Page 438 of Hell Hath No Fury
I spun around to see the rest of the Burning Saints standing with their President at the front of the pack. His patch read, “Cutter.”
“He ain’t goin’ anywhere,” the burly man replied.
“Thanks,” I said with a head nod.
“These guys have been assholes all night, and I don’t like dudes who don’t fight fair,” Cutter said, his accent devoid of any trace of the south. I looked at the front of his cut again and saw the Burning Saints rode out of Portland, Oregon.
“You’re a little far from home, ain’t ya?” I asked with a smile.
“Long story,” Cutter replied.
“Long ride,” I said.
The sound of an approaching guard immediately snapped everyone into “act casual” mode, and I backed away from Ronnie, toward my new-found biker friends. Ronnie scrambled with his one good hand, finally rising to his feet just as the guard reached the cell.
“What the fuck happened to you?” the guard asked Ronnie.
“He slipped and fell,” Cutter said before Ronnie could answer.
“Yeah, the county really needs to fix the leaks in this place,” Zaius added.
“I’ll add that to the suggestion box,” the guard replied before asking, “One of you assholes named Hill?”
Surprised to hear my name I called out, “That’s me.”
“You’ve got a phone call. Come with me.”
The cell was awash with sideways glances and head scratches as I made my way to the door. The guard let me out and cuffed me before leading me down the hall to a small grey room that contained a single chair, and a table with a white phone on it.
“Just pick up the receiver and press the red button. You have three minutes.”
“Who the hell’s calling me?”
“Three minutes,” the guard repeated and slammed the door behind him.
I picked up the receiver and pushed the flashing red ‘hold’ button as instructed.
“Hello?”
“Randal. Listen to me closely and don’t say a goddamned word.”
My heart sank the moment I heard my father’s voice.
“Mr. Bird is on his way to get you out. You sit tight and keep your big mouth shut until he gets there.”
I said nothing.
“You understand me, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied reluctantly, and my father abruptly hung up. Another example of a typical ‘conversation’ with my old man. Anyone else would be more than happy to be getting out of this dump, but I knew the price I’d have to pay for my freedom, starting with a four-hour car ride with our family Lawyer, Mister-fucking-Bird.
I hung up and rapped on the door to let the guard know I was done with my call. He returned moments later, but this time he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by a man that was the embodiment of Georgia law enforcement. He was a tall, barrel-chested man wearing a perfectly starched and pressed sheriff’s uniform complete with stark white cowboy boots and hat.
“How are you doing there, Randal? My name is Sheriff Don Early, and this is my jail.”
“Nice place ya got here, Sheriff.”
“You probably don’t remember me, Randal,” the sheriff said.
