Dead Men Motorcycle Club Page 10

  "I didn't tell you the best part," Cash said as he sped down the street towards the garage. He was keeping the bike quiet and slow so as to carry on a conversation.

  "What's that?"

  "When we trashed that place last night we made sure to screw with all the engines of the cars there," he said.

  The thought of sabotaging an engine sounded pretty evil to me. I mean, it was one thing to vandalize a place, but messing with their car? That's rough. Then the full extent of what he was telling me became clear.

  "Wait a minute," I said, "If their engines are fucked, they have to come to Peasant to get them fixed."

  In unison we said, "the only garage in town." I laughed hard on the back of the bike. Sometimes I didn't give Cash a lot of credit for subtlety, but when it came to this sort of stuff he was pure genius. Not only had he done the job as Donnovan had asked, but now he'd get paid double for it by repairing all the damage he'd caused in the first place.

  "You're a clever one, Mr. President," I told him. He turned his head back to grin at me and I hugged him tighter as we approached the lot of Peasant Motors.

  It was early when we arrived. There was only one other bike outside, along with Karen's car. I gave Cash a kiss as I got off the bike.

  "I'm going to head over to Hep's place and see if he needs any help," he said. It was easy to tell when Cash was in a good mood. The first thing that happened was he became extremely helpful. That was a nice thing to have around when you're having a rough day.

  "Okay," I told him, "see you for lunch?"

  "Absolutely."

  I walked into the business office to grab a cup of coffee that I knew Karen would have made by now. Sure enough, she was already digging into her daily mountain of paperwork, two cups deep into the java herself. I poured myself a paper cup full of the strong stuff and spared her a short greeting. I could tell she was too involved to be much use of conversation that morning so I headed into the garage.

  Tubbs was leaning over Vickers' bike just a few feet from the door.

  "Morning," I said to him. "How's it look?"

  "Hey Emma," he said, "Oh, I already fixed it up. Damn thing just needed a fender bent back into shape."

  I was a little disappointed that I wouldn't have any work to do that morning, though I could always use the time tuning up my own bike. I was more confused as to how Tubbs had gotten the work done so quickly. It was only nine in the morning.

  "When did you get in?" I asked.

  "A few hours ago," he said. "I wanted to get this out of the way so we could chat before anyone else showed up."

  "Chat?" I asked. "What's up?"

  "It's Alex Donnovan, the rich kid," he said. I was worried about this. Tubbs was a careful observer and I hoped he hadn't noticed anything the previous night. I had been careful, but there are always details to miss and mistakes to be made. I nodded to him in understanding of the subject.

  "I just wanted to warn you away from him," he said. "I mean, I know you're with Cash, it's just... be careful. I stuck around last night to talk to him as much as I could. I think he's trouble."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "He didn't say anything specific, but I got the feeling that he was looking for ways to disrupt the club."

  "That doesn't make any sense," I told him. "His dad needs the club to buy up San Viero."

  "Yeah," Tubbs said, "But after he's used us, he needs a way to wreck us. He's looking to turn this town into an ocean side paradise. I don't think a guy like him actually wants a bunch of bikers around in his new paradise."

  "You're right," I said. That made complete sense. Guys like Reginald Donnovan - and his son - had no problem using muscle like the Dead Men to do their dirty work, but they would never want to live alongside them.

  "I'm not sure what he's planning," Tubbs continued, "But just keep your guard up. Don't trust him with anything. We'll get through this. Donnovan doesn't know who he's dealing with."

  I felt slightly reassured by Tubbs' confidence in the integrity of the club. Mostly I felt betrayed though. Suddenly all of Alexander's motives had shifted in my mind. He'd seemed honestly interested in me, but now I saw different. I was nothing special to him, except as a way of tearing apart the club on his way out. If he'd stolen me away at the right moment it could have sent Cash into a frenzy. He'd never have been able to hold the club together like that.

