Published by BLOCKHEAD CITY INC, PO Box 145, Jenison, MI 49429.
Hardcover Distributed Worldwide by Ingram Book Company
Copyright 2012 by Edward Winterhalder and Marc Teatum. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner or form whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. For information about this subject, please contact Blockhead City Inc, PO Box 145, Jenison, MI 49429.
ISBN: 9781624883804
This book is a work of fiction. References to any person, event, establishment, organization or locale are only intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used in a fictitious manner. All characters, motorcycle clubs, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be considered as real.
Book dust jacket cover concept by Edward Winterhalder.
Manufactured in the United States of America.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Winterhalder, Edward, 1955 -
The moon upstairs: A biker’s story
Teatum, Marc, 1957 -
The moon upstairs: A biker’s story
p. cm.
1: Motorcycle clubs—Fiction. 2. Motorcycle gangs—Fiction.
3. Motorcyclists—Fiction. 4. Bikers—Fiction. 5. Massachusetts—Fiction.
6. Michigan—Fiction. 7. Winterhalder, Edward. 8. Teatum, Marc
I. Title: The moon upstairs: A biker’s story.
| LCCN: | 2012916692 |
| 13-digit ISBN: | 978-0-9771747-8-2 |
| 10-digit ISBN: | 0-9771747-8-6 |
| Digital Edition: | December 2012 |
From Edward Winterhalder:
To my brother Wil De Clercq, many thanks for providing Marc and I with the basic concept for this book, and allowing us the creative freedom to take your original idea and run with it.
To my brothers Greg Johns, Skip Hansen, Chris Westerman, Fuzz Terreson, Mario Figueroa & Dave Gruber, thanks for putting up with me over the many years we have known each other. It has been an honor and privilege for me to ride beside you during my full-throttle journey down the highway of life, and it will continue to be so until the day I die.
Thanks again to Tom Pitoniak in Massachusetts for the copy editing, and to Barb Gunia at Sans Serif in Michigan for the outstanding layout & design work.
From Marc Teatum:
Thanks to Edward Winterhalder and Wil De Clercq for such a great concept to work from.
Thanks to all my friends and family who have been so supportive during the writing of this book.
Other books by Edward Winterhalder
ONE LIGHT COMING
A BIKER’S STORY - Book 3 of the Series
(with Marc Teatum)
BIKER CHICZ OF NORTH AMERICA
(with Wil De Clercq)
THE MIRROR
A BIKER’S STORY - Book 2 of the Series
(with James Richard Larson)
BIKER CHICKS
THE MAGNETIC ATTRACTION OF WOMEN TO
BAD BOYS AND MOTORBIKES
(with Arthur Veno & Wil De Clercq)
ALL ROADS LEAD TO STURGIS
A BIKER’S STORY - Book 1 of the Series
(with James Richard Larson)
THE ASSIMILATION
ROCK MACHINE BECOME BANDIDOS - BIKERS
UNITED AGAINST THE HELLS ANGELS
(with Wil De Clercq)
OUT IN BAD STANDINGS
INSIDE THE BANDIDOS MOTORCYCLE CLUB – THE MAKING OF A WORLDWIDE DYNASTY
________________________
DVD & VOD By Edward Winterhalder
Living On The Edge
RIDING WITH THE VIETNAM VETS MOTORCYCLE CLUB IN PENNSYLVANIA
Biker Chicz TV Series
Episode 1 & 2
Biker Chicz Documentary
The East Coast Biker Chicks MC
________________________
For more information about Edward Winterhalder’s books, TV shows, eBooks or DVDs, please go to his website.
(We are not allowed to mention the name of the website here anymore!)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
In September 2002, Landon “Blues” McKendry was the chapter president of the Skuldmen outlaw motorcycle club in Albany, New York. With fifty-nine chapters in North America, and more than one hundred chapters in seventeen countries scattered around the world, the Skuldmen were one of the most feared and misunderstood outlaw motorcycle clubs in the world at the beginning of the twenty-first century.
The night was clear, the air crisp, and a full moon shone down from above. On a narrow country road, surrounded by deep woods, overgrown brush, and a scattering of swamps, the whine of a fast moving, high-performance, finely tuned sport bike pierced the darkness, as its rider shifted the motor through its gears. Racing past the typical small-town welcome sign and the local golf course, the machine slowed down rapidly as it entered the small town of Mechanicville in northeastern New York.
Dropping into neutral and coasting the bike to the curb along Central Avenue, the rider pulled to a stop under one of the old town’s few streetlights, letting the bike idle beneath him. With the engine purring like a kitten, he pushed up the visor on his full-face helmet and pulled a few sheets of paper out of the chest pocket of his leather jacket.
