“It’s about fucking time you got here,” Tyrone grumbled at the younger black man who’d just walked into the liquor store. “I been waitin’ for hours, you lazy bitch.”
“Shut the fuck up,” the younger man mocked, and smirked at him. “It ain’t like you got somewhere you gotta be, you old motherfucker. Fuckin’ bingo parlor is closed this time of night.”
Tyrone walked over to the cooler, and took out a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor. Then he slipped it into a brown paper bag and flipped off the cashier. The bitter liquid coursed down his throat as he took a long pull. He savored the flavor, then drank again. “Fuck you!” he snapped, heading for the door. “I ain’t goin’ to the bingo place…I’m going to fuck your momma, boy. She loves what Tyrone’s got.”
The boy shook his head in weary exasperation as the old drunk disappeared into the darkness.
Tyrone tipped his bottle regularly, and relished the strong dark malt liquor as he staggered along. He’d needed a drink. Even though he’d sworn to Jingles that he was off the stuff, it felt good to drink again. He felt like a man again…and he could drink whatever the fuck he wanted to drink.
Fuck Jingles, he thought disgustedly. I taught that boy everything. I earned the right to drink whenever the fuck I want.
The boy’s father had been his best friend, and Tyrone had been a constant presence in Jingles’ life. When he’d been killed in a drive-by shooting, Tyrone had tried his best to fill the void in Jingles’ life.
He don’t care about me or our fuckin’ history together. Motherfucker! The only job he’s got for me is workin’ in that nasty-ass fuckin’ liquor store. I can’t even drink!
He remembered Jingles making him swear to stay off the sauce. The memory still burned like acid. Like I’m a motherfuckin’ child or something.
He’d managed to stay sober for the last six months…but that white bitch had pissed him off. Embarrassed him, too. She’d dismissed and disrespected him. It was her fuckin’ fault he’d started drinking. He conveniently forgot that he’d been nipping at the bottle all morning before she’d arrived. After that angry encounter, though, he’d opened a large bottle of bourbon, and had taken regular snorts of it all afternoon.
Little bitch needs a lesson, he thought heatedly. And I’m just the man to give it to her.
He’d replayed that conversation in his mind all afternoon, but each time he’d changed the ending, trying to erase the gaping wound of embarrassment. In his revised versions, he’d taken the sexy snow-bunny into the back room and taught her a lesson. He’d made her his own personal bitch. When he was done with her, she wouldn’t want to leave, wouldn’t want another man, because Tyrone had all she needed. He was the fuckin’ man, and he’d make sure she saw him that way.
Just like the old days, he thought drunkenly. Fucked me a lot of white bitches back then. Kept most of them in my stable, too.
A sodden smile curved his lips as he thought about meeting her again. It would go differently next time. The little honey wouldn’t disrespect him again, he’d make sure of that, and he’d also make sure she took care of his needs. Maybe he’d even turn the sweet little white girl out, charge for her services, and make him some money.
Great fuckin’ idea.
Jingles would see that he could make smart decisions, and he’d move him up in his organization. He nodded happily to himself, and finished the bottle of malt liquor. Shit went quick, he thought, and dropped the bottle in the street.
He staggered over to his apartment, and fumbled with his keys until he finally got the door open. He’d left a lamp on, and it provided just enough light for him to stumble to the couch, where he flopped down with a heavy sigh. The room abruptly started to spin, and he sat up to avoid puking. That was when he noticed the person sitting in his easy chair.
“What the fuck?” he gasped, and then squinted to focus his vision. “Jingles?”
No answer. He swallowed carefully. “Jingles, what’s up, man? You need something?”
Fear. Cold, raw fear washed through him, and he sat up straighter. Jingles sat, unmoving, in the shadows, so he couldn’t see his face.
Tyrone started to babble. “Whatever the problem is, Jingles, I can fix it. Just give me the chance,” he said frantically. “You. You and me. We go back, Jingles. We got history. Whatever this is, we can work it out.”
Jingles started to rock slowly in the easy chair, which creaked loudly each time he leaned forward. Silence in the room grew thick, heavy, and the creaking only made it worse. Every harsh creak scratched at Tyrone’s nerves. Sweat broke out all over his body as he watched Jingles rock in his easy chair.
