Read Online No Angel by Jay Dobyns - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jay Dobyns
Tags: General Fiction
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all of our patches were stitched with pumpkin-orange thread. The ones on the front of our jackets—small rectangles and diamonds collectively referred to as “flash”—were mostly abbreviations: SFFS (Solos Forever, Forever Solos), IIWII (It Is What It Is), and FTW (Fuck The World, a biker favorite). On our backs were sewn our three-piece patches: a round center patch depicting an orange motorcycle, a top rocker that said solo angeles, and a bottom rocker that said tijuana. In addition to these we had a side rocker that said nomads.
We were ready to roll.
A COMMITTED BIKER’S calendar is filled with rallies and runs, and we Solos wanted to commemorate our coming-out on a large run, which, in addition to being ceremonial, would maximize our exposure. We chose an “all clubs” rally at Mormon Lake called Too Broke for Sturgis.
The afternoon before the run, Slats told me we needed to have a sit-down. We’d been having meeting after meeting, going over details and procedure and backgrounds for weeks, and I felt like we didn’t need to have another. Slats’s way was methodical, whereas mine was improvisational, a method Slats would later dub “smokin’ and jokin’.” I was eager to get going, my nerves shook, my adrenaline began to flow. I knew Slats must’ve been nervous too, and I figured this would be the last preop meeting he and I would have, so I agreed to see him. He told me to meet him at Jilly’s Sports Bar in Tempe.
I pulled up in role, got off my bike, and walked inside, test-driving the “dick-out” style I wanted to trademark. I figured a yuppie sports bar was as safe a place as any to let it all hang out. I pushed the door open, guns in my waistband, wife-beater on my back, camos on my legs, flip-flops on my feet, and a belt buckle so big Ty Murray would’ve been proud. My eyes struggled to adjust from the Phoenix sunshine to a dimly lit bar. As they did, I saw before me a smiling Slats, his family, Carlos, and, most important, Gwen, Dale, and Jack. I’d completely forgotten it was my birthday. I let go of my attitude and returned to my old self. We ate cake, opened presents, and talked about everything but work. For three hours I made a point of putting as much loving on the kids as possible. It was one of the best birthday celebrations I ever had. Toward the end, Carlos elbowed my ribs and said, “Nice, huh? Slats wanted you to see Gwen and the kids one more time before we die in the forest tomorrow.”
I nodded. It was nice.
THE NEXT MORNING the team gathered for breakfast at the Waffle House on I-17 and Bell Road. We finished before Rudy showed up, and waited for him. Eventually he pulled into the parking lot with a piggish piece of trailer trash clutching his sissy bars. He got off the bike and ordered her to stay outside.
As he sauntered in, Carlos asked, “Who’s the beauty queen?”
“Can’t remember her name. Grabbed her in the parking lot at the Apache Junction Wal-Mart.”
“Well, get rid of her,” Carlos said.
“Fuck that. We go bitchless, they’ll think we’re a bunch of homos. Not cool.”
“All right, fair enough. But if she becomes a liability, then the gig’s off. I think Jay and Timmy will agree.” We said we did. Rudy said don’t worry about it.
Mormon Lake is about two hundred miles north of central Phoenix, off I-17. Rudy and I rode up front, him on the left, me on the right—the usual positions for the president and vice of an OMG. The members fell in behind us. Behind all of us, keeping their distance, were the two vehicles that carried the cover team: a white rental truck and a passenger van.
About a hundred miles in, we pulled off at Cordes Junction to gas up. We stopped at a Mobil and unassed. My legs and shoulders were killing me.
I felt as old as the road was long.
Rudy slouched on his bike like a vacationer in a hammock. He yelled, “Prospect! Go get me a pack of Reds, and make sure you tell the bitch-ass attendant we’re filling
We were ready to roll.
A COMMITTED BIKER’S calendar is filled with rallies and runs, and we Solos wanted to commemorate our coming-out on a large run, which, in addition to being ceremonial, would maximize our exposure. We chose an “all clubs” rally at Mormon Lake called Too Broke for Sturgis.
The afternoon before the run, Slats told me we needed to have a sit-down. We’d been having meeting after meeting, going over details and procedure and backgrounds for weeks, and I felt like we didn’t need to have another. Slats’s way was methodical, whereas mine was improvisational, a method Slats would later dub “smokin’ and jokin’.” I was eager to get going, my nerves shook, my adrenaline began to flow. I knew Slats must’ve been nervous too, and I figured this would be the last preop meeting he and I would have, so I agreed to see him. He told me to meet him at Jilly’s Sports Bar in Tempe.
I pulled up in role, got off my bike, and walked inside, test-driving the “dick-out” style I wanted to trademark. I figured a yuppie sports bar was as safe a place as any to let it all hang out. I pushed the door open, guns in my waistband, wife-beater on my back, camos on my legs, flip-flops on my feet, and a belt buckle so big Ty Murray would’ve been proud. My eyes struggled to adjust from the Phoenix sunshine to a dimly lit bar. As they did, I saw before me a smiling Slats, his family, Carlos, and, most important, Gwen, Dale, and Jack. I’d completely forgotten it was my birthday. I let go of my attitude and returned to my old self. We ate cake, opened presents, and talked about everything but work. For three hours I made a point of putting as much loving on the kids as possible. It was one of the best birthday celebrations I ever had. Toward the end, Carlos elbowed my ribs and said, “Nice, huh? Slats wanted you to see Gwen and the kids one more time before we die in the forest tomorrow.”
I nodded. It was nice.
THE NEXT MORNING the team gathered for breakfast at the Waffle House on I-17 and Bell Road. We finished before Rudy showed up, and waited for him. Eventually he pulled into the parking lot with a piggish piece of trailer trash clutching his sissy bars. He got off the bike and ordered her to stay outside.
As he sauntered in, Carlos asked, “Who’s the beauty queen?”
“Can’t remember her name. Grabbed her in the parking lot at the Apache Junction Wal-Mart.”
“Well, get rid of her,” Carlos said.
“Fuck that. We go bitchless, they’ll think we’re a bunch of homos. Not cool.”
“All right, fair enough. But if she becomes a liability, then the gig’s off. I think Jay and Timmy will agree.” We said we did. Rudy said don’t worry about it.
Mormon Lake is about two hundred miles north of central Phoenix, off I-17. Rudy and I rode up front, him on the left, me on the right—the usual positions for the president and vice of an OMG. The members fell in behind us. Behind all of us, keeping their distance, were the two vehicles that carried the cover team: a white rental truck and a passenger van.
About a hundred miles in, we pulled off at Cordes Junction to gas up. We stopped at a Mobil and unassed. My legs and shoulders were killing me.
I felt as old as the road was long.
Rudy slouched on his bike like a vacationer in a hammock. He yelled, “Prospect! Go get me a pack of Reds, and make sure you tell the bitch-ass attendant we’re filling
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