Unfolding the papers, the rider studied a Google map that detailed a lone structure, and confirmed that his destination was not more than five miles from his current location. Attached to the map was a picture of an upscale cottage; on the picture was a hand-drawn arrow pointing to the address of the cottage on the mailbox. The last page contained a hand-drawn layout of the interior of the house. Putting the collection of papers back into his pocket, the rider dropped the bike into gear and resumed his journey. Before he hit third gear, he crossed the bridge over the river, turned left on Saratoga Avenue, and right on to Viall Avenue.
♦ ♦ ♦
Landon “Blues” McKendry tossed and turned in bed next to his wife as moonlight spilled into the room; the baby’s crying had kept him awake most of the night. When he glanced at the alarm clock on the night table on his side of the bed, the twenty-six-year-old man saw that it was only 1:45 AM.
“Didn’t you just feed him an hour ago?” Blues inquired, exasperated.
“Yeah, I did. I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Victoria answered, as she sat up to drag herself out of bed for the fourth time that night.
The raven-haired beauty of twenty-five rubbed her eyes, then headed for the bedroom door, while Blues grabbed her pillow and covered his head.
A few minutes later, Victoria returned with their son Justin in her arms. Walking over to the bedroom window, she tried to comfort the infant as she glanced outside. From her vantage point, she could see the full moon reflecting off the mirrorlike surface of the nearby lake, which was less than one hundred feet away.
As she unsuccessfully tried to comfort the baby, Blues pulled the pillow off his head, propped himself up on one elbow, and gave Victoria a pleading look.
“I’m sure he’ll settle down, but it may take a while. Why don’t you go do a few of your karate forms, or go for a canoe ride or something? There’s a full moon out tonight,” she suggested.
“What if I get attacked by monsters?” he joked.
Victoria walked away from the window and sat down in a plush wingback chair sitting in a corner of the bedroom. No matter how she tried to comfort the baby, he just kept crying.
“With your black belt, baby, I’m sure they’d be no match for you,” she responded, smiling.
Blues threw his legs over the bed, sat on the edge, and lingered. He yawned, stretched, and ran his fingers through his thick, long hair. Ruggedly handsome, despite the damage that had been done to his face, he sported a powerfully built body that was marred by a few scars on both his back and his chest.
A three-inch hairline scar ran above his right eye, and the distinct third-degree burn scar on his left jaw was complemented by a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His arms were covered in outlaw biker tattoos, and his left forearm and upper left hand also bore third-degree burn scars—his trophies from a life spent in the fast lane of the motorcycle club world.
Pulling on a pair of jeans that he retrieved from the floor, Blues got up and wandered over to the bedroom window, and then looked out to the lake. He bent down and gave Victoria a kiss on the cheek, and then planted a kiss on his son’s forehead.
“You’re the best,” he said to his wife.
“And you, where did you get those lungs?” he said to Justin, who was still crying softly.
Grabbing a T-shirt off the floor from his side of the bed, Blues left the bedroom and pulled it over his head as he walked into the living room, which was also bathed in moonlight. The layout of the country house was straight out of one of those architectural design magazines. The living room was large, and took up the back half of the house, which was facing lakeside. Three walls of floor-to-ceiling windows brought the beauty of the surrounding pine forest into the area. A wraparound porch, populated with several classic wooden rocking chairs, increased the enjoyment of the view tenfold.
The living room was filled with custom-made designer furniture, and although it was a little trendy, its style didn’t compete with the craftsmanship of nature that could be found outside. There was a three-piece sectional couch that faced the walls of glass. Over the fireplace of fieldstone hung a framed flag sporting the colors of the Skuldmen motorcycle club, which was the same insignia that adorned the T-shirt Blues wore.
Turning to look at the source of the light streaming into the room, he was surprised to find his four-year-old daughter Justine awake. Like her mother, Justine had jet-black hair; she was wearing her jammies, clutching Rufus, her teddy bear, and kneeling on a couch in front of the large picture window that overlooked the lake. What Blues found interesting, was that she was not looking at the lake; her attention was focused on the moon.
“Hey, baby girl. What are you doing awake at this time of the night?” he asked.
“Hi, Daddy. I’m looking at the moon upstairs. It’s so pretty.”
Blues dropped himself down on the couch beside her—she slid over and climbed into his arms.
“Can I stay up with you for a while?”
“No, you need to go back to bed, my little angel. Daddy’s gonna go for a canoe ride,” he responded.
“Can I go with you? Please, please? I promise I’ll be good.”
“I don’t know, sweetie. You should be in bed.”
“So should you, Daddy. Please, Daddy. I want to go with you,” she pleaded.
“All right. You go put on some shoes, and a coat over your jammies.
“Okay.”
“I’ll tell your mom that you’re coming with me,” he added, setting Justine on the couch.
“Can I bring Rufus?”
“I think we can handle an extra passenger.”
♦ ♦ ♦
After putting a denim jacket on over his T-shirt, Blues walked across the porch and down three wooden steps, before he continued along a gravel path toward the lake with his daughter at his side. When they approached the end of the path, Justine, who was clutching Rufus, tugged on his hand.