“I’m sorry, Jingles. I’m sorry,” he finally moaned. His shoulders trembled as he began to sob, and his head fell in abject submission. Whatever courage the liquor had given him completely vanished as the chair continued to creak, creak, creak. “I know I let you down,” he sniffed, and wiped tears from his rheumy eyes. “It’s not my fault, though! See, there was this white bitch, and she disrespected me, man!” he explained urgently, finally daring to look at the younger man. “It wasn’t right!”
Finally, mercifully, the creaking stopped, and Jingles rose to his feet. “I know,” he said quietly. “I already heard. Listen, I brought you something. You been doing good, and I think you deserve a reward.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about the white bitch. I’ll let you have her the next time she makes a delivery.”
Jingles’ heart ached as he stared down at his surrogate father. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he hated to see the man he’d idolized as a child broken this way. Tyrone had been a proud man in his prime, and he’d done fairly well running drugs and women. But then the booze and the women had gotten the best of him, and he’d done a lengthy stint in prison. He hadn’t been the same man after he’d been released on parole, and no one would help him. When Jingles had finally found him, he’d been living in a homeless shelter, fighting over socks and a small bowl of soup. He’d hardly recognized the broken man he’d once adored.
“I brought the good stuff, Tyrone. Here you go, your favorite,” he said softly, and lifted a bottle of high-quality Scotch. It was the same brand he’d drunk when he was a younger, better man. Those rare times Jingles drank, he chose that brand out of respect for Tyrone.
“Remember this?” he smiled. “Thought you’d like a taste of the good ol’ days.”
Tyrone’s eyes widened, and he slowly smiled as he recognized that beautiful label with its classy colors. It held so many sweet memories for him! He’d been a man when he’d drunk it. Eagerly he cradled the bottle tightly against his body. His hands were shaking so hard that he could barely open the cap.
He never noticed that the seal was already broken.
Jingles settled back down in the easy chair, and motioned for him to enjoy himself. “Well, go on. You can drink it,” he urged. “I gotta make some calls, though, so keep it the fuck down.”
“Sure. Sure thing, Jingles!” Tyrone vigorously nodded, and took a short pull from the bottle. The Scotch burned its way down his throat. He grimaced, took a few quick breaths, and then drank more deeply. The familiar taste and burn brought back memories of good times, and a sweeter life.
His mind wandered back as he leaned heavily against the cushions and studied the label. Reminds me of…what was her name?
A beautiful face swam before his dilated eyes. He couldn’t remember her name, but he could never forget her face. He’d wanted to marry her before he’d gone to prison. And she’d loved him, too; he remembered that so vividly.
Suddenly his chest felt heavy, and he took a deep ragged breath. Cautiously he sat up straighter, and took another long drink. The Scotch didn’t burn as much now, and it tasted wonderful.
The room wavered, and he blinked several times. Must be stronger than I remember. But it’s still damned good.
It was getting harder to breathe; he couldn’t seem to get enough air in his lungs. Little sparkles danced before his eyes as his vision clouded. Jingles was saying something, but he couldn’t make out the words. He sagged down onto the couch and smiled weakly at his foster son. The only son he’d ever had.
“I tried to help you, Tyrone,” Jingles murmured. “I gave you a job and money, and tried to look out for you. All I asked was that you respect my business, and lay off the fucking booze.” His eyes were sad in the dim light. “I’m sorry, but it’s better this way.”
The dizziness got worse, and Tyrone’s limbs grew heavy. He heard a distant clinking noise, and realized he’d dropped his bottle of Scotch. He tried to reach for it, but couldn’t lift his arms…couldn’t move at all. A tingling sensation grew in his arms and legs, and soon he felt himself floating, light as a feather.
He saw the beautiful woman he’d planned to marry in the distance. She smiled lovingly, and spread her arms wide. He smiled back, and moved toward her.
Tyra, he thought happily. Her name was Tyra.
Jingles sat in the easy chair, and watched his surrogate father slowly suffocate. He’d never reached for his phone, but Tyrone hadn’t noticed; he’d been totally focused on the booze.
The Scotch had been laced with drugs that had relaxed him, and shut down his nervous system. It was a small consolation that he’d seen Tyrone smile just before his lungs had stopped moving.
He waited a while longer, then got up and checked Tyrone’s pulse. Then he picked up the bottle of Scotch, dumped the rest of it down the sink, wiped his fingerprints off it, and placed it back in the old man’s limp hands. Any police investigation was highly unlikely, but he didn’t take chances. He’d had to deal with Tyrone himself.
