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“Now, this right here,” Raff said as he turned down another road that would curve us back toward the town again, “is what the locals call Millionaire’s Row. This is where all the rich folk live.”
“Including the Irish mafia family I told you about,” I explained. “The Murphy brothers,” I added.
“Don’t forget the Bratva,” Raff declared.
“What’s the Bratva?” she asked, watching the mansions as we drove past them.
“The Bratva is the Russian mafia. You don’t have to worry about them either. We might not be… close to them like we are with the Murphys, but they’re allies of sorts. They own the pool hall in town.”
“Really? Why?” she asked.
“Well, when most of your income comes from doing wickedly illegal deeds,” Raff started, making me snort, “you need to find a way to excuse all that money you get to Uncle Sam, who is going to always want his money. So you open a legit business to run your money through. The Russians have the pool hall. The Irish have a pub.”
“What do you guys have?”
“Mostly just the karate studio right now,” I supplied. “And in a smaller capacity, Morgaine’s business ventures. But we’re always talking about opening new businesses in town.”
“Lord knows the town could use it,” Raff agreed.
“What about the other chapters?” she asked.
“Golden Glades has a repair shop and a car parts store. They used to jack and strip cars, so that made sense for them,” I told her. “And Navesink Bank has a lot going for itself now. Car place. A shooting range. Other shit too, can’t remember.”
We drove through town again, and as we made our way past The Bog, three of the Murphy brothers moved out, each waving toward us.
I didn’t miss the way Vienna sank lower in her seat.
“Those were the Murphy brothers,” I explained to her, wanting her to know the safe faces in town.
“And that is one of the C.O.s that Coach likes to fuck with.”
“What do you mean?”
“Apparently, some of the corrections officers in the prison are complete dicks to the inmates,” I explained. “Ever since Coach got out, he’s been fucking with them in little ways. Like he stole some wood that was delivered to one of their driveways to build the bookshelves in his room.”
“Wait. Isn’t Coach the zen meditation guy?” she asked.
“He says he can be all zen and a menace to society. Calls it balance,” Raff explained. “Now up there, before the road to the prison,” he went on, pointing out the windshield, “is the town’s motel. Where we all had to live once for months as we fixed up the warehouse.”
“That sounds… uncomfortable,” she said, squinting off in the distance.
“At times, it was three of us to a room,” Raff said, doing a dramatic shiver. “And the gas station and the convenience store are up that way too. But, now, it is time to go home,” he said.
I glanced back toward her, trying to gauge her reaction to hearing the clubhouse referred to as home.
But she seemed to have a soft look as she watched the warehouse come into view.
“It’s… huge,” she declared as we got closer.
“Fifteen thousand square feet,” I told her. “Divided equally among the three levels.”
“No wonder your bedrooms are so big,” she said as Raff pulled into the lot where weeds were relentlessly pushing through the cracks in the asphalt.
Raff slowed the car as an orange-colored chicken with a comically large red comb came running across the lot, hellbent on grabbing whatever kind of bug it was chasing. The rest of her friends were pecking lazily at the ground as Coach kept a casual eye on them while he slowly flipped himself up into a headstand.
“Wow,” Vienna said, too impressed to remember her usual trepidation toward men.
“Yeah, that fucker is so bendy he could practically suc—“ Raff started, cutting off when he realized what he was about to say, “get a sideshow job as a contortionist,” he supplied quickly.