“Daddy, can I piggyback?”
“Sure.”
He bent down, let the child climb up on to his back, and then carefully descended another series of wooden steps that led to the lake’s edge and a weathered dock, which extended thirty-five feet from land. At the end of the dock, tied off to a pier on one side, was a sixteen-foot American Traders classic canoe—on the other, a Pelican paddleboat. Setting the young girl down on the dock, he pulled a small life jacket out of a built-in utility box that sat on the edge of the dock.
Securely strapping the jacket on to his daughter, he reached back into the box and grabbed an adult-sized lifejacket for himself, a large square floatation cushion, and a paddle. He threw the bigger life jacket in the back of the canoe, placed the floatation cushion in the bow, and then dropped the paddle against the rear seat. Lowering Justine into the bow on top of the cushion, he set her down, facing toward him.
“You hang on tight now, okay?” he said.
“Okay, Daddy. I will.”
Blues untied the canoe, clambered aboard, installed himself on the seat, and pushed away from the dock with the paddle. The water was so still as Blues and Justine began their journey, it looked like glass.
With the moonlight raining down and illuminating their world, Blues set up a slow and steady rhythm of J-strokes, and the craft glided out toward the center of the lake.
Saratoga Lake was not quite a mile wide, and a little more than two miles long. There were few other houses around the lake, which had been a major attraction for Blues. He had bought the place before the kids were born, after he squirreled away the money bit by bit. Over the years he and Victoria had used the cottage as their private retreat when life got to be too much. Time at the cottage helped to keep them together during the tumultuous times that a full patch member of the Skuldmen often had to endure.
Not having many neighbors who could poke their noses into his life suited Blues just fine, but if club business called, he was less than an hour from Albany. After Justine had been born, the cottage became the family’s second home in the summer, and Victoria especially liked the fact that it afforded them a chance to be away from the club for a while.
After ten minutes of paddling, Blues got to the middle of the lake. He pulled the oar out of the water and let the momentum move the canoe across the water while he enjoyed the silence of his surroundings. Placing the paddle on one of the cross members of the shell, he glanced lovingly over at Justine, who had fallen asleep with her arms around her teddy bear. Blues fished a small tin out of his left upper jacket pocket, opened it, and then removed a half-smoked joint and a small lighter.
After lighting the joint, he took in both the night air and the smoke from the potent weed as he enjoyed the world around him. He took two or three tokes, snuffed it out, and put what remained of the joint back into the container. After placing the tin back into his coat pocket, the biker picked up the paddle and continued his journey across the lake.
He was nearing the far end of the lake, nearly two miles from the cottage, when his attention was suddenly drawn back toward the opposite side of the lake. A barely audible, high-pitched whine could be heard across the water. A single light was playing peekaboo through the trees and bushes that graced his side of the lake, along the dirt road that led to his second home.
Blues knew that a single headlight could only belong to a motorcycle, and in spite of the buzz he had, he realized that there wasn’t any good reason for a bike to be on his road at two-thirty in the morning. Judging by the tone of the motor, he also knew that this most certainly wasn’t one of his club brothers. He turned the canoe around and dug his paddle into the black water below him, and methodically began to paddle the canoe back in the direction of the cottage.
♦ ♦ ♦
When the rider cut the bike’s engine, the crunching of the small rocks that littered the road was the only sound that could be heard. He coasted another fifty feet, and then brought the machine to a full stop. Not much farther down the dirt road, the house he had been thinking about for the last hour was barely visible through the trees, bathed in a shaft of moonlight.
The rider dismounted, quietly turned the motorcycle around to face the way he’d come, and then silently pushed the kickstand into place with his hand.
Pulling the packet of papers out one last time, he removed the photo, and map of the interior, and then jammed the rest of the papers back into his pocket. Leaving his helmet and gloves on, he strolled silently toward the cottage. When he got to the mailbox, he stopped for a few seconds to verify the address, and to compare the photo to the structure.
Knowing now that this was indeed the cottage in the picture, he jammed the photo into his jacket pocket and zipped it shut. Sneaking past an older-model compact car, he stopped for a second next to the mid-sized blue and silver trade van that said McKendry Carpentry & Remodeling on the side.
The rider then unzipped his leather jacket, pulled a 9mm automatic from the shoulder holster, clicked off the safety, and quietly racked the slide to chamber the bullet.
♦ ♦ ♦
Blues repeatedly dug the paddle deep into the lake, pulling with all his strength to move the canoe swiftly across the water toward the dock. With almost a mile to go, he looked down for a second at his daughter, who was still asleep, oblivious to her father’s panicked state of mind. The thought that her mother and younger brother could be in danger, gave Blues an extra hit of energy and determination. Breathing steadily, his muscles screaming, harder and harder he pulled, and the craft picked up speed.