  I thanked Tubbs for his advice and returned to my bike. I smiled when I saw it, dismissing my thoughts of the previous day. My Charger had been special, but I was failing to account for how special this bike was. It was more than just a motorcycle and it was certainly more than an act of rebellion against my dead father. This bike was a sign of my new allegiance and my new love. For as long as I had it, I would always remember this place and these people. Even without it, San Viero and the Dead Men had become more than just a weird little town and its bike gang to me. They were both a part of something called "home."

  I got out my tools and got to work disassembling my bike for the hundredth time. I had learned every piece by heart, but I was still discovering something new. The cool weight of the wrench in my hand reminded me that this was all real. My feelings for this bike, for the Dead Men and for Cash were more than just passing fancies. I'd found my life, and I would fight for it. Every part had its place and together, they could ride through any storm.

  Paying the Price

  "Just... about... GOT IT!"

  I let go of the wrench and allowed myself a moment to wipe the sweat from my forehead. People laugh when I tell them how much I hate working on tight screws in confined spaces - there's just something about that phrasing that always brings a chuckle - but today this was my job. When you work as a mechanic, it's not all glamorous. Actually, none of it is glamorous. Those shows you see on TV where people build custom motorcycles for celebrities? That's just them. The rest of us are stuck tightening the steering on late-model Toyotas. Still, it beats being stuck in an office.

  Here in the town of San Viero, California, there's only one place to go when your car breaks down. Peasant Motors is the best garage in town for anything on two wheels or four. Of course, it's also the only garage in town. Peasant earned a great reputation back in the early 70s with high quality work and fair quotes. Little by little, the other garages shut down and Peasant expanded. Eventually they became the only game in town. In some places, having a monopoly means higher prices and lower quality. That's just not the way in small towns though. Here, being the only garage is a responsibility. Peasant Motors has the job of keeping all the cars, trucks, bikes and occasional lawn mowers in San Viero running. And when I saw it's our job, I really mean it's my job. My name is Emma Percy, and I'm the best mechanic you're ever going to meet.

  How I got to working at Peasant has as much to do with my talent as a mechanic as it does with the real owners of the shop. The extent of the relationship isn't widely advertised, but the worst kept secret in San Viero is that the Dead Men Motorcycle Club is running Peasant Motors. I remember the first time I figured it out, I was a little bit shocked. After all, like most people, I'd heard about the kind of shady activities that motorcycle clubs got into. That they'd be running a garage in a small town seemed out of character. It looked like a nice place, not a den of criminal activity. It took some time before I understood that the things the MC did outside the law didn't necessarily end up as a stain on their legitimate business. Just like a person, an MC can have two sides to its personality. On the one hand you've got the dangerous criminal element. On the other you have a pillar of the community. You have to come to a place like San Viero to see that in action.

  The duality I found in my place of employment was reflected in the people who I worked alongside. Among them were people who had done time in prison, people who readily admitted to fights that ended with the other guy dead and none of them were without a host of other crimes on their rap sheets. This was the life they lived, but it didn't have to be their whole world. The man who once s
tuck a knife into the belly of a bouncer outside a club in Houston might be the same guy who feeds your plants while you're on vacation. The man who helps you rebuild a steering column might have a half dozen charges for drug trafficking. The latter case is the situation I found myself in most recently. The car was no problem. I'd done more challenging work before, and usually in worse conditions. Say what you will about Peasant Motors and their extra-legal activities, but the shop was state of the art. My co-worker for the morning was a man who had first seemed like a threat and later became one of my trusted friend. I guess that's just another one of those dualities that are so common around here.

  Tubbs didn't fit his name at all, which is probably why he was saddled with it. He was rail thin and stood at almost six and a half feet. If he'd been wearing all black and holding a lantern on his head he could easily be confused for a lamp post. I'm not trying to be mean or anything. Tubbs has become one of my closest friends, after all. That kind of good-natured teasing is just the way things are in an MC. IT took me a while to realize that that was where I was now. I might not wear their patches, but I was a part of the club and it was a part of me.

