Page 5 of Riggs
Chapter Three
Riggs
The low rhythmic tunes of Jazz music rouses me from sleep as it fills my room with the warm soulful voice of Nina Simone. I lay stretched out in bed for a few moments keeping my eyes closed, listening to her sing before tossing the covers to the foot of my king-sized bed. Sitting on the side of the mattress, I reach for the T.V. remote and turn on the local news, muting the sound, opting to listen to the music instead of hearing about the latest shooting here in New Orleans. Not that I prefer to be kept in the dark about my city and the crime in it, just that, right now, my mind needs a recharge from the past few weeks I have had.
Last night was my first night home since our last operation. Once the women we rescued were looked after, and I knew the process of identifying each young lady was underway, to notify their next of kin, I finally allowed the doctor to take care of my leg. Luckily my wound only required a good flush, a few stitches and a round of antibiotics to take home with me.
Standing, I stride across the room. I walk out of my bedroom door, into my living room and head for the kitchen. Dragging a mug from the cabinet, I power on the coffee maker, pop a coffee pod into the machine and push the button. While I wait for my coffee to brew, I fill a glass with water. Twisting the top off the medicine bottle sitting on the counter, I pop a pill in my mouth, then wash it down.
When my coffee is ready, I carry it with me and walked outside onto the terrace. The warm, muggy Louisiana morning air immediately hits me. Leaning against the railing, I look out on the city of New Orleans. It's early, and for the moment, quiet. I've lived here all my life. It's where I was born and raised. My roots here run deeper than the Mississippi River.
Down on the street below, I watch a couple of birds fight over a piece of trash laying in the gutter. I live in the French Quarter in a small apartment above mine, and Wick's bar, Twisted Throttle on Bourbon Street. We bought the historical building a couple of years after leaving the service. At one point in my life, right after retiring from regular military duty, I felt a little lost. Kind of out of my element — I didn't quite know where I belonged. Being a part of a team infrastructure had been solidified — became a part of how I ran my day to day life. I traveled a lot during my military career. Took on any and every mission I could be a part of. When it came time for me to hang my boots and slow down, I couldn't settle, so I traveled — riding across the country on my Harley. One day, I found myself riding through North Montana, and remembered an old buddy from the service who once mentioned living out that way. That is when I tracked down Jake Delane. I had met him a few times overseas during our years serving our country. After meeting up with him in Polson, he talked about the MC life. I stayed in the service a few years longer than he did, and afterward, we lost touch, but the way he talked about the brotherhood stuck with me. When I found myself struggling with what I wanted to do with my life, I remembered that conversation we had. It wasn't long before I found myself staying in Polson, Montana.
Club life was everything Jake said it would be and everything I wanted to be a part of. Just before I decided to make The Kings of Retribution a permanent part of my life, fate had other plans for me. My grandad fell ill. The most important man in my life needed me, and there was no way in hell, no matter what I wanted in my life at that moment, was I going to let him down. Once my grandad was well and back on his feet again, I knew I needed to stay home and look after him, yet I still wanted what was waiting for me back in Montana. After several phone conversations, Jake proposed starting a second chapter and wanted me to head it up — become the Louisiana chapter's President. Recruiting members became another mission of mine. Before long, I obtained property for a clubhouse, and within two years, we had three members, Wick, my brother Cain, and myself. We had ourselves a couple hang arounds, who, at first, appeared to be decent guys who had the potential to prospect for us. Those men, over time, had to go. They started getting mixed up in bullshit the club needed no part of. I don't tolerate addicts and trying to peddle street drugs under the falsehood that they were protected by the club caused problems, so they were dealt with and never heard from again.
Eventually, Fender, our SGT. At Arms came along. We'd known who he was for some time before he expressed interest in our brotherhood. He moved here from Nashville and made his living playing his guitar and singing at all the local bars and street corners. Kiwi, well, he's the youngest member, mid-twenties. We met him on a Vegas trip. He'd been living out there for a little over a year. Told us he was looking for a change of scenery and asked if he could ride along with the club back to Louisiana. The rest is history; better left told some other day. The club is now twelve strong with two prospects. The chapter may be small, but we have become a prominent fixture in the community.
Hearing my cell phone ring, I turn and walk back inside. Going into my bedroom, I look down at the image of my grandad holding a big ass catfish displayed on the screen. Picking it up, I swipe my thumb across the glass surface, answering his call. "Hey, Pop."
"Son, how's the leg?"
"Nothing worth complainin' about. How'd your doctor appointment go yesterday?" I ask knowing he had his six months check up with the heart specialist.
"Ticker looks good. The pacemaker is doing its job."
I nod. "What are your plans for today?"
"Oh, I think me, and Buck will take ourselves down to the lake and do a little fishing before that storm moves in." Meaning him and his best friend plans on having themselves a few beers and talk about who they hope our local NFL team will pick in the draft this season. "Come by and have an early dinner with me today. The ladies from church sent over enough food to feed a damn army," he laughs. "I have plenty, so why don't you invite the guys as well."
