Chapter 6

Chain of Command

I’m sitting here across the room from MadBlack, who’s lazily smoking a Cuban cigar while he stares at me. Very uncomfortable scene here. Too early for a party, no ho’s to distract him and he didn’t feel like watching the TV. It’s dead silent in here except for some thumping Atlanta house music that’s turned down real low to set the vibe he likes. He’s sprawled out on that black leather sofa in the front room, wearing his San Jose Sharks hockey jersey, black jeans and a size 16 pair of tan Lugz. The lighting’s dim in here because the man just finished a hash pipe I loaded for him, then asked me to dim the room. Me, I’m nursing a tallboy can of Natty Ice to chill my nerves a bit for this conversation.

“Me and Philly talked to the Knuckleheads for you like you asked us to,” I offer and since he doesn’t respond I continue. “Met ‘em at the Brass Jaw, up in Windale.”

He nods and blows a perfect smoke ring. I envy how well he does that shit.

“Two dudes,” I hope the fucker isn’t so stoned that he’s not listening to me. “Red-bearded cracker called Uncle Fritz and the other one, the one in charge of shit, named Kobra. Like the snake, you know?”

“I don’t like snakes,” his gray eyes fix on mine. “Got snake-bit one time. Cottonmouth. Hurt like a motherfucker.”

“Damn,” I have no idea how this is relevant. “You don’t let nothin’ get you down tho, huh? You came back. Now these Knuckleheads say what happened down at Benton was pure accident. They didn’t know Benton is Kingfin turf.”

The man irritates me with this not talking thing, he just nods. I take a chug of my beer to avoid scowling.

“Apparently, these Saxon fuckers are tight. Knuckleheads are in with the Seabeards down in Long Beach,” I fish out a cigarette and buy some time by lighting it. “Some dude in their crew down there, Darkhorse his name is, he wants to use Benton for a while. Paid us to keep the dealers outta the park while they work.”

“Work on what?” MadBlack is apparently not stoned enough for tough questions. Damn.

“Digging for something,” I hate being in this room right now, it could get ugly. “Philly thinks it’s probably bones of one of their homeboys or some shit like that.”

“They didn’t tell you?” MadBlack loves those direct questions.

“Not exactly,” I produce the envelope and toss it on the sofa beside him. “But they did pay us ten g’s for 17 hours. They said they might need more time, but I told ‘em that’s entirely up to your discretion because you’re the decision maker for Doyle Heights Kingfins.”

“Damn straight,” he drawls this, going Southern on me. “Ma’fukkin’ Knuckleheads come up in here knockin’ our dealers around. They pay us for apologies and that’s two thousand right there. Not so bad for just a day.”

“I tried to figure it so we’d have a profit, Mad,” I tell him, hoping to head any potential aggression off because I don’t want him getting angry on me. “Tribute, right? They said they probably won’t need the whole time they paid for and we can keep the change. I figure we made out good.”

“Yeah,” he’s staring at me from a million mental miles away. “Yeah. We made out good. That’s good work, Percy. Real good. You alright, maine. Fine good work. Just make sure they don’t go over-staying our generosity. They do that, then we have to remind ‘em who’s running these streets. Kingfins, fuck the rest.”

“Hell yeah,” thank god he didn’t pitch a bitch. “We’ll ride on ‘em and wipe ‘em out. Saxons ain’t established in Seattle, this is small time shit. They give us even so much as a tiny issue and I’ll enforce law on ‘em. I got you.”

“Put me some Friday on,” he drawls, blowing out a dragon’s lung worth of Cuban smoke, “See my nigga Ice Cube.”

“No problem.”

Damn am I glad this is over.

Author note: Chapter 7 will go up November 25th.

Chapter 5

Sit Down at the Brass Jaw

Windale is located in a section of the city that’s mainly blue-collar neighborhoods. Lots of factories, mills and that sort of thing. Grimy and rusty, lots of sorry looking houses with peeling paint and potholes in the streets. The place is neglected, probably crawling with addicts of various stripes. There are a few gangs from Windale, but none of them have managed to earn themselves much notoriety as far as I know. The Brass Jaw sits between a closed shoe repair shop with busted windows that are all boarded up, and a hardware store that doesn’t appear to be doing much business today. The sign says this bar’s been in business since 1962.

Stepping inside, Philly and I survey the place. Grubby drinkers are already lined up at the bar, talking loudly. No one turns to watch us come in, but clearly we’re not their average customers. Barely any lighting in here to speak of. The inside reeks of sweat, booze and smoke. Whoever decorated this place must’ve thought Seattle was located in Alabama, not Washington, because there are stuffed and mounted animal heads everywhere you look. A cheap TV is playing ESPN above one end of the bar. From the looks of him, the bartender is also the bouncer. A hulk of a man with a shaved head and a thick mustache like they had on gunslingers in old cowboy movies. Though neither of us show it, I’m sure Philly gets a shiver down his spine, too. A place like this holds no attraction for us.