Business comes first. He taught me that.
His behavior today had been totally unacceptable, and Jingles had known it would only get worse. His security goons had called to warn him that the old man was drinking again…and when Crystal had mentioned it, too, he’d known he had a problem that needed fixing. Their shared history had demanded that he handle it personally. He’d brought Tyrone into his organization; if anyone else had handled him, it would have made Jingles look soft and weak. That would have created a whole new set of problems.
Wearily he walked into Tyrone’s bedroom, and stared down at the picture on his nightstand. The silver frame was tarnished with age, and the picture inside was so old that it had been taken with actual film. The younger version of himself was sitting on Tyrone’s lap, holding a big stuffed killer whale. Tyrone’s arm was around him, and they were both grinning into the camera. Tyrone’s girlfriend, Tyra, had taken the photo. She’d died of a drug overdose shortly after he’d gone to prison.
That was a really good day.
He stared at the picture, remembering that day and the good man who’d done his best to raise him. Eventually he picked it up, and slid it in his pocket. Then he left without a backward glance.
After he was safely back in his Range Rover and some distance from the apartment building, he dialed a number on his cell. Shane answered immediately. “Glad you called. What the fuck?”
He’d known Shane would already know what had happened to Crystal; he paid attention to business. They’d looked out for each other in prison, and his word was always good. It was one of the reasons Jingles liked him.
“It’s been taken care of, Shane. Won’t happen again.”
Shane was silent for a few moments, then replied, “Good.” He didn’t ask for details. “Nice doing business with you, Jingles.”
“Same here. Listen,” he added before the biker could hang up, “I got an idea how we can do more business with each other. It’s a win-win, and I think you’ll like it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. You in town? Can you meet me in a few minutes? Don’t want to discuss this on the phone.”
“Where?”
He gave Shane an address and a time. It would be just the two of them, which was a break from protocol…but they trusted each other, and this was important enough to set protocol aside for a bit.
He arrived first, and surveyed the area. It looked safe, so he went inside and found a seat. Shane entered a few minutes later, and took the adjoining chair.
“A coin-operated laundry?” he grinned. “Seriously?”
Jingles lifted one shoulder in a laughing shrug. “Hey, it’s open twenty-four hours, public, with glass windows so we can see the parking lot, and the noise from the washers and dryers makes it tough for anyone to eavesdrop. Besides,” he added with a little smirk, “I own it.”
Shane looked impressed. “Good old Jingles. Always thinking ahead.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” he smirked. “You were thinking the same thing.”
“Maybe,” Shane allowed.
“That’s what made you so dangerous in the joint,” Jingles continued with a reminiscent smile. “The guys inside always thought you were some dumbass trailer park cracker who was barely smart enough to ride a bike. They always underestimated you.”
“Underestimated us both,” Shane agreed. “They thought you were a skinny black man who could barely count.”
The two men shared a brief laugh. They’d been a good team, despite playing for different sides, and they’d bonded in prison.
“So what did you want to talk about?” Shane finally asked.
“I met your mule today,” he admitted, then raised both hands when Shane looked at him sharply. “I just said hi, buddy. That’s it.”
“Good. I need her.”
Jingles looked closely at him. “Put the hook in her?”
“Only been a little while.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
“It makes them reliable,” Shane added after a minute. “I need reliable right now.”
“Reliable at first, anyway.”
He shrugged. “It’s not a long-term thing. You know that.”
“It could be, if you’re smart about it.”
That made the biker swivel in his chair and eye his former cellmate with interest. “What do you mean?”
Cautiously Jingles scanned the room, then turned back. “Look here, man. You got your mules, and you got the hook in ’em. That method works, and I use it, too…but eventually they ain’t gonna be reliable enough to make deliveries. Too dependent on the junk. Too much risk to both our organizations. Know what I’m saying?”
He knew exactly what Jingles was getting at. “Like I said, it’s not a long-term thing,” he repeated quietly. “I expect them to quit at some point.”
Jingles hated pointing out the obvious, but it needed to be done. “Yeah, but they’re still a risk to your club. I mean, what happens if one of them gets clean, or finds religion, or gets busted? You and your club could find yourselves in court or, worse, in another jail cell.”
