Ton, a longtime member of the Few Good Men M/C, glared at the reflection in the back of the minivan. It was times like this that he wished the Shovel had mirrors. He had picked up the reflection of the tan van several miles before but now it was getting the best of him. A new black Caddy SUV pulled past in the passing lane. Ton casually checked over his shoulder and fell in behind. True to form the van changed lanes to keep pace. Whoever they were they weren’t very smart. Ton eased off the throttle to space back from the SUV to scan the road ahead. Nothing but California freeway. He spotted the polished stainless steel back of an eighteen-wheeler signaling for the off ramp. Ton scowled at the reflection in the tinted back SUV window, grabbed a handful of the S&S Super B splitting lanes slicing between the SUV and minivan. He rocketed around the semi and down the off ramp. They now knew he was on to them as the Van changed lanes and followed the container truck. He hoped the off ramp would bottle neck allowing him to split the lanes and get away. Instead the off ramp gracefully merged onto surface streets.
Ton slapped the jockey shift down a gear split the lane with on coming and cut down a side street. He heard the screeching tires of the leaning van attempting the sharp turn. He felt a scratch across his side followed by a hot jab to his left shoulder telling him they had opened fire. His left arm seared with pain as he tried to grab the jockey again. The Shovel would have to grunt it out in third. Ton spotted an alleyway nearly clipping the approaching Jeep. The hand wrapped drag pipes barked viciously at the buildings as he twisted the motor above where it belonged. Ahead he spotted another intersecting alley. Ton locked up his rear tire and kicked the rigid frame sideways dumping the clutch as the chopper cleared the building. Too much.
The Shovelhead continued sliding around the corner, and then lying down onto its side skidding across the harsh asphalt. Ton stepped off the metal mayhem and drew his .357 heading back to the corner. The van squawked as it rounded the corner. Ton slammed the hammer down three times sending the van careening into a dumpster. He rushed forward ripping open the rear door catching the other two before they could return fire. The Shovel gasped its last breath as gravity dragged the fuel away spilling it out onto the ground. Ton checked the driver, Bad M/C. They were a long way from their turf. Ton snatched the bandana from the driver’s head to mop some of his gasoline from the ground before shoving it in the throat of the van tank. Ton righted the Shovel taking one last look at the flames engulfing the van.
Ton snarled, mule kicking at Marcel, the Club doc. Marcel’s primary training was a plumber, not a doctor, but he was all the Club had. Marcel sadistically splashed more iodine on Ton’s shoulder. The small ammunition had embedded itself against the shoulder blade. Marcel worked at it with his stubby fingers with the grace of a teenager popping a large juicy whitehead.
“Sit the fuck still.” Marcel barked. Ton unsheathed his knife intending to sink it into Marcel’s soft side but thought better, placing it between his teeth, while biting down hard on the bone handle. Other members of the Club filed in as marcel popped the bent lead projectile from Ton’s bloody back, and finished knotting the last stitch.
JD dropped the gavel bringing church to order. Ton carefully explained what had happened as Marcel worked at immobilizing his arm. The Bad M/C was a small rag tag club mostly made up of members who didn’t make the cut when their own club was patched over to Outlaw Machine M/C a big east coast group. Bad blood was still strong because of the snubs and they wanted to show they had class and attacked the old school, one charter, Los Angeles, 1%er club, a Few Good Men. They had carved out a small territory to the northwest of the city mostly dealing drugs to the immigrate farmers who populated the area and the FGM left them alone. Maybe they were thinking of expansion. Attacking a full Club member would be dealt with harshly, but first JD wanted more information. As quick as the meeting started it was over. Marcel and JD helped Ton to the small apartment that the Club maintained in the back for members who weren’t going to make it home.
Ton’s eyes snapped open. The rumbles of dual Thunderheaders were not of his Club’s. He strained to hear emptiness in the clubhouse. Perhaps it was just a passing bike, somebody out for a ride, but their industrial complex was sorta tucked away. The clinking of a padlock falling to the ground told him otherwise. He instinctively groped around the nightstand for his .357 but found nothing. Snake swiped it to dispose of it, so it couldn’t be traced.
For the first time Ton felt alone and naked. Scrambling into the barroom he found no one. The large steel doors burst open, and Ton dropped to the floor as the first rounds of automatic gunfire shattered into the brick wall, and the glass windows that encircled the top of the walls. As bullets sprayed overhead Ton dragged himself, with his one good arm under the pool table. The sounds of war would bring the police; bring questions the FGM Club did not want to answer. Apart of the community too long, they purposefully kept a low profile.