♦ ♦ ♦
The motorcyclist swiftly made his way to the entrance door on the side of the house. He paused, took one last look at the map showing the interior of the cottage, and then turned the knob; the unlocked door swung open silently.
The sneakers on his feet made absolutely no sound as the rider silently crept through the moonlit home as he headed toward the master bedroom. When he got to the door, he silently turned the knob and opened the door, where he saw the silhouette of human forms lying on the bed in the shadows of the room. He raised the weapon, slowly took aim, and then fired repeatedly.
In the deep of night, the sound was deafening. It seeped out of the house and bounced around the trees, before it spilled outside onto the open water of the lake.
♦ ♦ ♦
Blues was three hundred yards from the dock when he heard the sound of gunshots coming from the cottage. A collection of frightened birds, awakened from their sleep by the loud noise and the accompanying echo, fluttered out of the trees in front of him. For a fleeting moment he stopped paddling and cocked his head to one side, not wanting to believe what he had just heard. With renewed vigor, he took a deep breath and dug the paddle into the water again.
♦ ♦ ♦
Pulling the empty clip from the gun and placing it into his pants pocket, the man jacked another full clip into the 9mm. Hastily he began to search the other rooms of the cottage. Going from room to room he found no one else in the building. Satisfied that his task was complete, he hurried outside and ran up the road back to his motorcycle.
♦ ♦ ♦
Blues arrived at the dock, clamored out as fast as he could, and tied up the canoe. He was just about to continue on up to the house when he took one last look at Justine, who was still fast asleep. Making a snap decision, he decided that the child would be okay nestled in the bottom of the canoe. Although the biker was out of breath and nearly spent from paddling across the lake, he bounded across the dock and up the stairs.
Running at full speed toward the cottage, Blues hesitated for a second when he heard the sound of the sport bike’s engine come to life. When the shrill of a metric motor pierced the air, Blues realized that the rider didn’t feel the need to be quiet anymore. With the sound of the motorcycle fading into the distance, Blues picked up the pace as he headed toward the building. Stopping at his truck, he swung open the driver’s door, and from an inside panel, retrieved the pistol he kept there in case of an emergency, before he continued to the cottage.
As he stepped into the living room, he called out his wife’s name.
“Vicky! Vicky? Where are you, baby?”
When there was no response, the biker quickly made his way to the bedroom. As he entered the room, in the half-light of the night, he could see the motionless form in the bed and smell the gunpowder in the air.
Approaching the bed, Blues pulled back the covers—when he saw the blood-soaked bed, he gasped in horror—in an instant, his entire world had changed. Though they looked as if they were asleep, it was obvious that his beautiful wife and baby son had been murdered.
His arms went limp, and whatever strength he had left his body. Blues dropped to his knees, screamed out, and began to cry.
Joseph “Joey” Lombard was sitting on a couch in front of the television, aimlessly pushing the buttons on the cable box controller that sat in front of him, which was tethered by a brown cable to the large box that sat to the right side of the television.
“Forty-eight channels, and nothing on but a bunch of crap,” he said in disgust.
At twenty-eight, he was already quite overweight, and long, greasy hair hung down in his face. Luanne, his crack-whore girlfriend, was sitting beside him, brushing her hair. At twenty-two, she was nothing but skin and bones, and her arms were full of needle tracks.
“There’s always MTV,” she replied. “Guns N’ Roses got a new video, No Ember Pain. I think the song is about getting burned while sitting next to a campfire.”
“It’s November Rain, you stupid whore, and it has nothing to do with camping. I don’t want to watch any more MTV—I’m sick of those candy-ass fag boys—they make me wanna puke.”
With a click of the push button, a Tom and Jerry cartoon appeared on the screen. Joey stopped bitching as his brain devoured the juvenile entertainment.
The coffee table in front of them had a glass top, into which the Skuldmen insignia had been sandblasted. A small mirror with nearly a gram of white powder on it, a razor blade, a .45 Colt automatic, and a single rolled-up banknote sat on top of the table.
Like the rest of the house, the living room was a total mess. Despite the dim light from the single lamp that illuminated the room, it was easy to see the damage on the walls from the beer cans and liquor bottles that had been hurled across the room.
A 1994 Harley-Davidson Sportster was parked against one wall, an oil stain marking the hardwood floor beneath the bike’s engine. A large flag featuring the Skuldmen motorcycle club colors hung on the wall, along with some framed photos of Joey—some by himself, and some with him and other club members. Most of the photos were askew, and alongside them was a watercolor painting of the one-percenter patch.
Dressed only in jeans, with a big gut hanging over his belt, Joey’s upper body and arms were covered in numerous tattoos—most were of poor quality and had been done in a trade for dope. He drained the can of beer he was clutching, burped, crushed the can, and threw it against the wall—it bounced off the wall and landed in a cardboard box on the floor beside the couch.
“Get me another beer!” he hollered at the woman beside him.
When Luanne didn’t react right away, Joey gave her a push.
“Now, Luanne, before I die of thirst!”