  The best reason I can come up with for why I had let the Dead Men become such a large part of my life in only a few short months was the club's president. Of course, he wasn't just a distant political figure like the American president. He was also the owner of the garage I worked in and - last but far from least - my lover. Cash was everything I'd always wanted to find in a man. He had all those great qualities that women say they're looking for - loyalty, a sense of humor, a sharp mind and a body that could turn your head from half a mile down the road. He had one thing that I'd never found before him though - he wanted me to be the best. Sometimes it's easy to forget that part of a relationship. It's not just about getting what you want or even about improving yourself. It's about helping your partner be the best they can be, too. I was a great mechanic when Cash met me. He wanted me to be a legend. It was the kind of flattering but daunting prospect that's just enough of the former to keep you running.

  For my part, I wanted Cash to be the best around, too. I guess that has a different connotation when your man's livelihood is mostly earned through shady deals and violent pursuits. When he would daydream on my behalf, thinking of how I could get featured in bike magazines or maybe even get my own reality show, it felt more like what you imagine prosperity to be. My hopes for him were always tempered with the desire that someday he wouldn't need the Dead Men, but I knew it was a pale ghost of a chance. If everything went right, I could be famous. If everything went right, he'd be a shadowy underworld figure with a veritable army at his disposal. No matter how much you love someone, that's a frightening concept to wrap your head around.

  For three weeks, the garage at Peasant Motors had been overrun by work. For me, that was a dream come true. When there aren't any engines to work on, I get restless. I'd rather have a million things to do with my day than none. I still know how to relax, but I didn't grow up very used to the idea if you get my meaning. The recent influx of work was due to some of the recent activities of the Dead Men. For almost a month, a silent war had been raging at the heart of San Viero. On one side stood the long-serving and well-respected mayor of the town, a man everyone simply called Taylor. He'd been in his job since the early 90s with almost no opposition. In that time, he'd managed to get his hands into almost everything San Viero had to offer - except the garage. That level of independence made the Dead Men the perfect tool for an outsider to use when it came to unseating our venerable elected official.

  Reginald Donnovan compared his wealth to Mayor Taylor in the same way that Taylor might compare himself to me. To say that Donnovan was rich was a bit like saying the Pacific Ocean was pretty big. Donnovan was the patriarch of an extremely influential East Coast family who had made many fortunes in the world of real estate. Recently he'd set his eyes on San Viero. Like many sleepy little Southern California towns, the threat of being swallowed up by a larger city was always present. When that happened, prices would explode and the quiet town would become something very different. When Donnovan had come to Cash with his proposal, my man had made the pragmatic choice. No matter how influential he was in the area, there was no way Cash could stand in the way of that kind of progress. Better, he thought, to profit off of it.

  And so they'd made a deal. The Dead Men would use their muscle and influence to force Taylor out of his properties - which Donnovan would be doing his best to acquire for pennies on the dollar - and in exchange, the Dead Men would be allowed to continue in the area when things began to change. It wasn't the kind of deal anyone liked to make and it certainly came with no guarantees. That being said, being a success means knowing when to take a stand and when to take the only deal on the table. Cash had done the latter and I couldn't find it in myself to blame him.

  Since then, the Dead Men had done their best to put Taylor's properties in disarray. Work had been stopped, businesses had been vandalized and pressure had been applied where it would do the most good. Cash had made a special point to sabotage vehicles on all the properties the Dead Men had visited under cover of darkness. The result was a seemingly unending stream of cars, trucks and machines that needed the tender loving care of the only garage in town. With every turn of my wrench I was reminded that, for the first time, I couldn't really call what I was doing "honest work". That stung a bit, and I couldn't bring myself to imagine what my dad would say about the situation in San Viero. It probably would have further confirmed his belief that bikers were no good and that I should stay away from them. That advice seemed reasonable a few years ago, but living the high life in San Viero had done a lot to change my perspective.