Tammy awoke to the snapping of fireworks. As she glanced out her second floor window she saw the rockers of Bad M/C riding away. As a single mother she was reluctant to move in next to a notorious motorcycle clubhouse. Her fears were alleviated when she found herself living on the bad side of town. The bikers kept to themselves and she even hooked one or two when her bed became too lonely. From her perch she could see the forks of Ton’s chopper parked in the lot.
She quickly slipped on a robe, checked her kids and slipped over to the industrial compound. The side of the building was sprayed with automatic gunfire. She couldn’t help but smile that so much energy was exhausted firing into brick-framed windows. From inside Tammy could hear breaking of glass underfoot as she called out. Ton unlocked the side door and collapsed into her arms. She was taken back that he was already bandaged. The fear in his eyes told her mountains.
JD stood defiantly before the officer answering with simple yes/no words, but did nothing to reveal anything. The officer pushed. He was a low-level cop on a beat. The gang squad would overtake everything when they arrived, and he hoped to see name added to the report, receive some credit. JD answered his cell without saying a word and tossed a glance beyond the back fence of the compound.
“Tell mom I love her and I’ll see her soon.” Tammy watched from her window as JD slid his phone back into his pocket. At least the Club knew Ton wasn’t in the building. She slipped under the sheets with her impromptu visitor.
Snake and Mongoose’s choppers thundered down the road. They hoped that Ginger, a performer at Dancer Dancer, who liked to slum it with members of the Bad M/C would shed some light. Mongoose pointed out the new Harley’s in front of the saloon as they rounded the corner. Snake, ready for a fight, stepped inside behind Mongoose. Disappointment came, to find a couple of posers in fresh new leathers inside. Snake and Mongoose presence made the wannabe’s feel part of the crowd. They were badass like the 1%ers.
Snake dismissed them, as there were pressing matters. The afternoon dancers were the usual stretched-marked single moms making a few dollars while the kids attended school. Ginger was the exception. At night she was just another dancer, but in the afternoon her twenty-two-year-old unspoiled hard-body easily made ten times as the other girls combined. The dressing room emptied quickly as the two senior 1%ers entered unabashed. Mongoose dropped a small packet of cocaine on the makeup-stand but his body language made it clear to Ginger. She wouldn’t get a taste until they were finished, and she spilled her guts.
She readily gave up dirt. Bobby was the president of a small street gang when the Outlaw Machined decided to expand. But expansion patch-over didn’t include Bobby. He bounced around as a low-level drug dealer until he found his way into the struggling second class Bad M/C. The all white club had assorted inexperienced leaders until Bobby took the head of the table. He had street gang experience, a massive ego, a simmering grudge, but little heart. He despised the Outlaw Machine for taking his patch, but was looking for any target that might renew his alliance with the giant in the East. Snake let the words soak in before giving the nod for Mongoose to pass the coke. Ginger greedily dipped her polished and painted nail into the fine powdery substance. Satisfied she let a wanting gaze climb over the bikers. She parted a tempting smile, offering them her buzzing self. They noted the offer, but the Club came first. Until they got to the bottom of the Bad, fun time would wait.
JD flipped his phone open and moved away from the hired help replacing the windows in the clubhouse. Rapper was one of the few people from the east who JD tolerated, even respected. Had Rapper been born on the west coast he would have easily been a member of the FGM but as circumstances had it, he was a president of a chapter of their bitterest enemy?
“We need to talk,” stressed JD, “in private.” Rapper suggested the Hooters in Hollywood. JD was taken back and hoped Rapper didn’t pick up the hesitation.
“Be there in an hour.” JD snapped the cell phone shut. Rapper was in town and not across the country. Perhaps there was some truth in the ramblings from coked-out stripper after all.
Marko’s Knucklehead bobber growled as he picked up the sound of JD’s Pan, while peeling down the 101. The Knuckle barked as JD shot up the short on-ramp onto the freeway slipping in effortlessly beside his president. Working as a stunt driver at Universal Studio back lot, he hoped this meeting would be as short as the trip over to Hollywood Boulevard. Inside Hooters, JD quickly scanned the crowd but didn’t see Rapper. Hooters was packed with the same looky-loo tourists that Marko detested about Universal. He followed the cute hostess’s eyes up to the second level.
They found Rapper in full colors alone at a table, elbows deep in cheap King Crab legs. He didn’t bother to stand. “What brings you to town?” Rapper knew what JD was asking. It was a courtesy to check in with a dominant club when traveling into unfamiliar territory, and he didn’t honor the outlaw code.
“Family, kid wanted to see Disneyland. Marshall and his mom are over at Universal. What’s up?” Rapper answered between legs cracking. “Sit down, relax.”
JD surveyed the situation. “Problem with some local boys. Tried to take out one of my guys twice yesterday.”
“Sounds like a personal beef? Check your boy to find the root of evil,” Rapper said.