Luanne sullenly rose from the couch without saying a word and crossed in front of him heading for the kitchen.
“Out of the way, stupid. I can’t see!” Joey bellowed.
Suddenly the bungalow’s front door flew open—the dead bolt was no match for the battering ram that had been used to break down the cheaply made door—and two men came through the doorway.
Before Joey could react, Blues and his Skuldmen chapter sergeant-at-arms, Harry “Skip” Hansen, were in the room. Both men had guns, which were pointed directly at Joey’s head. Joey looked at the intruders, and then glanced at the Colt.
“Don’t even think about it, asshole,” Blues said.
“Please don’t kill me,” Luanne pleaded, as she fell to the floor and curled up in a fetal position.
Waiting just outside the door were Chris “Soundman” Westerman and Dave “Spike” Gruber, who were Skuldmen patch holders from the probationary Springfield chapter in western Massachusetts. Soundman worked out regularly and was in his late thirties—Spike needed to work out, but didn’t, and was in his mid-fifties.
The instant that Blues and Skip had gone through the doorway, Soundman and Spike had thrown the double-handled steel battering ram to the ground. Soundman then grabbed the three baseball bats that were leaning against the side of the house, and Spike bent down and picked the large cardboard box up off the ground.
“Come on in here!” Blues yelled.
Both men entered the house. Soundman pushed the door shut behind him, using his back to do the job, but the door remained slightly ajar due to the damage done to the frame. Spike dropped the cardboard box onto the coffee table, directly on top of the mirror that was covered in powder, causing a small cloud of white dust to blow off the table before it settled to the floor.
All four bikers were sporting their club colors. Blues wore his leather vest over a denim jacket, and Skip wore his leather vest over a hoodie; the other two men were wearing denim vests over their sweatshirts.
Sewn on the back of the vests worn by Blues and Skip was a full three-piece outlaw motorcycle club patch. At the top was a gray rocker with blue letters that said SKULDMEN; directly below the top rocker was a square patch with the letters MC, and at the bottom, the rocker read NEW YORK. The center patch was the logo of the motorcycle club—a blue wolf’s head with fire coming out of its nostrils.
Over the heart area on each vest was a diamond-shaped patch that said 1%ER, and below it a rectangular patch with the initials FTW, an acronym for Fuck the World. On the right side of each man’s vest was a rectangular patch that said ALBANY.
On the right front of Blue’s vest, just above the ALBANY patch, was another rectangular patch that said PRESIDENT. On the right front of Skip’s vest, in the same place, was a SERGEANT-AT-ARMS patch.
Spike and Soundman wore identical top rockers and center patches on their backs, but their bottom rockers said PROBATIONARY, which identified them as new members—on the right side of their chests they wore rectangular ribbons that said SPRINGFIELD.
Skip retrieved Joey’s gun from off of the coffee table, removed the clip, and ejected the bullet in the chamber. Shoving the clip back into the gun, he stuck the gun into the front of his pants. He then turned his attention to Luanne—he grabbed her arm and pulled her up from the floor.
“You get the hell out of here. And lose your memory while you’re at it.”
Skip turned and looked at the probationary members.
“Spike, find the girl a coat or something.”
Spike threw Skip the heavy wool sweater he located hanging in the closet, as Soundman opened what was left of the door. Luanne put the sweater on backward before she hurried out of the house, sobbing continuously. Soundman closed the door behind her, as best he could.
“Jesus Christ! What the fuck, Blues. What the hell’s going on?” Joey asked.
“Surprised to see me, Joey? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, brother.”
“What in the world are you talking about, Blues?”c
“Who else is in the house?” Skip inquired.
“Nobody, just me, now. Why?”
Skip and Blues stuck their weapons into the belts behind their back—Skip then addressed the older biker standing guard across the room.
“Check the place, top to bottom. Anything you find that’s club related, put it in the box.”
Nodding a silent understanding, Spike walked over to the table and took a plastic bag out of the box, and then put the bag down on the table—the object inside the bag made a clunking sound on the glass. He then took the box and left the room.
Skip made eye contact with Soundman and said, “Put the bike in the van.”
“No, man, not my bike!” Joey protested.
“Shut up, you piece of shit!” Skip responded.
After leaning the baseball bats against the wall in the corner, the younger probationary member opened the door, walked back to the Harley, and wheeled the motorcycle across the living room, then outside through the open door.
Joey did his best to maintain his bravado, but at this point he was noticeably scared. He glanced from Blues to Skip and back again.
“What is this? What’s going on? Blues, Skip … talk to me.”
“Where are your colors?” Blues inquired.
Joey pointed to the closet across the room, where Spike had found the sweater.
“They’re in there, folded up on top of the shelf.”
Skip walked over to the closet and removed a black leather vest decorated with the full Skuldmen three-piece patch, which he threw on the armchair. He walked across the room to the Skuldmen flag on the wall, grabbed one corner, and yanked it down, sending the tacks that held it in place flying. After folding it up, he threw it on the armchair, and then proceeded to take down the photos and painting.