  Of course, not everyone was happy with the increased workload. I love getting my hands dirty in the garage and Tubbs was just glad to have something to do other than riding in the club. He might be a patched member of the Dead Men, but Tubbs was always happier working at Peasant than anything else. We were just two though, and the garage was full to capacity most days. Organizing it all was Zach, the longest-serving employee here at Peasant. He was more than just an employee, really. He used to own the place before he sold it to Cash on the condition that he always have a job. The other mechanics and I might have been getting our hands dirty, but the hard work was in the hands of everyone's favorite den mother, Karen. She handled the paperwork in ways that would make a Wall Street accountant's head spin. In most areas of life, Karen was humble and soft-spoken. When it came to crunching numbers and getting things done on schedule, she was Atilla the Hun with a spreadsheet.

  The lot was packed with vehicles in need of service. Even so, it was quitting time. San Viero's only real contribution to the history books - other than a half-mythical story about how someone had struck gold here in the 1800s - was that this was home of America's first auto mechanics union. With a reputation like that, even a taskmaster like Zach knew better than to ask anyone to work late.

  Tubbs and I finished replacing the plastic that covered the steering column and got everything put back where it was supposed to be before we checked out for the day. Nobody would have bat an eyelash if we'd called it quits at five o'clock, but some people just can't leave a job half-finished. I think it was that attitude that made Tubbs and I into friends. While we were working, I noticed Cash enter the garage. He might own the place and he wasn't half-bad with a toolbox, but this was definitely my domain. I wasn't about to tell him how to ride his bike and he wasn't about to tell me how to fix a car. That understanding was a huge part of what worked so well in our relationship. I flashed him a wide smile and he grinned back at me.

  When the job was finished, Tubbs and I walked over to where Cash was standing.

  "Everything go alright?" he asked. It was a broad question, so I gave it a broad answer.

  "Yeah," I told him, "Should be running fine. We'll give it a final go-over tomorrow morning and then call up..." for the life of me, I couldn't remember whose car it w
as I was working on. The long list of vehicles, mechanical faults and names was blurring in my head after the long day.

  "I think it's Annie Jackson's," Tubbs said.

  I shrugged. "Anyway, yeah, we'll let her know in the morning if it checks out."

  "Good, good," Cash said. Every now and then he had to act like he actually owned the place. His name was on the paperwork, but everyone knew it was just business. Someone had to own it, even if all the profits were being channeled right back into the club and the garage. Peasant Motors kept the Dead Men running in more ways than one.

  "I'll see you tomorrow, Emma," Tubbs said, heading for the office. "Later, Cash."

  We each nodded at him and said goodnight. I was too tired for a long farewell and Cash was just following my lead. He might have been the president of the club Tubbs belonged to, but Cash recognized that Tubbs and I were closer now than the two of them had ever been.

  I turned to Cash and stared deep into his eyes. It had been a long day without any sign of him. Tubbs had told me some of the Dead Men were going to be out on a job that afternoon, but didn't know the details. More and more he was becoming just another grease monkey.

  "So what did you get up to today," I asked as I cleaned the last bit of grease from between my fingers.

  "Donnovan wanted to have a sit down with us about progress," he said. "That jackass couldn't even be bothered to make the meeting though. He sent his kid instead."

  I nodded, trying not to say a word. "His kid" was Alexander Donnovan. I'd met him when this whole series of events had begun and, for a time, I'd found myself wound up with confusion because of it. Alexander represented all of the things that Cash couldn't. He was wealthy and powerful and he'd seen parts of the world that Cash had never heard of. He was manicured and styled where Cash was tough and rugged. Alexander had tempted me with a life away from San Viero, and I had nearly allowed myself the possibility. It was all just a ruse, though. As charming as he seemed, Alexander was devious just like his father. There was another agenda behind Donnovan's work with the Dead Men. At the end of the day, he wanted to turn San Viero into a playground for the rich and famous. That's not the kind of place you want a motorcycle gang making its home. Alexander's task in this had been to disrupt the club enough so that we could be forced out right on Mayor Taylor's heels.