Bad to the Bones(68)

Knoxie sat like this for a long time. Ford cursed and yelled and strutted over to the other corpse on the road. I wondered if maybe he was going to shoot the corpse again, after Riker obviously had. Half that poor Mexican’s face was shot clear away. But I think Ford paced to blow off steam, for lack of anything else to do.

The two daimyo retreated back out of sight, but now a weird thing happened. A few of my former housemates came out.

These were girls I had eaten and slept with for years. There was Sunyade, Gia, and Rhetta. They all came quietly, sort of shuffling in their loose purple clothing. It was a terrible yet thrilling scene. They shambled like zombies, but their faces were alive and curious. I could tell they wanted to help in some way. I had liked each of these women in my former life, and now I lifted my hand to them.

Knoxie cradled his dead brother. He nuzzled his neck like you would a baby, or a dog you loved. “Run free, Ziggy,” I heard him say hoarsely. Turk had taken Ziggy’s hand and was squeezing the hell out of it, just wringing the dead, stiff fingers.

I took a step toward the women and grabbed Rhetta’s hand.

“Asanga,” Rhetta said. “Can we come back with you?”

I looked down at Knoxie, not sure if he had heard her. I knew I’d always have to look to Knoxie for answers. He was so worldly, so experienced in every emotion known to man. I was like a two-dimensional cardboard cutout compared to him. I’d experienced almost nothing. What experiences I’d had, I’d distanced myself from. I wasn’t even sure how to feel any more.

But Knoxie was teaching me how.

“Sure,” he whispered. “Anyone can come with us.”

“Oh thank God,” Gia exhaled all at once, as though she’d been holding her breath.

I knew I could finally stop holding my breath. I kneeled next to my old man and rubbed my nose against the back of his neck. Now I was home.

Home at last.





EPILOGUE




KNOXIE


Six Months Later

When someone loses something important there’s a tendency to draw the others closer around them.

The Bare Bones closed ranks after Ziggy’s murder. They practically went on lockdown, sending a few soldiers into the desert to track down Riker. Knoxie usually went on these runs, now armed with an AR-15. Ziggy might not remember Knoxie from when they were coming up, that was Ford’s reasoning. Knoxie might be incognito. Knoxie was happy to do these runs, although he never turned up the pinche guey former sergeant-at-arms himself, Riker, the epitome of all that was rank, crass, low, and filthy.

That f*cker just had nine lives with his ability to elude his enemies. Riker had somehow figured out that Rafael was working with the DEA, so he’d breezed right past the truck stop where the undercover agents were waiting. He had probably intended to make the delivery and collect his percentage at Bihari, but the arrival of The Bare Bones had put a damper on that. He had made off with the dope to live another day.

Pissed about how Riker had just popped Rafael in the head, execution style, while commandeering the horse truck through Merry-go-round Canyon, Knoxie took out a few of the Presención dealers himself. The Bare Bones worked with the Ochoa cartel, so it was no big deal to hit a few low-level Presención runners, spitters who sold dinky little dime bags, swallowing them if the heat was on. Knoxie didn’t want to think about what had happened to Rafael’s sister, held hostage in Sonora without a pinkie finger.

As predicted, the club started calling Knoxie Rex Havox instead of Flip, much to his relief, even before he was fully patched. He had definitely wreaked a lot of havoc during his time as a Prospect. He was finally utilizing his old SEAL skills and putting them to good use. He even joined Ford in plotting the bombing of a few grow houses, a few stash houses of the Presencións. There had been an epidemic of indoor pot growers since the housing bust, and they were eating into the profit of legitimate farms like Lytton’s Leaves of Grass.

It was this exciting work that kept Knoxie on his toes constantly. It got him out of the clubhouse during the lockdown phase, that winter when it seemed to never stop raining, and people were going stir crazy. But after a while, it seemed that there would be no retaliation from the Presencións, things returned to normal, and plans for the annual fish fry resumed. Knoxie reasoned the Presencións must’ve still thought Knoxie was a member of The Cutlasses.

The fish fry used to be monthly, but they quit holding it last October when everything had gone tits up. It was a huge event held at the airfield where The Citadel was located. The P&E Bare Bones charter was the dominant charter, but brothers came from Phoenix, Flagstaff, and Prescott. Knoxie had never taken part before, and they assigned him the role of emptying trash cans and recycling. He was still a Prospect, like it or not. He was only glad that his loathed brother, Kneecap, was assigned the port-a-pottie detail. That guy seemed to be getting all the shit jobs lately.

Knoxie only needed to make the trash can rounds once an hour or so. He was free to mingle and enjoy the country rock stylings of Clint Cherry, as well as the dark glam rock chords of P&E’s local stars, Bad to The Bones. The maximum metal swagger of Queensr?che, appearing that summer at the Sturgis rally, would arrive tomorrow. Gangs of tasty fender fluff roamed the tents and runways near The Citadel. Knoxie meandered with Speed, who was taking a smoke break from his nonstop mechanic’s duties, caring for a sudden parking lot full of rides in various stages of disrepair. Speed’s old lady Tess was used to him working events such as this, and she was off with other old ladies enjoying the band, so Speed was free to ogle the lovely merchandise.