Facing Blues and Joey, Skip put the photos and painting on the armchair with the vest and the flag, then sat down on the chair. Pulling a joint and Zippo lighter from the inside pocket of his vest, he fired it up. He took a deep breath, and then blew the smoke out of his lungs as he silently kept a close eye on Joey.
Despite the raging anger in his soul, Blues had remained calm while Skip completed his chores, but now he spoke.
“You set me up Joey. You set my family up. Victoria and Justin are dead. I was supposed to be dead. Justine was supposed to be dead.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Blues. I swear, man,” Joey answered with a slight stutter.
“You’re insulting my intelligence, Joey. Do I have fool written on my forehead or something?”
Joey started to get up off the couch.
“Sit down, asshole!” Blues demanded, as Skip jumped up from the chair.
When Joey sank back in to the couch, Skip relaxed a little and sat back down. Blues sat down next to Joey and then reached out to him, brushing the long, greasy hair from his eyes and tucking it behind an ear. Joey shrank back—the fear showed in his eyes.
“Own up to what you did, Joey, and maybe, just maybe, you’re gonna come out of this alive.”
“Come on, Blues. We’ve been friends since we were kids. I wouldn’t betray you.”
“Really? Well, let’s talk facts, shall we? You were the only one who knew I was going to the cottage. It was a last-minute decision that I made while you were at my house, filling your fat gut at my table. You helped us pack. You saw us leave. Nobody knew that, not even Skip.”
Joey was visibly shaken and tried to hide it as he looked away from Blues.
“Look at me when I talk to you, Joey!”
Reluctantly, Joey looked back to Blues. For a fleeting second they were eyeball-to-eyeball, right before Blues grabbed Joey by the throat. Joey’s hands automatically wrapped around Blues’ wrist, but that just caused Blues to squeeze harder. Joey’s legs were kicking as he tried to get away from Blues—he arched his back and his eyes began to bulge.
Just when Joey was about to pass out from the lack of oxygen, Blues relaxed his grip, and then waited for Joey to catch his breath. Joey automatically soothed his neck with his trembling right hand, while he gasped for the air he needed to fill his lungs again.
“I’ve taken care of you for the last three years, Joey. I rented you this house for half its market value,” Blues said, as he glanced around the room. “And you paid me back by rolling over on me?”
“Please, don’t kill me, Blues. Please? I’ll do anything for you,” Joey pleaded.
“Stop your begging. It’s pathetic. You’re still a man, so act like one,” Blues said.
Addressing Joey as if he were speaking to a misbehaving child, in a calm voice, Blues demanded the obvious.
“I want to know why you betrayed me, Joey, and I want to know now. You’re starting to try my patience.”
“I couldn’t help it, Blues. I’m sorry,” the traitor admitted, hanging his head.
Blues pulled his .40-caliber Glock back out, racked the slide, and stuck the barrel of the gun underneath Joey’s jaw.
Joey nearly shit his pants, but clinched his cheeks tight at the last second, and with a slight stutter he tried to explain.
“I owed Big John’s brother fifteen grand. He … he fronted me some coke to sell. But me and Luanne ended up doing all of it.”
Blues pulled the gun back from Joey’s jaw and glanced at the powder on the table.
Pointing at the mirror on the table with the gun, Blues said, “You mean this shit?”
Joey looked away as Blues picked up the mirror with his left hand and tossed it across the room. The remaining powder scattered into the air and the mirror shattered when it hit the wall.
“Are you talking about Big John from the Tyrants motorcycle club?” Skip inquired.
“Yeah,” Joey answered.
“I don’t know what’s worse, fraternizing with the enemy, or selling me out for a lousy fifteen grand? That’s less than four grand apiece for me, my wife, and my two kids, you son of a bitch!” Blues hollered, as his rage boiled back to the surface.
Standing up to regain his composure, he stuck the pistol behind his back again—Joey breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m disappointed in you, Joey,” he continued, in a calm and even voice.
“They were gonna kill you anyway, Blues. They were going to do Victoria, the kids, all of you. It was going to be their way to send a message to the club. They were going to do it at your cottage all along. They just wanted me to let them know the next time you were going up there,” he said, attempting to minimize his involvement.
“You’re a real piece of work,” Skip interjected.
“Who did they send out to the cottage?” Blues asked.
“How would I know? You think they’d tell me that?” Joey continued.
Blues looked at Skip and nodded his head—the sergeant-at-arms pulled out his .40 caliber Glock and racked the slide. He walked over and put the barrel against Joey’s head.
“An out-of-town guy! No, he was from out of state. Shit, Blues, I’m not sure!” Joey spit out with a slight stutter.
“Tell me the truth, Joey. This is the last time I am going to ask,” Blues said quietly.
