Through A Glass, Darkly (The Assassins of Youth MC #1)(10)
“She turned around and went back inside.”
Fuck! I nearly punched Breakiron for being the bearer of such bad news. She saw me, but made no effort to talk to me? That must’ve been because she’d overheard me declaring my undying love to poor Chelsea! Why this struck such a lance of despair through my chest, I had no idea. Maybe because I’d been busted being a f*cking sap, leaving a lovelorn message for a girl I could never have. A girl, as far as I knew, who didn’t even want me. “How far away was she? How far was she standing?”
Breakiron shrugged his stupid shoulders. “I dunno. About here to that front door.”
We went in the front door, my mood soured with Breakiron’s stupid news. The place was dark, the decades’ worth of sandstone dust on the front windows not helping any. Stale smoke clung to the walls and three guys were playing pool at the only table in the back, eerily lit like a spaceship landing by an overhead Harley Davidson sign.
I could tell Breakiron was thinking the same thing I was—and believe you me, the idea we were thinking the same thing was depressing. But those three guys wearing leather vests were just riding club members, not one percenters like we were. One guy had a patch on his back that said “Motor Psycho.” Another patch on another guy said, “Take It Out and Play with It” over a picture of a bike. As outlaws, Breakiron and I knew we wouldn’t be caught dead with patches like that. I was glad I’d worn my cut today. I hadn’t worn it inside the gates of Cornucopia, for obvious reasons. No point in advertising the transaction.
We sat our asses down on barstools as if we owned the place. The bartender looked like the epitome of an old miner, with a long gray beard. He even wore suspenders. We ordered Buds, because that was the only thing on tap, although it tasted like the piss of a scared rabbit.
Breakiron wandered off to the jukebox and I had no choice but to catch the eye of the only other guy sitting at the bar. Shit. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, not catch the eye of some slick coozemonkey. As if I was trolling for some guy who looked like a newscaster with a bad comb over.
But shit, I’d caught his stupid eye, and he brought his stupid drink over. He’d been smart enough to order hard liquor, and I could smell the brown liquid as he bashed it onto the bar.
“Afternoon!” he said brightly. He even had the voice of an announcer, slick and gravelly at the same time, like sandpaper on olive oil. He chuckled as he sat. “You on that Toys for Tots run, same as them?”
I looked over at the riding club guys. Our club did charity runs once in a while, but not many companies wanted us supporting them. So we wound up donating anonymously to things like breast cancer, child abuse, Puppies Behind Bars, issues that directly affected our club. I had to chuckle that this yahoo didn’t notice the rockers on my cut. “No. Not even remotely the same. You live here?” I did want to know more about Avalanche if I was going to be stuck here.
He laughed. “Not even remotely. I’m from Salt Lake. Trying to sell my line of appliances to these Cornucopia gents, but they just don’t seem interested.”
“I told you,” blared the bartender, louder than was necessary, since Breakiron hadn’t selected a song yet, “they’ve already got all their ducks in a row. They don’t need no more damned refrigerators.”
My new friend chuckled hollowly. “Come on! Who doesn’t need a new state of the art line of microwaves and dishwashers?”
“They don’t,” hollered the old miner. “I told you. They’ve got every supplier and vendor they need. How do you think they run everything so tiptop and shipshape? They don’t need no outsiders selling them junk.”
“And I told you, my fridges are not junk. They’re top of the line, high-tech A1 grade appliances.” The salesman was irritated with the bartender. I could tell they’d gone a few rounds together already. He turned to me, literally giving the barkeep the cold shoulder. “Nice to meet someone new. Bronson Carradine, at your service.” He held out his hand, and I had no choice but to shake it.
The bartender mumbled, “A made-up name if I ever heard one…” before moving down the bar to another pointless task.
The name did sound made-up, but I didn’t want to agree with the old miner. I’d drunk too much already to give much of a shit. I gave my real name. “So you’re gonna keep going into the compound? Those guys are a hard sell. I had to go in there yesterday.”
“Oh yeah? Selling something?”
“Exactly. Man, they do not mess around. They are serious as taxes.”
“Really. You’re not kidding. What’s it like in there?”
So I told him a bit. I mean, it wasn’t top secret or anything. Obviously delivery people had to go inside the compound, people like meter readers, repairmen, people meeting with Allred. So I told the guy. He seemed harmless enough. Aside from the usual interest in plural wives, he seemed really interested in the bookmaking operation.
“Is it a big building? Does it have any windows? Reason I ask is, sometimes sun can degrade paper.”
It was an odd question, but I saw no harm in answering it. “Now that you bring it up, it didn’t have any windows. My associate here would know.”
Breakiron had finally settled on punching the Allman Brothers, “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed.” It’s a great old biker instrumental, and of course he was leaning back playing air guitar in the vicinity of his penis. His eyes were closed in orgasmic happiness as he played, and he leaped to attention when I yelled,