Philly spots the Knuckleheads we came to chat with. Two great big men dwarfing a table in the back corner of this dimly lit shithole. He leads the way and I’m only a few steps behind him. Drawing closer, I get a good look at who we’ve been sent to negotiate with. There’s the one with the eye patch, that Oxy told us about, called Uncle Fritz. A massive spray of orange-red beard sprouts from his cheeks and chin; his golden mane of hair has been pulled back into a tight ponytail that runs far down his back. His one laser blue eye trains on me, creeping me out. He’s got the ruddy face of a chronic consumer of hard liquor and judging by the belly on this man, I’d say he’s okay with beer, too. That being said, he’s taken off his black leather jacket to reveal a massive stretch of intricate tattooing that covers arms damn near the width of my thighs. He lifts one side of his upper lip in what is either a smirk or a snarl before casting a glance at his partner. That guy has a bit more style. He’s cupping a mug of beer between two heavily inked hands, rings ranging from sapphires to silver skulls crowding each of his fingers. I’m really not interested in seeing his face as I scan up, taking in the art on his arms. Maybe he doesn’t have quite the bulk of Uncle Fritz, but his body’s got a rangy kind of musculature and his posture gives me the impression that this dude takes zero shit. He’s clean shaven with dark brown hair falling down over his shoulders from underneath his gray beanie. I find it odd that he’s wearing shades in a dark place like this.

“Well what do you know?” Uncle Fritz cries out in a hoarse, booming dialect that’s surely Southern. “You boys must be with that fish gang, right?”

Philly stays quiet, but I can see him tense. He’s clenching his fists, too.

“Gentleman,” I give each of them a nod. “I’m Percy Straight and this is my associate, Philly Mako. You wanted to speak with us?”

This causes Uncle Fritz to chuckle heartily before sucking a mouthful of beer from his mug. It strikes me that he’d have made a good Hells Angel. Or maybe a modern Viking.

The thinner guy gestures towards the two empty chairs with a smile that shows surprisingly white teeth, “Good to see you. I’m Kobra and this is Uncle Fritz. Sit down with us?”

Philly looks to me and I nod, pulling out a chair I can slide down into. I don’t expect this to take too long so I keep my coat on.

“You’re with the KSM?” Kobra asks, leaning back in his chair, “Doyle Heights crew, right?”

“Straight up,” I tell him, watching my reflection in his sunglasses. “Kingfins are who we represent. Our organization controls the streets of Doyle Heights. All business goes through us under approval of our leader, MadBlack.”

Kobra’s got on a black t-shirt with some strange design. After a few minutes of staring, I realize it’s a word. Aargota? There are wings coming off either side of the logo. Probably some German thing or other.

“I see,” Kobra’s measuring his words carefully. “We didn’t realize that when we showed up there last night. We thought those dealers were unaffiliated.”

“If it goes down in Doyle Heights, we get our cut,” I can tell this guy’s slick so I don’t mince my words. “Doesn’t matter what kind of enterprise it is, we get ours. Big mistake to try shaking our assets down.”

“Now wait just a goddamn minute-” Uncle Fritz’s one eye narrows at me, but Kobra raises a hand to silence him.

“Understandable,” he takes a sip of his half-finished beer. “We’re not looking to start any problems with your assets, as you call them, or you. That’s why, once we realized our mistake, we called you here to hammer things out over drinks. I already paid Mercer, the bartender,” he points to the bald giant wiping down the bar, “So your drinks are on us today as a sign of good will.”

Philly cuts his eyes over to me. I can tell he’s thirsty for free booze. Drinking during negotiations seems unusual, but MadBlack wants us to resolve this peaceably so I’ve got to avoid offending them if at all possible.

“Hey Philly,” I tell him, “Get us a pitcher of Pabst Blue Ribbon if they got it.”

“No problem, boss,” he plays his role calmly so as not to appear overeager.

“Good choice,” Uncle Fritz grins at us, making his cheeks rise and causing that eye patch to buckle a little. “Working class beer. You guys got decent tastes.”

“Peanuts?” Kobra asks, pushing a bowl of them across the table towards me.

“No, thanks. Just had lunch.”

He notices me staring at the logo on his shirt.

“Vargotah,” he says, “German metal. Heard of them?”

I shake my head, “Can’t say that I have,” or that I want to, “They any good?”

“I enjoy their sound,” Kobra pops a few peanuts into his mouth, chews for a while. “Metal’s probably not your sound, huh?”

“Not so much. I’m more into hip hop.”

Uncle Fritz snorts and rolls his exposed eye.

“To each their own, I say,” Kobra’s smiling but if I could see behind those shades of his I have a feeling his gaze would be disapproving. “So, shall we get down to business or wait for your friend to get back?”

