Page 2 of Joker's Ghost
“If the theme is outlaws, then I don’t understand why we can’t go as ourselves.” Cobra throws back his shoulders. “Can’t get more badass than wearing the Serpents’ cut.”
“Yeah, I tried that angle already.” I pull a face. “It didn’t work.” I jerk my chin to the basement door. “Maybe I’ll channel Bugsy and go as him.”
“As long as you don’t end up like him.” Cobra grimaces. “Fucker got blasted in his own living room right in the eye.”
“Geez, why the fuck did you tell me that?”
Cobra checks his watch again. “Enough fuckin’ around. We gotta meet up with the NNN and make sure they stay far away from our shit.”
I close the flaps on the box. “Tell Daisy this was the only box I found.” I call out to Rattler behind the bar.
Rattler gives me a two-finger salute, and Cobra and I head out the back door. By the time we reach our Harleys, my brain has switched gears.
The Northern Nevada Nomads usually stayed right there in Northern Nevada around the Lake Tahoe area, but lately they’d been spotted in and around Vegas. Then last month, they hijacked one of our gun shipments from Mexico. That paired with gossip about them wanting to expand made Cobra and me take action. We’d worked too hard to secure the shipments from the Royal Bastards in Tijuana to let some rogue nomads stir shit up.
An hour later, we pull into the lot of the Cathouse Ranch on the California border. Supposedly, the Nomads were part-owners of the brothel and chose it as neutral territory far enough outside both Vegas and Tahoe.
We dismount our bikes, and Cobra pulls off his fingerless gloves. “I don’t foresee any trouble. I made our case clear when I talked to Arrow yesterday, but always good to be prepared.”
I pat the .45 in the shoulder holster under my cut. “Agreed.”
We’d both seen how fast meetings could fall to shit with a few wrong words, and we always followed the creed,hope for the best; prepare for the worst.
We approach the sprawling ranch-style building then enter an ornately decorated main room.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” A woman in her forties dressed in a long silk robe motions toward the women in the living room. “I’m Darlene. How can we help you today?”
The women lounging on couches and chairs each strike a different pose, accentuating their assets in the scanty lingerie. I smile picturing Daisy’s face when I retell this story.
“We’re here to see Arrow.” Cobra is all business all the time.
Darlene nods, leads us to the back of the house, then down a hallway.
Cobra leans into me. “I haven’t been in one of these places since I was a teen.”
“I guess this is what you’d call an actual whorehouse.” I stifle a laugh. “Back in New York, you went to a shitty strip club and got it off with some hooker in the back room.”
“We’re more civilized in Nevada,” Cobra deadpans. “We believe in getting our dick wet in comfort.”
“Fuckin’ Wild West.” We stop at the end of the hall. “Gotta love it.”
Darlene opens a door, and we enter a small room with Arrow and two other men sitting at a rectangular table, and an older leather-faced guy standing in the corner.
Arrow stands, greeting us with a nod. We’d met him briefly up in Sturgis last year, but the Nomads usually kept to themselves, which made this current issue unusual.
“Sit.” Arrow indicates the two chairs on the other side of the table.
The Nomads were one of the few outlaw indigenous clubs in the West. They were made up mostly of Shoshone who were natives of Nevada. I respected them because they took care of their own through poker runs, fundraisers and various other less legal means. No doubt, the Native Americans got screwed in history.
“This is Blade, my VP,” Arrow says to the man on his right. “And Stone, my Sergeant-at-Arms.”
We nod our respect, then Cobra says, “I didn’t know the Nomads had a piece of this place.”
“The history goes way back. The property this building stands on was originally Shoshone land all the way up to the late 1800s. While Nevada became a gambling state in the 30s, Clark County outlaws prostitution, so these ranches began popping up on the outskirts. The Nomads saw this as anopportunity and grabbed it. Our Seminole brothers have the Hard Rock, and we have the cat houses.”
Cobra and I exchange a look. “Interesting history.”
“According to folklore, this was a favorite destination for Bugsy Siegel and his associates.”
