see who was leaning against the wall at the entrance, though he did smell cigarette smoke.
“Hey, pendejo , you not going to say hello to me?”
Only one man called Luke pendejo, which had different regional meanings in Spanish, mostly along the lines of “stupid,” “idiot,” or “jackass.” But from this particular criminal, it meant “asshole.”
Luke whirled to see Pez, the man who acted as the intermediary between the MC club and the Rojos and the Hombres. He was one of the few who had membership in both gangs. He was sent to Westfield in August to straighten out the problem caused by Luke’s old president, Jack Kinney, and the Rojos and the Hombres. But Pez’s solution, to let everyone shoot it out between themselves, nearly cost Luke his life. He didn’t trust Pez a single iota.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” said Luke coldly. This was turning out to be one hell of night.
“A couple of my boys got in a knife fight.”
Luke nodded. “I meant here in Middletown. Don’t you live in Bridgeport?”
“After the Westfield Rojos clubhouse was cleaned out, I decided to take up residence there.” He flicked his spent cigarette to the ground and lit another one. He offered his pack to Luke, but Luke waved him off.
“No; gave them up a long time ago,” said Luke.
Pez shrugged.
“So,” said Luke, “Bridgeport not big enough for you?”
“Nah, moved up.” He turned so Luke could see the back of his leather jacket that sported a leering red devil in the center, the word “Rojos” in a top-arched rocker, and the words “Central Connecticut” in the bottom rocker.
Luke’s jaw set. Of course Pez would have a three-piece patch, the mark of a criminal MC club. It was bad enough when the twenty or so Westfield Rojos occupied that clubhouse, but Pez being president of a newly formed and larger charter was another leap in size of criminality in Luke’s little town. Pez waved his hand toward Luke. “But I see you’ve come down in the world.” He pointed to Luke’s jacket, which sported a two-piece patch, the mark of a social motorcycle club. Kinney had instituted a three-piece patch in his short reign as the president of Hades’ Spawn.
“I told you before, Pez. The Spawn want no trouble with the Rojos.”
“I was told you won’t be,” said Pez casually. He took a long draw on his cigarette.
Luke’s eyes narrowed. “Who told you that?”
“Your wise guy friend. What’s his name? Saks vouched for you with his leadership.”
Fuck , thought Luke. Saks was related by blood to the wise guy, but he told Luke he wasn’t involved with them. Maybe Saks lied.
“But don’t be fooled,” said Pez. “Lil’ Ricki still wants your ass.”
Luke stared at Pez, well aware that the incarcerated Rojos state president had made threats against Luke’s life for imagined wrongs. Luke, however, didn’t worry too much about him. One, Lil’ Ricki declared that only he was allowed to seek revenge against Luke. Two, Lil’ Ricki still had twenty years on his sentence.
“Whether or not he gets it is another story,” said Luke.
“We’ll see about that, cabron . We’ll see about that.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Closing Time at the Red Bull
“ Luke ,” said Helen as she slid into the toasty warm SUV, “you’re an absolute prince.” She shivered. “It’s so cold tonight; it goes right through the bones.” She wrapped her arms around herself, drawing her beige camel coat close to her.
“And it’s only November,” replied Luke. He glanced out of his window to see Pez give him a quick wave. Luke flexed his fingers on the steering wheel while clenching his jaw, and turned out of the Emergency Room parking lot.
“How’s Emily?” asked Helen.
“She’s okay. They just want to keep her under observation overnight.”
“Uh-huh,” she replied, obviously not believing him. “Luke, we’ve known each other a long time. You don’t have to put on a brave front
“Hey, pendejo , you not going to say hello to me?”
Only one man called Luke pendejo, which had different regional meanings in Spanish, mostly along the lines of “stupid,” “idiot,” or “jackass.” But from this particular criminal, it meant “asshole.”
Luke whirled to see Pez, the man who acted as the intermediary between the MC club and the Rojos and the Hombres. He was one of the few who had membership in both gangs. He was sent to Westfield in August to straighten out the problem caused by Luke’s old president, Jack Kinney, and the Rojos and the Hombres. But Pez’s solution, to let everyone shoot it out between themselves, nearly cost Luke his life. He didn’t trust Pez a single iota.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” said Luke coldly. This was turning out to be one hell of night.
“A couple of my boys got in a knife fight.”
Luke nodded. “I meant here in Middletown. Don’t you live in Bridgeport?”
“After the Westfield Rojos clubhouse was cleaned out, I decided to take up residence there.” He flicked his spent cigarette to the ground and lit another one. He offered his pack to Luke, but Luke waved him off.
“No; gave them up a long time ago,” said Luke.
Pez shrugged.
“So,” said Luke, “Bridgeport not big enough for you?”
“Nah, moved up.” He turned so Luke could see the back of his leather jacket that sported a leering red devil in the center, the word “Rojos” in a top-arched rocker, and the words “Central Connecticut” in the bottom rocker.
Luke’s jaw set. Of course Pez would have a three-piece patch, the mark of a criminal MC club. It was bad enough when the twenty or so Westfield Rojos occupied that clubhouse, but Pez being president of a newly formed and larger charter was another leap in size of criminality in Luke’s little town. Pez waved his hand toward Luke. “But I see you’ve come down in the world.” He pointed to Luke’s jacket, which sported a two-piece patch, the mark of a social motorcycle club. Kinney had instituted a three-piece patch in his short reign as the president of Hades’ Spawn.
“I told you before, Pez. The Spawn want no trouble with the Rojos.”
“I was told you won’t be,” said Pez casually. He took a long draw on his cigarette.
Luke’s eyes narrowed. “Who told you that?”
“Your wise guy friend. What’s his name? Saks vouched for you with his leadership.”
Fuck , thought Luke. Saks was related by blood to the wise guy, but he told Luke he wasn’t involved with them. Maybe Saks lied.
“But don’t be fooled,” said Pez. “Lil’ Ricki still wants your ass.”
Luke stared at Pez, well aware that the incarcerated Rojos state president had made threats against Luke’s life for imagined wrongs. Luke, however, didn’t worry too much about him. One, Lil’ Ricki declared that only he was allowed to seek revenge against Luke. Two, Lil’ Ricki still had twenty years on his sentence.
“Whether or not he gets it is another story,” said Luke.
“We’ll see about that, cabron . We’ll see about that.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Closing Time at the Red Bull
“ Luke ,” said Helen as she slid into the toasty warm SUV, “you’re an absolute prince.” She shivered. “It’s so cold tonight; it goes right through the bones.” She wrapped her arms around herself, drawing her beige camel coat close to her.
“And it’s only November,” replied Luke. He glanced out of his window to see Pez give him a quick wave. Luke flexed his fingers on the steering wheel while clenching his jaw, and turned out of the Emergency Room parking lot.
“How’s Emily?” asked Helen.
“She’s okay. They just want to keep her under observation overnight.”
“Uh-huh,” she replied, obviously not believing him. “Luke, we’ve known each other a long time. You don’t have to put on a brave front
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