I look over to the bar and see Philly bringing back a pitcher of beer in one hand, two mugs in the other.

“Might as well start talking,” I tell him, “He’s not calling the shots anyways.”

I can’t be sure, but it sounds like Uncle Fritz just muttered ‘thank god’ into his beer before he downed it. Dude’s got a bad attitude.

“Alright,” Kobra’s watching Philly set the pitcher on the table, “As you probably know, we’re with the Diamondknuckle Saxons. Unlike your ‘organization’, as you put it, we don’t have territories or do much business on the streets. I’m sure you know about what we do so I won’t go into that.”

Philly pours our beers and I nod for Kobra to continue as I take my first sip, hating the froth. I wonder how clean mugs in a place this poorly maintained can possibly be.

“Our chapter is only one in a network that stretches across the United States and Europe called Teutonic Knights,” Kobra pauses for a slight second before continuing, clearly aiming for a dramatic flair. “Saxons are simply a branch on a large and mighty oak, if you see what I mean?”

“You got connections, right,” I can’t help hiding the fact that I’m not real impressed. “We know all about you guys, don’t worry.”

Kobra laughs in a way that’s unmistakably arrogant.

“I’m sure you do,” his tone narrowly avoids mockery. “I just wanted to be clear on who you’re dealing with.”

“If that’s a threat,” my voice becomes icy, “It’s not working. We’re here to negotiate out of respect so there’s no need to get carried away talking yourselves up.”

Uncle Fritz exhales loudly and shakes his head to show his exasperation. An urge to pimp slap him wells up within me. I resist, turning my attention towards Kobra who is fishing a Marlboro out of a hard pack that’s been lying on the table. He offers the pack first to me and then to Philly. We each take one. Kobra offers us his butane lighter and damn if it’s not a heavy one. On it is engraved a skull with emerald eyes and two machine guns crossed behind it. Below the image there’s the inscription, ‘Tod ist nichts, Ruhm ist für immer.’ That’s German, I’m guessing.

“It means ‘Death is nothing, glory is forever’,” Kobra informs me when he catches me eying his lighter. “German, of course. That’s the Saxon creed.”

He lifts the sleeve of his shirt so I can make out the large cobra tattooed there along with his name and their motto running along either side of the snake’s body, “Buddy of mine in the SEALs inked me while we were on leave over in Iraq.”

“Nice,” Philly nods appreciatively at the lighter before lighting his smoke.

“Y’all got a motto?” Uncle Fritz asks in a tone that suggests he doubts we do.

I stare into his eye, “These jaws make the laws.”

Both men nod solemnly. I find myself staring at the shaggy stuffed head of an elk and wondering how long all this small talk is going to take. The thing’s got glassy eyes that kind of creep me out.

“Now, when I sent some of our brothers down to Benton Park,” Kobra taps his Marlboro against the ashtray. “I had no idea the place was your turf. We assumed we’d be strong-arming it from a few dealers, pimps or maybe some local hoods.”

“Well,” I’m having trouble believing him, “Apparently some of your soldiers saw our tags because they sprayed over the top of them. That’s considered to be a sign of disrespect on the streets.”

“I take full responsibility for that,” Kobra answers. “My mistake to send others out on a mission I should have done myself. That’s the past, now, though. Let’s talk about the future. We’d like to rent your park for a little while.”

“Rent?” I have no idea what the fuck this is supposed to mean. “What do you mean ‘rent’? What do you need Benton for?”

“We’ll pay you for uninterrupted access to place. Meaning no dealers or other things go down around there until we’re done with our work.”

“What kind of work are we talking about?” I’m extremely skeptical.

Obviously, Kobra intended to avoid being too specific, but since I’m forcing his hand he’s got to tell me, “See, some of our brothers down in Long Beach, California – the Seabeard Saxons – contacted us about getting a hold of something for them. We think what they’re looking for can be found in Benton Park,” everyone at the table is watching my face for a reaction I don’t plan to give. “We’re willing to pay you good money so that we can do this favor for our Seabeard brothers.”

I’ve heard of these Seabeards, surprisingly. A biker gang that cropped up in the mid-80’s. Had themselves a decent little racket ‘renting’ the beach out to surfers, and selling white dope. Vicious fuckers back in the day from what I’ve heard. Used to dye their beards with cheap blue ink. For a while they had a war going with the Bloods, who thought they were aligned with the Crips, and the Crips who didn’t appreciate them claiming their color.

“Look,” I lean forward to stub out the last of my cig. “I ain’t trying to be rude, but vague bullshit like that is not going to get permission from MadBlack. That means this whole thing won’t be going down. He’s a businessman and paying attention to details is how he keeps from getting fucked. Those are his own words I’m repeating to you, of course, but I don’t see how I’m going to get his approval when he won’t even know what he’s approving.”