“I’ve taken precautions,” Shane said patiently.
“Yeah, I know you have,” Jingles nodded. “You’re careful, and you think things all the way through. But I got a better solution.”
“Finally,” Shane exclaimed, rolling his eyes. “Out with it already.”
“Sell them to me.” Jingles’ expression was serious. “I’ll take them off your hands, and I guarantee they’ll never be a threat to your organization in the future.”
“Is that right?” Despite the fact that he knew the black man was trustworthy, he couldn’t help sneering just a little. “For argument’s sake, say I’m interested. How could you guarantee they wouldn’t be a risk? You gonna babysit them?”
“In a way,” Jingles conceded very quietly. “Listen, I have another side of my business where these girls could be put to good use. It’s extremely profitable, and I’ll take care of any disposals.”
“You’re interested in them even if they’re hooked?”
“Especially if they’re hooked,” he clarified. “Why do you think I asked about putting the hook in them? You know as well as I do that it makes the bitches easier to control. Apart from kids, drugs are the best way to manipulate a woman.”
Silently Shane considered his offer. It would definitely solve his biggest problem, because Jingles was right—sooner or later the girls would be too hooked on Meth to be useful, and they’d become a security risk. Meth always took over. No exceptions. And since the club wanted to avoid simply murdering them, they were a loose end he hadn’t figured out how to tie off yet. This would be both painless and profitable.
“How much?”
“Depends on what they look like, and how fucked up they are,” Jingles replied. “If they’re too far gone, they won’t be worth much. I’ll take them off your hands for you because I got customers who will still put ’em to work, but I won’t pay much.”
That made sense. “Ball park?”
Jingles hid his satisfaction behind a casual smile. “Well, let’s take the mule I met this afternoon. If you were interested in selling her today, I’d go as high as $50k, cash on delivery. Man, she just looks like a walking, talking good time.”
“Wow!” Shane blinked. “Fifty thousand? That must be a profitable side business you got going.”
“I’m not going that high on every one,” Jingles warned him. “Crystal’s an exception, and she looks great now…but after a few years of using Meth, she won’t be worth as much. Get what I’m saying? It’s in both of our interests to manage her carefully.”
Shane soberly nodded, then leaned closer. “Talk to me about the disposal.”
The black ex-con studied him intently. Shane could be hard as granite when the situation called for it, but not even most of his own people knew those details.
Finally he murmured, “The girls I buy from you will either work for me, or I’ll sell them to buyers overseas. If they work for me, we’ll send them to various cities around the country, and we’ll keep them moving from place to place. In most cases, they’ll start by working with higher-end clients…but eventually we’ll move them to the street. They won’t stay in one place for long, for a variety of reasons, and we’ll manage their drug use as much as possible.
“Sooner or later,” he admitted, glancing at Shane, “they reach a point where their expenses outweigh their income. When that happens, we sell them to organizations in other countries, and those girls never return. It’s one of our stipulations. If a girl is too hooked on drugs to work in the States,” he added, cautiously glancing around again, “we move them directly to Mexico or overseas. Less profit that way, but I still make money, and the girls still disappear.
“Once in a while, a girl like Crystal comes along, and my overseas clients will buy her immediately. It doesn’t happen very often,” he conceded, leaning back on the bench. “But when it does, the chick brings a really high price.”
Shane softly whistled. “And once they’re out of the country?”
Jingles’ eyes hardened. “You don’t want to know,” he said firmly.
White slavery. Brutal and ugly, but efficient…and a good option for the club, Shane thought dispassionately. Eliminating the mules’ security risk was more important than the money, and he knew Lobo would approve it. But they’d have to keep it just between themselves. Many of the club members—especially the married ones with daughters—wouldn’t accept that kind of option.
Hell, Crystal basically saved little Alyssa. Neither of her parents would allow her to be sold into slavery.
Finally he stood, and looked impassively down at Jingles. “I’ll talk to my boss, but I’m sure he’ll approve it.”
“Glad to hear it,” Jingles nodded, then canted his head to one side. “Can we talk about the snow-bunny I met today?”
“I need her, dude. You can’t have her,” Shane said crisply. “She needs to continue working for me for the foreseeable future.”
