Page 3 of Blood & Ash

Rolling up to Con’s Old Lady’s place, we’ve barely shut off our bikes when one of his kids runs up asking to bum a cigarette. Goose and I chuckle as Gotti picks him up by the back of his shirt. He can’t be older than seven.

“Which one are you?”

“Let me down, asshole.” The little redheaded bastard kicks Gotti in the stomach and he drops him down in the dirt.

“Little shit,” he grumbles, attempting to wipe off the shoe print left on his white tee. “Going to feed you to my pet gator.”

“Kevin. Get your ass out back and watch your sister.” Mindy stomps toward us, looking worse for the wear. “What are you doing here?” She stands with a hand on her hip, making her rounding stomach more prominent in the sundress she’s wearing as she puffs on a Marlboro with the other.

Fucking hell.

She catches me staring.

“Con knows. It’s not ours. I’m doing a surrogacy for money.” She snuffs out her cigarette with her bare foot. Bitch is wild and crazier than hell. Con swears he married her because he wasscared not to. Big man like himself, the thought is comical. Like an elephant terrified of a mouse.

I hold up a hand. “None of my business, babe. That’s between you and your old man. We’re just here to drop this off.” I pull out the envelope with Con’s name on it. “This is for you and the kids.”

“Thanks.” She snatches the money from my hand and shoves it down into her bra. “War tell you that crook of a dentist is refusing to take off Hannah’s braces.”

“He mentioned it. What’s his name?”

“Dr. McGuire.”

“That the one that set up in Doc’s old office?”

“Yeah. Fucking fraud. Doesn’t even have a real license.”

“That so?” I nod and Gotti shakes his head. Him and Goose know how I feel about that shit.

I bring out my own pay and give Mindy an extra five hundred. “Take her to that one in the plaza by the home health supply store. They give you any trouble, call me. I’ll handle the crook.”

“Thanks, Blood.”

“No problem. You and the kids good?”

She lifts her bony shoulder. “You know how it is. The kids miss their daddy. I miss my man.”

“Right.” I notice Con’s dickhead brother watching us from his porch at the trailer next door. Lazy prick. He’s not the only one. That’s a trailer park for you. Everyone knows your business. There are no secrets around here. The moment we rolled through, all eyes were on us. “I’ll swing back by in a few weeks to see how Hannah’s smile turns out.”

“Yeah. Sure. Tell your old man I said thanks for keeping his word.”

“He always has,” I remind her, though I shouldn’t need to.

I climb back on my black and chrome Road King and the three of us ride out to Cooters and Hooters. A seedy strip club out onthe interstate that caters to truckers and poor tourists. It’s one of the many business fronts that washes money for the SOMC.

Occasionally fucking Peg Leg Randy gets greedy and takes a little too long to make his drop. When that happens, we have to remind him of what happens if he fucks with our money. His idiot sons run his security. Big, stupid motherfuckers that don’t have two brain cells to rub together. Muscle is all they are good for. Randy got his nickname some years back. Dumbass blew his own leg off with a homemade bomb.

The glowing hot pink neon titty sign greets us as we all veer into the gravel parking lot. Being midday, the club is dead. No one is on the door. Not even to check for ID. The sign on the entrance says closed, but they usually open the doors at noon for the regulars. Local alcoholics who want something pretty to look at while they drink their life away. No shame in it. I love tits as much as the next man.

Pushing the door open the second we enter, I know something is wrong. The lights are off, and the place is dead silent. Usually, classic rock vibrates from the speakers while some mid hot bitch works one of the poles.

The three of us press further into the club. Randy’s on the center stage, illuminated by strobe lights. Poor bastard is bent over a chair, ass up with a beer bottle wedged between his cheeks.

“Fucking hell.” I scrub a palm over my eyes as Goose and Gotti try to maintain straight faces. Pulling out my cell, I dial my old man.

“Talk to me.”

“We’ve got a problem.” I give him the gruesome details, wishing I had some bleach for my eyes.

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