“I heard something about a guy named Jigs, coming up from Florida.”
Blues patted Joey on the face a number of times.
“Joey, Joey, Joey. What am I going to do with you?” Blues said, then pulled back and slammed his fist into Joey’s face, crushing his nose. Blood shot out from his nostrils and the turncoat passed out.
Addressing Soundman, who had completed his task outside and returned to the house, Blues said, “Get me a pitcher of water.”
Soundman was headed for the kitchen just as Spike returned to the living room carrying the box. Inside were a number of Skuldmen items, including photo albums, belts, a trophy, a Skuldmen “Property of” vest, and a carved wooden plaque with the Skuldmen logo.
“Do you want the stuff here?” Spike asked, as he nodded toward the unoccupied chair in the room where Skip had piled the rest of Joey’s club property.
“Put it in the van. The table goes, too,” Skip responded, pointing at the coffee table in front of the unconscious man.
Turning his attention to the armchair, Spike took the Skuldmen flag, colors, and the rest of the stuff, and added it all to the box, which at this point was overflowing.
Blues opened the plastic bag on the table, removed the small torch that was screwed onto a propane bottle, and a bowie knife. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and fired up the torch, then started heating the knife’s blade as Soundman returned with the pitcher of water.
“Wake the asshole up,” Blues instructed the probationary member.
Soundman dumped the pitcher of water on Joey’s head, and he immediately regained consciousness.
“Pin his right arm to the table, Skuldmen ink facing up,” Blues instructed Spike and Soundman.
The fat man tried to wrangle away from the men, but he was no match—they wrestled him onto his knees, and then pinned his arm to the table.
“No, Blues, no! Come on man. Please!”
With the knife’s blade glowing red hot, Blues turned off the torch and applied the blade to Joey’s arm, searing the tattoo in the process. The smell of scorched skin filled the room as Joey screamed out in pain and pissed his pants.
“What a fucking mess. Let him go,” Blues said.
Joey curled up on the floor and sobbed like a baby, as he cheated terrified glances at Blues and the others in the room.
Skip got up and retrieved the ball bats from the armchair, and then handed one to Soundman and one to Spike. He kept the last one for himself.
“You said you’d let me live if I told. Please, Blues? I don’t wanna die,” Joey sobbed.
“You’re not going to die, Joey—they’re just going to rearrange you a bit,” Blues said. “Consider it a lifetime memento. Something to remember the worst mistake of your life by.”
“And by the way, you’re out of the club, and that’s out in bad standings, if anyone asks,” Skip added, as Blues headed for the kitchen.
“Age before beauty, you old fart,” Soundman said to Spike.
Spike took the first swing at Joey and crushed the turncoat’s upper left arm in the process. Joey screamed in agony while Skip and Soundman looked on.
Inside the kitchen, Blues heard the sound of more screams from behind him as Skip and the two probationary members did their job. Opening the door to the fridge, he glanced inside and grabbed a can of Budweiser. After Blues pulled the tab open, he took a sip and then lit a joint. Taking a long drag, he blew out the smoke and took another sip, then flung the can against the wall, staring into space as Joey screamed one last time.
♦ ♦ ♦
In the dead of night, with a light drizzle falling on the west side of Albany, Blues and Skip, wearing their Skuldmen colors, wove in and out of traffic on their Harleys, side by side. They were oblivious to the people they passed in the cars around them.
When they pulled to a stop at the traffic lights, they were equally oblivious of the pedestrians, who, as they crossed the intersection under the protection of their umbrellas, cheated glances at the men. The two bikers were in a world of their own, for they were men on a mission.
One mile northeast of downtown Albany, they stopped for the red light at the corner of Livingston Avenue and Broadway, which was right in front of their destination. Misty’s Sunshine Bar & Grill was a sleazy bar that had seen better days. The neon beer signs glowed from behind the windows in front of faded and stained curtains.
A black delivery van and six Harleys were parked out front, and a number of cars occupied space in the parking lot next to the bar. Standing at the door to the bar, trying to stay dry, were two prospects from the Tyrants motorcycle club, who were paying their dues, keeping watch over the machines at the curb.
When the green light came, the two bikes rode on through the intersection. Halfway down the block, in tandem, they turned into a service alley and came up to the building from behind, headed for the parking lot.
Blues and Skip rolled to a stop and took off their half-helmets, hung them on the handlebars of their bikes, and dismounted. Skip reached into his coat, pulled out the Glock from his shoulder holster, and racked a round into the chamber.
“You know that this is fucking suicide, Blues.”
“This is personal, Skip. You didn’t have to come,” Blues responded.
“I’m with you, brother. Always have been, and always will be,” Skip said.
The two men walked across the parking lot and around the corner, then swiftly up the street toward the front entrance to the bar. So not to attract too much suspicion, they chatted with each other as they walked.