“Word is east is muscling up these guys,”
Rapper finished sucking meat from a stringy leg. “We have no interest out here. You guys are too well embedded. Internationally, we’re backing Bikies down under. Who are these locals?”
“Bad M/C,” Marko answered.
Rapper shrugged the name off. “Bunch of slouches. Couldn’t cut it in our Club.”
“How’d they make it as a M/C?”
JD didn’t like the question. The truth was the Bad snuck in the back door by resurrecting a dead club name that was still on the books. “Doesn’t matter. So you’re not looking to expand west of the Mississippi?” He needed to know where his club stood in this situation. The Few didn’t care how big any club was, but JD need to know how deep this deal was. Rapper smiled but shook his head no. “If we had a problem with you, I would contact you directly, first. I apologize for not letting you know I was in town. JD and Marko bid their farewell. Outside the boys kicked over their bikes. JD slipped on his shades. “Whadya think?”
JD let out a sigh and snapped the throttle. “You know what to do.”
Marko slammed hard against the concrete floor as glass shattered down around him. “Cut!” Marko raised his hand and waited for the all clear from the gun wrangler Raymond. Marko liked working as a stunt man. It kept him sharp and alert. Today’s scene was the big finale shootout. Marko lingered waiting for the other firearms to be inventoried before he approached Raymond pulling him to the side.
Raymond was apprehensive. Being a gun wrangler was a position of trust with not only actors and studios but also with law enforcement. All guns needed to be cataloged and modified so that they could never be mistakenly loaded and used as a real weapon. Grudges run deep in Hollywood. Marko was persistent. Raymond finally conceded a couple of dozen AK-47s for an up-coming movie. It would be a strict short-time loan. The guns would have to be returned quickly, reamed, barrels plugged, and then modified for the film, but the Club was willing to pay for the quick turn around.
Ton and Tammy sat at a table secluded behind the clubhouse pool table. Ton was rehabilitating his left arm by sliding his hand up and down Tammy’s soft leg under her short skirt. She blushed at her uncontrolled out burst, as Ton assured her no one knew how wet she was. Everyone knew. It was a packed place tonight as all available members had turned up as a show of force for their brother. Twenty-three of the meanest motherfuckers to walk the streets of Los Angeles were going to purge their turf of a parasite. Ton leaned forward kissing Tammy’s soft cheek before sending her home.
Bobby paced in the front room of his rundown house pounding his chest in front of a half-dozen members. The cell phone remained silent. He sensed Rapper’s irritation when he initially called.
“Bad wants to be considered,” Bobby said.
We have no interest in that territory,” Rapper said, “Besides you didn’t make it the last time, and we transferred the other members into our out of state existing chapters. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
We are going 1%er whether you like it or not, but we wanted to give you the first shot,” Bobby said feeling his oats and trying to impress his brothers. “This territory is a gold mine.”
“And serious trouble,” Rapper said.
“These fuckers are old,” Bobby said. “We can take them.”
Rapper didn’t like this phone conversation for a number of reasons. “Are you going to be there?”
“Yeah,” Bobby said.
“Stick tight,” Rapper said. “Let me talk to my brothers.”
Bobby sat on the sofa waiting for the follow-up call. “You don’t expect biker’s to keep accurate time do you?” Bobby muttered to his brothers and laughed. The other young brothers looked at one another. One took a slug on a bottle of Jack Daniels. Beers and joint were passed around. One member, an Italian took a slug on the fifth, and looked at Bobby. He came from a family of mob members, and remembered some of the stories. “I’m going to the head,” he said and walked down the hall.
Mongoose landed a size 12 on the door sending splinters raining across the Bobby’s front room. Snake flooded the room with a burst of rounds. Members scattered, but there was nowhere to run. One reached into his vest and was shot immediately. Ton eyed Bobby from point blank. “You thought you could kill me?” He landed a hard right to Bobby’s ribs doubling him over and snatching the revolver out of the back of Bobby’s waistband.
The Few surrounded the building, but not before one short Italian member of the Bad climbed out of the bathroom window and escaped. The FGM knew they needed to move fast. JD towered over the heap of man. “Your club is over.” Ton leveled the gun at Bobby’s head and squeezed the trigger.
Rapper smiled. “Nice to see you boys still know how to handle your shit. He was nothing buy trouble. I was here trying to get to the bottom of this but…” Rapper watched as Mongoose stripped the bloody colors off the deceased.
“Yeah we take care of our own.” JD casually took the revolver from Ton and indicated for the other members to fight or leave their colors and depart. To a man they ripped off their colors and peeled for the door. One turned and JD pistol-whipped him, before a confrontation ensued. “Let’s move,” JD said and a Few Good Men and one Outlaw Machine member scrambled into their vehicles and split in several directions.
