho ho!” laughed Sledge. “Those the photos you were mentioning? Extremely good one, Fortunati. That’ll keep that sleazy lizard off our backs.”
The moment I hit the SEND button a huge wave of relief washed over me. “Hang on,” I told Mahalia, and sprinted back outside.
“What’s he up to?” Maximus asked me.
The Humvee was stopped in the middle of the road, which didn’t get much traffic, thanks to Chiles turning it into a ghost town. I aimed to take it back from him, to reclaim the town for my own. Now, for the first time, this goal seemed within reach.
Chiles was frowning at his phone, turning it this way and that.
“Did we not get the contrast right?” asked Dingo, who had appeared at my elbow. “Maybe the res of the photos isn’t very good.”
“They’re high-res enough, all right,” I said. “Watch.”
Realization slowly spread over the scum-sucking fuckwad’s face. Hope and vindication swelled in my chest when he lifted his idiotic face and stared emptily at me, slack-jawed.
I nodded cheerfully at him, giving another middle finger salute. The riding club guys did too, though they didn’t know why. Chiles mouthed a couple words to Pipkin. Pipkin drove off with more urgency this time, hanging a left at the T that led to Cornucopia.
“Whatever you sent him, it’s good,” said Maximus.
“Oh, it’s fucking good.” Dingo bobbed his head in agreement. “It’s fucking good.”
Dingo was finally getting a sense of who we were as a club. This was his first experience with club pride. I knew the feeling. I was fit to bust with our accomplishments. We were making headway in Avalanche.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MAHALIA
So there I was. Riding a borrowed “Yellow Bike” down the sandy road of Nine O’Clock Street. I hadn’t ridden a bike since I was ten, but like they say, you never forget.
At first, I’d felt ridiculous in this horde of half-naked, painted, dusty people. I only had my Cornucopia clothes, and the only other woman we knew was Kimball, whose clothes were just as inappropriate as mine. So a couple of nights ago, when we stopped to sleep in a motel in Battle Mountain, Nevada, I picked up some items in a convenience store.
That turned out to be the last place I could purchase a shred of clothing, so I was stuck with an electric purple bikini, a T-shirt blaring that I hearted Nevada, and some scarves I could tie around myself. At first, I was hugely shy for Gideon to see me wearing this minimalist garb. After all, he was already dressed like he was a Burner. He didn’t need to change one iota of his attire to fit right in, and he could ride his bike hands-free. He normally carried a bandanna to tie around his face to keep the bugs out when he rode. Luckily he’d brought a few of them, and the three of us now rode our bikes back to our camp, looking like terrorists with the colorful scarves covering most of our faces to keep out the incessant dust, with sunglasses on top of that.
We’d just come from the playa, zig-zagging through Burners in steampunk boots, wearing suits of broken glass, or painted skull faces from the Day of the Dead. Half-naked women with only glittery stars for pasties pranced by in furry Eskimo boots, or wearing harem pants only, their perfect breasts hand-painted with swirls. They made me feel ashamed at how “curvy” I was, although I felt I blended in a bit more now that Gideon had bartered a headdress for me made of beaded medallions and hawk’s feathers. I had round aviator goggles too, adding to the effect. He’d traded quartz specimens for them. Luckily he’d brought a few boxes—“flats”—of those along in my truck, as I quickly discovered everything worked on the barter system. I had nothing to trade, accounting skills not being needed much here.
Vonda was even more awestruck than I was. At least I had a couple of decades’ worth of experience on the outside, albeit in a straight and narrow existence, in my “Mormon bubble.” She’d been ten when we moved to Cornucopia, missing out on a lot of pop culture. She didn’t know why a group of people were dressed as zombies. “Are they dead? How can they walk if they’re dead? But half their flesh is gone. How do they move their legs?” And I didn’t have many answers, either. Vonda was a ceaseless chatterbox. Brazenly, she’d gotten a bikini too, although her T-shirt said “Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Should be a convenience store, not a government agency.” She’d had a handful of her hair temporarily braided and dyed pink. She wanted to know everything about everything, and that was where Gideon came in handy.
