Two brothers were hanging out on the porch. Dome, the vice president, was leaning against one of the columns that supported the roof of the porch. Gremlin, the club mechanic and sergeant at arms, was lounging in a leather recliner that was parked in the corner of the porch. The beat of a southern rock song exploded out the open front door. The smell of weed followed it, accompanied by a woman’s high laugh.
When they saw Grayson approaching, Dome straightened up and Gremlin rose out of his seat.
“Hey, Grayson.”
“What’s up, brother?” Gremlin said.
“Them jigs been down yet?” Grayson asked. Dome and Gremlin exchanged furtive glances.
“Yeah, they came down. They didn’t wanna buy the MAC-10s, though,” Dome said.
“Why the fuck not?” Grayson asked.
Dome shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “They said their boss guy said they were too hot. Couldn’t move them. Said you and the boss was gonna talk about it.”
“And y’all just let him walk away like that?” Grayson asked.
Dome licked his lips. “Uh. I mean, he paid us for the rest of the stuff.”
“Took all the handguns,” Gremlin chimed in. Grayson put his left foot on the bottom step of the porch. He motioned for Dome to bend forward. The taller man hesitated, then did as he was asked. Grayson grabbed the hoop dangling from Dome’s right ear and twisted it until the lobe looked like a piece of braided rope. Dome squealed as Grayson whispered in his ear.
“Don’t you ever, as long as you got breath in your lungs, ever let somebody short us on a deal. They asked for MAC-10s, they take the MAC-10s. This ain’t motherfucking Burger King. You got people out here thinking we soft-ass punks. What does that patch on your back say?” Grayson asked.
“Rare Breed!” Dome howled.
“You think we punks? You think we some gangbangers on the corner moving shit out the back of a broke-down Impala?” Grayson gave the hoop another quarter turn.
“NO!” Dome screamed.
“Don’t you ever let anybody walk away from here with some of our money. You’re supposed to be the fucking vice president. You better start acting like it,” Grayson said.
“Okay, okay!” Dome wheezed.
“Find another customer for them MAC-10s.” Grayson let go of Dome’s ear. “Tell Andy and Oscar I want to talk to them at the table,” Grayson said. He headed for the garage. Dome rubbed his ear. His fingers came away red.
“You need some alcohol or something?” Gremlin asked.
“Just go get the fucking prospects,” Dome said.
* * *
Grayson was sitting at the head of the table when the prospects came shuffling in. A string of sickly yellow lights cast weak shadows throughout the garage and across the table. The club’s emblem, a wolf’s head covered in iron plating, was painted in the center of the table where the club voted on official business. Andy and Oscar stopped at the foot of the table. Grayson didn’t ask them to sit.
“You both want your patches, don’t ya?” Grayson asked. The two men nodded. Oscar nodded so hard his hair fell into his face. Andy was tall and lean like a sapling. Oscar was as wide as a walking refrigerator. Grayson thought they resembled the number 10. They both wore denim cuts with the chapter location on the bottom.
“I’m looking for a girl calls herself Tangerine. Been trying to find her for a few months. There was this punk-ass reporter who was talking to her until he got himself killed. I need y’all to go over to his place. You’ll probably have to bust in. Look around, see if you can find anything about Tangerine. If you do find something, I’ll speed up patching you in.”
“We gotta break in the place?” Oscar asked.
“Did I fucking stutter? Did you not just hear me say you gonna have to break in the place? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Grayson said. He punctuated each sentence by slamming his fist into the table.
“Don’t worry, we got it. We ain’t gonna let you down,” Andy said.
“You better not,” Grayson said. He stood and extended his fist. Andy and Oscar extended theirs. The three men bumped knuckles.
“We make them bleed for the Breed,” Andy said.
“We make them bleed for the Breed,” Oscar said.
“Damn right you do,” Grayson said.
TWELVE
Ike parallel-parked his truck between a bright-pink scooter and a car that was so small he could have probably picked it up with one hand. A streetlamp with a busted bulb towered over them.