Page 79 of Givin' Me Fitz!
Hammer turned around. “Hobie, get the fuck from behind me and put that damn knife away before you hurt yourself. I, personally, don’t mind the direction the club is headed in. Maybe the money doesn’t come in such big chunks, but it’s steady, and when I file for Social Security, it’ll be a nice addition to our monthly income.”
I chuckled. “Okay, Hammer. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I don’t guess you could tell me if any of the others are with him?”
Hammer coughed. “Hobie, will you get a bottle of water from the kitchen?” Hammer kept coughing, so I nodded toward my friend and left.
Once he closed the door, Hammer stood and walked over to me. “Boyd and his old lady are in San Diego at your folks’ house. They’re coming back once… son, your father is gonna kill you if you don’t go along with crawling to the Scorpions and begging them to let you prospect. I don’t know what you do, but you better do something.
“If I was you, I’d resign the presidency and let the chips fall. I’ve got savings, so I’ll be fine. The missus and I can move to Michigan with our daughter. Her husband is a member of the Detroit Police Department, so I’m not worried about anybody comin’ after an old dog like me, but you got a target on your back, and I don’t wanna see anything happen to you.”
Hobie returned, bringing each of us a bottle of water. “So, do I get to cut his tallywhacker off?”
Hammer laughed. “The way I hear it, you could suck it off.”
They both laughed and we walked out of the office, me patting Hammer on the back as he headed to the booth.
“Well?” Hobie stopped next to the back door.
“I don’t believe he’s involved, but he’s got a contingency plan—Detroit. Son-in-law is a cop. They’re coming for me, according to Hammer. My dad knows I won’t give up, so I’m sure he’ll kill me—”
“If you don’t get him first,” Hobie said.
Could I shoot my father? I wanted to say I couldn’t, but if it was him or me? What would I do with my back against the wall?
Hobie and I drove out to the clubhouse, both of us quiet. My truck was in the parking lot behind The Roundup, and there were bikes and cars everywhere. It was about three in the afternoon, and we hadn’t eaten anything because we had a lot of shit on our minds.
“You wanna go eat first?” Hobie was idling in the parking lot, not pulling into a spot.
I sighed. “Yeah. Looks like Arlo’s getting ready to close to outside customers. Wonder if they’re cookin’ food for a party?”
“I can call if you want.” Hobie shifted into Park and retrieved his phone.
It rang once. “The Roundup. Gil— Gilly s-speaking.”
I glanced at Hobie and we both smirked. The young man sounded out of breath.
“Hey, Gilly. It’s Hobie. Is Arlo busy making food for a party at the clubhouse since Abner’s back?”
“Yeah, how’d you know? He’s searing prime rib right now. You need to talk to him?” Hobie turned to me and I nodded.
“Yeah. We’re coming in. Don’t shoot us.” Gilly’s giggle made me smile before Hobie ended the call. I liked the kid.
We knocked on the back door before going in without waiting for an invitation, finding Arlo at the eight-burner stove with four huge iron skillets and hunks of sizzling meat as he masterfully flipped them to cook on four sides.
“Dude, what are you making?” Hobie stepped closer, looking for anything to eat as though we hadn’t stopped on our way out to Pahrump and grabbed burgers.
Gilly was wrapping large potatoes in foil and placing them on a huge baking sheet. The two men could put on a feast in no time, and the food was always delicious. I just had to know why and who had requested it.
“You’re busy, so we won’t keep you,” I said before I stepped closer to Arlo. “Who asked you to do this?”
Arlo Kitchell patched in just before Keller retired. He was a quiet guy when he first came around for a poker run the club was hosting for a local family whose house had burned down. My dad had emailed me about him and how Arlo seemed to fit in with the club. When I met him after I was discharged, I liked him immediately.
Arlo had been riding minibikes since he grew up somewhere he didn’t talk about. He’d gone to culinary school, though he’d never said where, and somewhere along the way he’d worked in more than a few fancy restaurants around the country, which he’d used as references for when he applied for the job as a cook at The Roundup.
I immediately liked the guy when I met him. He had a spirituality about him, though he didn’t talk about a specific religion, just the universe and how much it would give back if one only took the time to appreciate it. He was thirty-six—close to my age—but he was so settled in his skin, he seemed as if he was light years more mature than any of us.
“Bones, you hungry?” Arlo glanced over his shoulder as he moved the large hunks of meat into hotel pans beside the stove.
“No, man. Thank you, though. I, uh, you got a second to step outside? I need to talk to you about something.” I could hear my voice trembling as I asked the question, but I was determined to get to the bottom of this latest clusterfuck if it killed me.
