Page 7 of Biker's Collar: Property of Scrap

“Gentlemen,” Deacon says. “I apologize for the deceptive behavior.”

I could have done with a goddamn warning about this, but it’s much easier to keep a steady poker face when you don’t even know the cards you have in hand. I don’t know where the fuck Deacon Hollingsworth got all those armed Indian girls, but they hold those weapons like they know what they’re doing and they’re looking for an excuse to put a hole in a white boy.

“What’s going to happen right now is simple,” Deacon says to the Midnight SS. “Y’all are going to take us to the warehouse where y’all are keeping the girls. But first, empty your pockets.”

The men all have their hands in the air and emptying their pockets would offer enough of a chance for a good shooter to whip out a pistol and cause some damage. I pull the revolver out of my cut and slide a bullet into the chamber. Deacon doesn’t share my concerns about the situation.

Only one biker talks. His real name is Abraham Dorn, club name, “METH”. No doubt Deacon chose him as the easiest one to crack for a reason. Five minutes in the bathroom with the sunburnt redneck and Deacon had Mr. Dorn chattier than a parakeet hooked on his drug of choice. The others don’t know he snitched. I had to get involved in some of the dirty work, which I’ll get on Wyatt’s ass about later, but this time it wasn’t as bad as sending me to bury a body, rob a damned Jew, or look for rotting corpses in the desert.

Tying up a bunch of redneck freaks who think they have anything to do with the German Nazis just offers me a chance to work out that excess energy from that unresolved gambling itch. Once we have the bikers blindfolded, drugged, and tied up in separate rooms, Deacon insists that he trusts the Indian girls to keep watch.

We put Dorn in the back of Deacon’s Ford F-150 – no sense taking the bike – and Deacon dangles drugs in front of the poor sap until he practically offers his asshole to confess.

“I’ve been clean for ten years,” he says as he scoops the white powder eagerly into the back of his throat. He doesn’t even bother trying to snort it. He must have been on the stuff pretty fucking serious. Maybe he should have kept it in moderation if he was going to end his streak of sobriety with this much of a screw up. But since this particular screw up benefits us, I let it happen.

This is Abraham’s last day on Earth. Might as well let him have his little patch of happiness while it lasts. Deacon preaches to him, completely faking his enthusiasm, but raised in the church long enough to have the right cadence and know the right verses to manipulate Abraham.

“God helps the helpers,” Deacon says nonsensically. “So you help us find that warehouse full of girls… and we’ll help you.”

It’s a load of shit. Deacon plans on packing this motherfucker's nose with enough coke to plug it. No need to clean up overdoses. Drug addicts make it easy for us. I never found much interest in any drug except nicotine. I shift the Zyn around my upper lip with my tongue, greedy for another strong burst. I’m getting impatient the longer this drive drags on with Deacon preaching as I struggle to make sense of this dumbass’s directions.

Eventually, we turn down a road called Irish Settlement Road which quickly transitions from paved to pure Southwestern dirt. The truck tires kick up enough dust to blind us and I can’t help but ride along with my hand on my weapon. This could be a trap. There’s the possibility that the dust will settle and I’ll have to pull the trigger at the first damn head I see.

Deacon doesn’t share my anxieties. He just keeps preaching and driving along guided by faith… in his own damn self. We get to the specified address. It looks like it could be the place.

“So what? We drag this motherfucker up there with us?”

“Good place to die as any,” Deacon says, hopping out of the truck. “Can you handle him?”

I grunt as I hop out of the truck. How much I can handle this guy depends on how the drugs are hitting his system. I open the backseat and he appears to have relative control over himself as he steps out. The faraway look on his face betrays the illusion.

“Listen buddy. You take us into that warehouse, all your problems go away. Every last one of them. Now walk.”

“I thought you would carry him,” Deacon says, like this is a time for jokes.

“Do we even know what we’ll find in there?” I ask him, since he’s dragging my ass along on this mission blind. “Women. Lots of women.”

“Don’t be a pervert.”

“What was perverted about that?”

“Your tone. These women are victims.”

“Don’t start.”

“Start what? Being human?”

“They’re victims of their own damned stupidity. Who trusts some guy they barely know who promises them a job in some city far away from everything they know?”

“Someone desperate.”

“Exactly.”

“Desperate doesn’t mean stupid.”

“In my world it does,” Deacon says unsympathetically. “Listen, I’m not a bastard. I’m setting them free whether or not they’re whores.”

I don’t bother indulging his argument any further. The fastest way for me to stop this disagreement is to just get this job done. Our idiot meth head Abraham walks up to the door and turns to us.

---