“So how much would it cost to make sure he’s not interested in the details?” Kobra grins.

He wants to play hardball. We can do that. I calculate mentally how much we make per hour in Benton on average.

“Gonna be a royal pain in the ass keeping the dealers out of there since there’s so much traffic to the place, especially after dark,” finishing off the last of my beer I push it toward Philly for him to refill. “You’ll be needing protection while you do whatever it is you’re planning and that ain’t cheap, either.”

Uncle Fritz snorts, snapping back with, “We got our own protection so you don’t gotta worry about that shit.”

“You’ll need us, man,” Philly scowls at him. “You guys don’t have the knowledge of the area that we got. Those projects around Benton are full of mean-ass motherfuckers who’ll swarm that place if they think there’s no Kingfins around.”

“Uncle’s right,” Kobra tosses peanuts into his mouth, chews. “We can handle ourselves, but we’ll pay you for keeping a lookout, too, if you want. Name your price. Within reason.”

“Six hundred an hour,” I tell him. “Plus a cut of whatever you’re making off your project out there.”

Uncle Fritz nearly spits his beer at this, “Sonofabitch! We get blowjobs to go with that?”

Kobra considers what I’ve said after shaking his head at his partner, “I’ve got no way to tell how long it’s going to take to find what the Seabeards are asking for,” he reaches behind his back and for a split second I feel my stomach clench, thinking he’s going to draw a pistol.

Instead, he pulls out an envelope and pushes it across the table towards me, “Think a ten grand down payment would do the trick?”

I check the envelope’s contents. Definitely looks like ten grand in hundreds to me. MadBlack is going to be fairly thrilled. However, I also feel a shadow of suspicion cross my thoughts. If these Knuckleheads are shelling out ten thousand dollars just to borrow the park, then whatever they’re after must be worth a hell of a lot more.

“If this takes more time than we’ve estimated,” Kobra sees me hesitate as I consider his offer. “Then we can pay you the rest at an hourly rate like you said. You know we’re good for it. You guys prefer cash, gold bars, guns or what?”

“Cash,” what the fuck does this fool think we’d need gold bars for. “But MadBlack isn’t going to want this taking too many days because if it does, the junkies are gonna be going elsewhere to get their fix. That’s bad for business.”

Some social reject from the bar just paid actual money to hear Guns N’ Roses play Welcome to the Jungle on the jukebox. Once again, the urge to exercise my pimp arm is strong. I can’t help glaring at the guy’s back as he saunters back to his stool. Hopefully he feels it.

“Hey!” Uncle Fritz is nodding enthusiastically, “My kinda music! G n’ R, baby!”

For a moment I’m gripped by the nauseating fear that he may try singing along. Kobra shoots him a disapproving smirk.

“I doubt it’ll take us that long to be out of your hair,” Kobra pulls another smoke from his pack and touches the lighter’s flame to its tip. “But we’ve gotta have an agreement that we’re not going to have to stop in the middle of things.”

Axel Rose’s screechy voice reminds me of what it feels like when the dentist is giving you a filling. Except right now I’m not numbed by Novocain.

“The only thing I can do for you is ensure that you can use the park for seventeen hours,” I’m sure the music’s causing my expression to look sour. “After that it’s up to MadBlack’s mood about this thing. Take it or leave it, that’s all I can promise you.”

“Okay,” Kobra exhales a plume of smoke. “We’ll take it on those terms.”

“When do you want to get started?” I down the rest of my beer, getting ready to leave this roach trap.

“Tonight. After the sun’s down,” Kobra tells me, “Seven o’clock or around there. Have the place cleared for us.”

I push my chair back, stand up and stuff the envelope inside my coat. No use counting it in front of them because that’d be insulting. Plus, if they lied about the amount Kobra just passed me then we can settle the score tonight. I’d like to keep on their good side as long as I don’t have to be their bitch in order to do it. I’ve got a thirst to know what it is they’re looking for in Benton.

“It’ll be clear,” I tell Kobra. “Get a hold of us if you change your plans. Thanks for the drinks and smokes.”

“It’s nothing,” Kobra flashes a wide smile. “See you tonight, Percy.”

He glances at Philly, “You, too, brother.”

Finally, Philly and I exit this little slice of hell. On the way back to the house we count the money. It’s all there, none of it counterfeit, either. Philly theorizes they’re looking for some Saxon’s bones, but I’m almost positive it’s some sort of mystical gem. Bad juju, my gut tells me. I don’t tell Philly this. Since he’s not Selachi he wouldn’t understand. Besides that, he’s a suspicious motherfucker who still wears the crucifix his mother gave him because, “It’s protection from vampires.”

If only he knew the truth about the world around him.

He’d have reason to be even more scared.

Author’s notes: The next post will go up on November 22, 2009. Thanks for reading along so far!