“That’s fine,” Jingles assured him, spreading his hands in a wide placating gesture. “I was just going to ask if I can have that sexy blonde honey dance at my club. It won’t interfere with our main business, and I’d like to get her comfortable working for me. It’ll make things easier down the line.”
Shane considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. I’m her source, though, so don’t give her anything. As you said, we need to manage her carefully.”
Jingles nodded emphatically. “Agreed. Business first.”
“She’s married,” Shane suddenly interjected. “I don’t know how that works with your system, but you need to know that up-front.”
The black man casually waved his hand. “Don’t worry about it. When the time comes, my organization will handle it, and there won’t be any blowback to your club.”
That was a relief. “Okay. You can see if she’ll dance at your club…but if she doesn’t want to, just leave her alone, okay? Don’t pressure her. She’ll keep making deliveries, and we’ll see how things go.”
He fell silent again. Jingles could tell something else was on his mind, and patiently waited. Finally he asked, “How soon could we get this arrangement working?”
“Anytime. Just tell me when and where I can pick up the girl, and we’re all good,” Jingles soberly replied. “The handoff works best if she’s unconscious, but it can work if she’s just fucked-up, too.”
When Shane headed outside, started his Harley, and waved farewell to Jingles, he felt like he needed a shower.
White slavery, Jesus!
But he’d known what he was getting into when he’d returned to the club. It was business, and the club came first.
No exceptions.
Still he frowned as the conversation replayed itself in his mind. If Crystal was at risk, Raven could be, too. He’d never be comfortable with her dancing again, not if they were going to get serious with each other. No fuckin’ way.
When he reached a friendly biker bar, he headed inside and greeted the other bikers. It didn’t matter that they belonged to another club; they were allies, and he was safe here. He grabbed a beer at the bar, then called Rowdy.
“What’s up?” the younger biker answered, sounding sleepy.
“You get a new phone?”
“Damned straight, picked it up this morning,” Rowdy affirmed. “I’ll start using it tomorrow. You?”
Satisfied that his best friend was following protocol, he smiled. “Ditto.” Then, “We still got that issue with the new mule?”
“Yeah,” Rowdy admitted, sounding more awake. “I tried talking to her today, but she’s not listening. The bitch won’t lay off the Meth, and she’s going through it pretty fucking fast. I figure she’ll start seriously tweaking within the month.”
Shane cursed. “How often is she using?”
“Daily,” Rowdy complained. “She’s been asking to use it more than once a day, but I’ve been holding her off.”
“She look fucked up?”
“Honestly, no.” He sounded a little surprised by that. “She’s new to Meth, and only started using it a few months ago, but she fell hard and fast. She’s lost a little weight, and she could use some sleep, but otherwise she’s still freakin’ hot. It won’t be long, though, before she’s uncontrollable.”
“Family, friends?”
“Parents, but they split up,” he replied. “One lives in Florida, the other in California, and she followed her boyfriend to Texas. They broke up over a year ago, and she’s been dancing ever since. She’s friendly with a few dancers, but not so friendly that she’d be missed.” Then he fell silent for a moment. “We covered this earlier, dude. What’s up?”
“I know we did, but I met with Jingles today, and things have changed.”
“What? Alone? You met with Jingles alone?” Rowdy’s voice deepened with stunned anger.
“It’s cool,” Shane soothed him. “I trust him. Anyway, I think I found a way to deal with our mules once they’ve outlived their usefulness to the club. Just keep an eye on her, will you?”
Rowdy’s answering laugh had a harsh bite to it. “Where do you think I’m staying? The Meth makes her crazy, and she’s a fucking slut in the bedroom.”
Normally Shane would have laughed, but not tonight…not after his conversation with Jingles.
“Thanks.” He terminated the phone call, took a long sip of his beer, and stared off into space for several minutes. Then he punched in another number.
“Hey, baby!” Raven purred in his ear.
“Hey. How’s it going?”
“Good, but I’m lonely. Can you come over, and keep me company?”
“You didn’t have to work tonight?”
She yawned, then admitted, “No. I’ve been taking it easy lately. I called Joe and told him I was going to take a break, so I haven’t danced in a few weeks.”
“I’d like to see you.”
Her voice dropped another seductive note. “Then get over here.”
“I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“I can’t wait!”
Rising, he terminated the call, then chucked the phone in the open trashcan behind the bar. He slapped a twenty on the bar, nodded to the bartender, and then headed back outside.