Page 3 of Thug

Beyond the small groups of cars that littered the large lot, two motorcycles were nestled at the far end of the pavement, in front of a massage parlor. They couldn’t be seen from my parking lot or the access road, even if someone was trying. It was obvious the Hard Eights had no intention of warning the Rebels that they were in my bar. In fact, they were trying to hide it.

I grew up in a home where everything was kept a secret. The only way to find the truth was to dig incessantly until it was revealed. Giving no outward indication of my findings became a survival instinct that was engrained into my being.

Although somewhat anxious as to what the night may hold, I put on an unsuspecting look and reentered the bar through the defunct kitchen. Price and his cohort were mid-conversation, speaking so low that I couldn’t make out anything they were saying. I envisioned the legs of my chairs being used as weapons, my tables crushed beneath fallen bodies, and the occasional beer bottle being broken over someone’s unsuspecting head.

I’d likely be working late, mopping pools of blood from my recently refinished hardwood floors.

Although they’d done nothing but drink beer and whisper secrets to one another, I grew angry at the two men for being in my bar. They didn’t belong there. Their remotely parked motorcycles stood as proof that they knew it.

I’d scrimped, saved, and borrowed from everyone I knew to open the establishment. To watch them trash the place would be heartbreaking. I’d anticipated hiring a bouncer when I opened but it came down to paying a bouncer’s wages or buying a jukebox, and I chose the option less likely to become a douchebag.

So far, I didn’t regret my decision to forgo the bouncer. Despite their reputation, the Rebels had caused no problems with other patrons. In fact, their presence was likely a deterrent to anyone who might consider starting a fight. The tips they left were more than enough for me to dismiss the burnouts they did in the parking lot and the fact that none of them could aim well enough to piss directly into the toilet.

When I finished stocking the cooler, I glanced at the clock. In no time, my bar was going to be in shambles. I looked in Price’s direction, hoping for some type of reassurance that everything was going to be okay. Upon seeing me he gestured to himself and then Brisco.

He mouthed the words another round?

I grabbed their beers and started in that direction. I hadn’t cleared the corner of the bar when the familiar rumble from the Rebel’s approaching motorcycles shook the walls of the windowless bar. As much as I wanted to act indifferent to whatever was going on between the two rival motorcycle clubs, it seemed I couldn’t. My legs froze upon hearing the sound, causing me to slosh beer onto the floor in front of me. Brisco, who was facing me, immediately noticed the mishap.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, slowly standing as he spoke. “As long as they don’t do anything stupid, everything’s going to be—”

“Hunky-fucking-dory,” Price said, finishing Brisco’s sentence.

I glanced in Price’s direction, hoping for reassurance that nothing bad was going to happen. His expression was one of eager guilt, like a pit bull making eye contact with its owner just before attacking the antagonizing household cat.

Feeling like a traitor for allowing the two men into my bar, I placed the two half-spilled bottles of beer on the edge of their table.

I quickly sought shelter around the backside of the bar, cautiously optimistic that the impromptu meeting was something the Rebels knew about. My fear was that it was an ambush. So far, neither of the two Hard Eights had brandished a weapon, which was comforting.

The cowbell clanged. The door swung wide, hitting its stop with a thwack! The opening was darkened by the President of the Rebels, Tiny Mack. Upon noticing Price and Brisco, the three-hundred-pound Rebel stopped dead in his tracks.

His eyes widened with worry.

The Rebels who remained outside mumbled their complaints about the blocked doorway. Incapable of seeing into the bar, they shoved against Tiny’s oversized frame, eventually forcing him to stumble forward. As Price and Brisco came into the other men’s view, the expression on their faces confirmed my nightmarish suspicions.

This wasn’t going to be pretty.

I swallowed heavily and waited for someone to speak.

Following a few long seconds of awkward silence, Price rose from his chair as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. One confident step at a time, he shortened the distance between him and Tiny by twenty feet, leaving not much more than an arm’s length separating them.

He gave Tiny a thorough once-over and then crossed his arms over his chest. “When the way things are is different than the way they should be, it causes me to take pause.” He glanced at each of the Rebels, and then met Tiny’s nervous stare. “I look at the situation in question and wonder how—or where—things fell apart.”

Four Rebels were inside and two were standing in the doorway. While they listened intently to what Price was saying, they all shared the same expression.

They were scared for their lives.

“Did I make a mistake in judgement when I allowed your fat ass to open up shop?” Price asked, clearly in rhetoric. “Hell, in my opinion, your instructions were simple. The ‘Eights agreed to let you run your business in our territory as long as you and your club met our demands. You agreed to manufacture a product that was superior to the shit coming in from Mexico. You were supposed to peddle it and pay your taxes. In turn, we agreed to look the other way. Either I made a lapse in judgement or your fat ass misled me.”

Price raked his fingers through his hair and drew a long breath.

The Rebels safety was no longer at the forefront of my thoughts. Awestruck by Price’s commanding presence—and his ability to convey his message in a series of well put together sentences—I waited anxiously for him to continue.

“It was simple,” Price said, shaking his head. He raised his index finger. “Superior product and pay your taxes—”

“Hold up a minute, Price. We’ve paid our—” Tiny began.

“Shut the fuck up, Tiny,” Price demanded, taking a step forward. His nose was nearly touching Tiny’s. “Interrupt me again,” he fumed, “and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”