Page 113 of The Devil's Scars

Chapter Twenty

Four months later

Wolf glared at the accountant that he’d hired just two weeks ago, who had started just the past Monday, sighed heavily.

“Why are you givin’ me notice?” he growled. “What’s the issue?”

“Uh, well,” the man stuttered, adjusting his tie. “I just – I feel that – this work environment’s problematic…”

Wolf looked around the office, bemused. Yeah, OK, it wasn’t the world’s best office, he could agree with that. It was just above the garage work areas, so every time anyone opened the door, a wave of heat and noise, and the smell of steam, gasoline and paint rolled on in. But c’mon, it wasn’t exactly a slum, it was fully air-conditioned, had double-glazed windows, had soundproofing, and Wolf knew that he was paying way over market rate for the work. Besides, this little idiot had been interviewed by him, Kansas, and Silver in the very office that they were currently standing, and he hadn’t said a peep about a problematic work environment.

“What’s the problem, exactly?” Wolf asked, already testy. They didn’t have time to waste here, he was itching to get the tattoo parlor up and running, and the garage and Satan’s were both being audited at the same goddamn time, and God knows, it had taken him four weeks to even find and hire this guy, whose name he didn’t even remember now. Seemed that not too many people were rushing to work for an MC, one that still had a criminal reputation, one that had just recently had a business blown up.

Well, Wolf could certainly see why prospective freelance accountants were hesitating. He guessed that guys like this – with educations and experience – had a choice of places to set up their high-end laptops and park their trim little business-suited-butts for a few months. Nice office buildings, with elevators and espresso machines and other people in suits wandering around, speaking in full sentences about money and budgets and all the shit that Wolf had no clue about.

Which is why I hire a fuckin’ accountant.

Yet again, he thought longingly of Edward Crawley, his former accountant. For twenty-six years, Eddie had happily taken the money that every Road Devils President had thrown his way, and never said one word about the slightly sub-par office space –or anything else, for that matter. But the man had retired and moved to Florida, living far better than a small-time accountant’s regular paycheck could possibly explain, and now here they were. Wolf wondered if Eddie would come back for six months, if Wolf flew him over and paid him mucho bucks for coming out of retirement and dragging his ass away from the ocean. On the whole, though, he thought not. Damn shame.

“Well, Mr. Connor,” the man began bravely, wondering if his decapitated body would be discovered quickly. “I have just come to understand that this isn’t a very good for for me. I’m not – I feel that your men and I aren’t very compatible.”

“What men?” Wolf demanded.

“The men – the men who get information to me upon my request,” he said faintly. “Hard copies of documents and spreadsheets and projections and tax returns from the past three years.”

“Yeah, well.” Wolf scratched his head. “That’d be pretty much everyone, right? Because you need everythin’ from the bar, the garage, and the parlor.”

“Yes.”

“OK, so…” Wolf shut his eyes for a second, already pissed off, and trying to decide where to target his rage. “So they don’t give you what you need for you to do your job accounting for the rebuild projections, and doin’ the audits? I can speak to them. Kick their asses up between their shoulder-blades.”

“No, no,” the man said hastily, blanching a bit. “They get it to me.”

“OK, so…” Wolf stared at the accountant. “If you ask, and they give it, then what’s the problem?”

“Their – their demeanors.”

“Huh?” Wolf cocked his head. “How they act towards you?”

“No, not exactly. It’s not how they act towards me. It’s more… how they act, in general. How they just are.”

“Oh, right,” Wolf said, the penny finally dropping. “You mean, they don’t talk educated enough for you, huh? They don’t dress right, act right, live right? You don’t like the leather cuts, the shit that goes down in the bar back rooms, the rough language, the criminal pasts? My shit grammar offends you too, huh, man?”

The man looked like he was about to pee his perfectly-tailored pants. “I didn’t fully understand –when I took the job, I thought my exposure would be limited –”

“Forget it,” Wolf said brusquely. “I don’t give a flyin’ fuck what you thought then, or what you think about me and the boys now. I know they’ve been as good to you as they know how to be, and if that ain’t good enough for you, then we’re better off without you, frankly. My boys don’t deserve to be looked down on by some guy with a nice tie and shiny shoes. It ain’t a good fit, and that’s that. Don’t bother comin’ back.”

“I – my –” the man stammered. “The contract –”

“I remember the contract,” Wolf snarled. “I can read, you know. You give two weeks’ notice, I pay you for that time. Well, I don’t want to see your snotty little face ever again, but I’ll transfer you two weeks’ pay tomorrow mornin’, first thing, and I’ll be happy to get you out of my hair. Now, beat it.”

The office door slammed behind the man as he fled, and Wolf sighed.

Back to square one. Back to looking for an accountant who’d be willing to work with a bunch of MC guys, on MC property, on MC accounts, dealing with some questionable documents and information from the MC’s past.

Maybe Wolf had to start thinking outside the box here. Look for someone less Traditional Prep Business School, and more street-smart and savvy, who just had a knack for numbers. A maverick type. A wild card.

Yeah. A wild card would fit in with The Road Devils just fine.

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