"I can do that."
"Good — good. I'll see you later, then." There's a short pause on the line before he tells me, "love ya, Son. I'm glad you're home."
I clear my throat. "Love you too, Pop," and he disconnects the call.
Abraham LeBlanc. Born right here in Louisiana in 1933. My great grandparents made a living fishing; surviving off the land. My grandad grew up on the waters of the Mississippi River and Louisiana bayous. Same place he raised me and my brother Cain. Life wasn't easy, but he helped shape us into the men we are today. We never lacked for love. Our mom ran off a couple of years after she gave birth to us. Abel and Cain LeBlanc; twin boys born on a Sunday morning to Eve LeBlanc. Not that our mother didn't love us, because, in her own way, I believe she does, but she is a wanderer — a gypsy you could say. It's probably how Cain and I would have grown up as well, living a nomadic lifestyle if it wasn't for our grandparents stepping in. I could not imagine my life any other way than how it turned out. Our grandparents raised us by themselves since we were two years old. Sure, Eve would show up out of the blue from time to time over the years; we always knew who she was to us, but there was never that mother-son connection between us. She gave birth to us, but in the end, that was the only gift she gave my brother and me.
My grandma passed away a little over ten years ago. The strongest woman I knew. It was hard enough she lived in a world she couldn't hear, she also raised two young boys full of piss and vinegar, who were always getting into mischief of some sorts. I chuckle at the memory of my brother, and I covered in mud, and small patches of tobacco stuck all over our bodies after we had gotten the bright idea to destroy a hornet's nest; tearing it apart with our slingshots. How the fuck were we to know the bastards would retaliate against us? Aside from several painful welts left on our bodies, Cain and I were okay. But after she tended to the stings, our grandma felt horrible about the situation for a short time. She couldn't hear what was going on, because she was deaf. From an early age, my brother and I were taught ASL, and we learned to communicate well with her. Our grandmother carried the kind of determination in life that I try to take with me through life. Regardless of the hardships, she faced, she adapted and was always kind hearted toward every person she met.
My grandad, on the other hand, is a stern, hardcore military man. He ran his household with an iron fist, and he is the reason I enlisted right out of high school. While in basic training, I learned about Special Forces training. After three years of service, I decided I wanted to push myself further — become part of an elite force — the best of the best. That is where I found my niche. My purpose; until I became part of The Kings of Retribution family.
Since we don't open the bar until tonight, I decide to head down to the clubhouse. Walking into the bathroom, I flip the switch on the wall and stare at my reflection in the mirror, considering whether to shave my beard. I've never let it grow to this length before. Deciding to keep it as is, I run a comb through it and my hair along with some beard oil. Once dressed, I lace up my boots, throw my cut on, and holster my weapon on my side. Grabbing my phone, I slide it into the inside pocket of my cut and walk out into the living room, pluck my keys off the hook hanging on the wall next to the front door. There are two ways into my apartment — one is from downstairs, on the backside of the bar where the staircase is located. That staircase is connected to a hallway and at the other end is a separate door that leads outside.
Locking the door behind me, I walk around the corner of the building to where my bike is parked in front of the bar — a custom Harley Softail. Straddling my bike, I strap on my helmet, turn the key, and rev the engine a few times to warm her up, before taking off toward the industrial side of town near the river. The sun is rising, but the city never sleeps, so I decided to stop by Pat's, an eclectic doughnut shop one block over. As soon as I walk through the front door, he greets me.
"Riggs," Pat looks over his shoulder as he stands in front of the deep fryer flipping doughnuts over with giant chopsticks. "Haven't seen you in a couple of weeks."
"I've been out of town. How's it going?"
Pat takes the cookie sheet full of hot pastries to the counter, coats them in his signature lemon glaze, before turning to face me. "I can't complain. I'm here another day. That's all any of us can ask for." I nod in agreement. "So," he pulls a box from beneath the counter, "You want the usual two dozen this morning?" he asks.
I sidle up to the counter near the register. "Yeah, and throw in a couple of those apple fritters," I tell him. As he places my order inside the box, I pull my wallet from my back pocket, and pull out some cash, and pay for breakfast. "I'll catch ya later, Pat."
"Stay safe." Pat waves as I walk out the door.
Our clubhouse is a small warehouse right on the river. This part of the industrial parkway is all but abandoned aside from the small paper mill located next door. Stopping at the gate, I punch in the security code and wait for it to slide open. In the distance, I can see my brother's bike sitting out front. When I walk inside, I find him asleep, stretched out on one of the couches downstairs. Setting the box of doughnuts on the bar top, I flip the lid open, pull out an apple fritter, biting into it as I stroll across the room toward the back of the building that was once the breakroom, but we had converted into a small galley kitchen. I find both prospects plus Payton, one of two club girls.
"Hey, Riggs, when did you get back in town?" Payton asks.