Arriving at the front door, they started to push past the two green prospects. When one of them attempted to slow the pair down, Blues drilled him in the gut. When the prospect started to curl up in agony, Blues drove the man’s head into his knee. Skip took the easy way out, and simultaneously pistol-whipped the other prospect into unconsciousness. The two men then entered the bar.
Inside the dilapidated structure, the atmosphere was tempestuous and threatening, noisy and smoke-filled—it was a symphony of conversations, laughter, clinking of glass, and clacking of pool balls. The clientele included nine members of the Tyrants motorcycle club, all wearing their colors on sleeveless leather or denim jackets.
Two bikers at the far end of the bar had Florida bottom rockers; the rest of the Tyrants were from New York. Some of the men were in conversation with three young party girls that were hanging out at the bar, while two full patch holders were playing a game of pool with two probationary members.
Four biker ol’ ladies, identified by the Property of Tyrants MC patches they wore on the back of their jackets, and a dozen or so hangarounds, sitting at various tables or standing around watching the pool game, completed the motley crew. Just about everyone’s beverage of choice was bottled beer, but some were enjoying mixed drinks.
For a few seconds, Blues and Skip remained by the front door so their eyes could adjust to the light. In the time that it took, silence slowly fell on the room, as every eye in the bar focused on the two Skuldmen. Blues scanned the menacing faces like a coiled serpent sizing up his prey, ready to strike. Skip had already picked out his first victim.
A mountain of a man, Big John, who was the president of the Tyrants, stepped away from the bar as he addressed the two blue and silver patch holders.
“Well, well, well, if it ain’t Mr. McKendry and his trusty sidekick, Mr. Hansen. A little bit outside of your territory, aren’t you, boys? How about a couple of beers for our guests,” Big John said to the bartender behind him.
“You know why I’m here, Big John. And it isn’t to have a drink with you and the rest of your mutts,” Blues said.
“You two got a lot of balls coming in here and talking to me like that,” Big John replied.
Blues glanced around the room at the out-of-state bikers.
“Which one of you dickheads is Jigs?”
Jigs stepped away from the bar and faced them. Blues and Skip noticed that nine one-inch embroidered skulls decorated the right breast area of his vest. Both knew that the skulls identified him as a hit man, and the nine was the number of deaths he had caused.
“Who you calling a dickhead, asshole?”
Blues took a few steps toward Jigs, as Skip walked a step behind, his eyes darting everywhere, as he covered Blue’s back.
The first Tyrant they passed smashed a beer bottle on the bar and lashed out at the Skuldmen president. Blues dodged the attack and with a menacing thrust, side-kicked the man in the right knee. No regular barroom brawler, Blues was a trained martial artist. The Tyrant went down and rolled around the floor clutching his broken kneecap.
“You killed my wife and son, asshole. You should have stuck around and finished the job you were sent to do, or die trying,” Blues hollered across the room to Jigs.
The bartender ducked into the kitchen behind the bar, and most of the nonbikers and women ran from the bar as things started getting nasty.
When Blues headed across the room toward Jigs, Big John took a swing at Skip. The Skuldmen sergeant-at-arms grabbed the big man’s arm and used the momentum to fling him over the bar. Big John landed hard between the bar and the fridges, under the liquor shelves, and didn’t get up.
As the flying beer bottle grazed the side of Blues’ head, Jigs produced a switchblade knife and lunged at Blues. Slightly stunned by the beer bottle, Blues blocked the thrust of the knife with his left arm, but the knife penetrated his left hand. The momentum of the thrust drove the knife into his right shoulder, pinning his hand.
Blues kicked Jigs between the legs, pulled the knife out with his right hand, and with one swift motion sliced Jigs’ throat. A geyser of blood spurted from the severed jugular vein as Jigs dropped to the floor; the blood from the wound quickly spread on the floor around him.
To avoid being jumped from the rear, Blues and Skip fought back-to-back. They were a two-man wrecking crew, dishing out and receiving pain like the true warriors they were.
During the fight, Blues was pierced with a broken pool cue just below the rib cage. From across the room, a Tyrant pulled a revolver and pointed it at Skip—the bullet found its mark in his abdomen. Despite being gravely wounded, Skip put a bullet between the man’s eyes. As the Tyrant hit the filthy floor, whoever was still standing decided the time had come to vacate the bar.
In less than five minutes, Misty’s Sunshine Bar & Grill was in total shambles. The jukebox no longer played, and moans and groans were the only sounds that were heard. Two Tyrants were dead, five were down, and two others stumbled around in a daze; the rest had ran.
With the sound of motorcycles roaring to life outside the bar, Blues and Skip struggled toward the door as blood seeped from their wounds. Skip clutched his stomach and had one arm around Blues’ shoulders for support. They rappelled from table to chair to table across the room, and finally made it out into the night.
While Blues and Skip helped each other walk in the rain, the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance as they made their way back to the parking lot. When they got to their motorcycles, Blues helped Skip, who was close to death and barely conscious, mount his Harley.