“He’s leaving!” She tugs on my jacket.
My head snaps up and I spot a guy walking out of the doors wearing a dark wool coat over a suit. From what I can tell, it does look like the Facebook photos we creeped off Mrs. Trainor’s page. His shoulders are hunched and he runs an agitated hand through his already messy hair. When he reaches the sidewalk, he looks around—almost furtively. His gaze lands on us but bounces off. He doesn’t recognize us and there’s no reason why he should.
We don’t run in the same circles and frankly, even if we did, Chelsea and I are bundled up in heavy parkas, hats and gloves.
Mr. Trainor is no taller than five ten and, even with the overcoat, he looks small. I think Chelsea could take him. Trainor turns left and starts walking to the parking garage. We wait until he disappears inside before we hop into the truck. Abel’s vehicle smells new even though I think he’s had it for a year. He must never drive it. Some bikers are like that—wanting to ride the hog all the time, no matter the weather.
“God, I don’t know if I’m more orgasmic now having the heat on than I was last night when your tongue was between my legs.”
“I’d be insulted if I didn’t agree with you.” The heat feels great after standing outside in the sub-freezing temperature. At least it wasn’t windy. It takes ten minutes for Trainor to pull out of the garage in a high end Mercedes. “Either he makes a lot of money at his accounting firm or his meth production pays well. That’s a two hundred thousand dollar Benz.”
“Really?” she presses her face against the window trying to see exactly why the sedate dark four door sedan cost so much money. We follow him over to Lake Street, near the U of M, not too far from the Misery MC. The area is a little run down and the place he parks his Benz in front of is surrounded by cheap cars and junkers. He leaves it with confidence though, because he doesn't even look back when he climbs out of the car. He’s certainly comfortable here.
“Ready?” She nods and pulls her knit cap tighter over her ears. She's wearing a shapeless puffy coat and loose fitting jeans. I've left my leathers at home. We don’t want to be noticed. I take her hand and we enter the bar. There are no bouncers here and the interior looks about as worn out as the exterior. The floor is sticky and the mirror behind the bar is cracked. I order two beers which the bartender serves without asking for identification. As soon as we pay, he turns his attention back to the television.
Trainor slides into a booth across from a white male with long hair and an even longer beard. Chelsea sucks in a breath and turns away from the pair. “He’s wearing a cut.”
I nod and stare hard at the mirror trying to see if I can make out any of the patches on the front of his leather vest. We’re going to have to wait until their business is concluded and the biker leaves. The patches on the back will tell us all we need to know. Chels nurses her one bear and I’m half way into my second when the two are done talking. Trainor leaves first and the biker dawdles for a few minutes, tapping something out on his phone before he gets up and exits as well.
“Misery MC,” she whispers as the door closes behind the biker. “Who are we following?”
“Trainor,” I answer immediately. “We know where to find the other guy.”
Chelsea sucks in a breath. “Is the Misery club the one that was headed by Dad’s friend who died? And now his son is in charge?”
“Yep. Judge has known it’s a sick club but I don’t think he knew how sick. We came and got a bunch of the assets and moved them out of reach of the club—at Junior’s request. Looks like it was the right call. He doesn’t trust everyone in his crew.”
“Junior?”
“Road name,” I explain. The Beemer is moving south on I 35 toward Burnsville which is not the route to Fortune. “His dad and Judge were in the Army together, I guess. Judge invited the old man to be part of the Death Lords, but the vet decided to start his own club in the Cities. Called it the Misery Makers or some shit and it got shortened to just Misery. His son is struggling to keep it together and Judge is lending a small hand here and there.”
Trainor pulls into a motel that is more Chels and my style than his. I park near the front and grab Abel’s big ass camera from the back seat. It has a telephoto lens that is more powerful than most binoculars, he claims. At least this way we look more like private investigators than creepers.
“Who owns that monster?”
“God, Chels, talk about leaving yourself wide open.” She punches me in the arm but I’m able to evade her. Hooking my arm around her neck, I drag her close. “The only monster you need to be worried about is the one in my pants. The camera is Abel’s.”
She blows a raspberry in my neck. “Didn’t know he was into that sort of thing. What’s Trainor doing?”
“Checking in.” I zoom in. “Shit, I can almost make out the room number with this camera. Lift it up for me, Trainor. That’s right.” The key folder displays the numbers 212. “Second floor.”
I set the camera down. “I think we should go home. Tell Judge what we know. Touch base with Junior and find out if he’s peddling meth or if there’s a loose cannon.”
Chels is disappointed, but she settles into the passenger without argument because the two of us armed with a camera can’t do too much here. Besides, we’ve found out what we needed to know. Trainor’s avoiding his home, making deals with MC members, and lying low in a low rent motel. He’s hiding something but not for long.
9
WRECKER
I head straight for the clubhouse. Chelsea calls Judge on the phone and has him meet us there. If Junior’s selling meth then Judge will want to cut him loose. It’s not that we care too much about the drugs themselves, but the problems that come with drug trafficking. It’s a quick way to bring the law down on your heads; not to mention everyone is fucking over-territorial. Lots of people around the drug trade disappear suddenly.
I drop Chels off at the Cut-n-Curl because this is club business. Judge, Flint and the two Enforcers—Michigan and Easy—are present when I arrive. I give them a detailed rundown of the meth lab explosion at the Trainors’, Mr. Trainor’s meeting with the Misery MC member, and him hiding out at the motel.
Judge chews on the information for a bit and then admits, “I’ve been thinking about this all night. Eric Schmidt was hired as Chief of Police five years ago, not too long before you had the run in with that skinhead from the Eighty-Eight. After the Eighty-Eight got a foothold to the West, it seemed obvious that they’d run their flesh and drug trafficking straight through Fortune to the Twin Cities. If you’ll recall a few of us smaller clubs got together and forced the Eighty-Eight back.”
“But you think that they did an end around with Schmidt?” He nods and from the lack of surprise on the other men’s faces, this information is only new to me.
“It makes sense.” Judge rubs his chin. “I always felt that he must have hated me for some other reason other than a power struggle. No one’s ego is that fragile.”
Easy snorts but it makes sense.
“If the Death Lords were gone then the trafficking routes through Fortune would open up.” We’re a straight shot down Interstate 94 from North Dakota on the way to the Twin Cities. Having to go around us is a pain in their ass. Suddenly Judge curses. “That dumb fuck. I don't care that he's running drugs or cooking up meth but you don't shit where you eat. You raise your family in a nice safe place and you don't bring this stuff around them. The drug trade is fucking dangerous as all hell and being that close to home? What a dumb fucking idiot. I get why he doesn’t want us around but we can’t have him running this town because he’s too stupid to live.”
If Schmidt were here, Judge probably would have choked the life out of him—bare-handed.
“So what about Misery?” I ask. Drugs are the easiest money around and meth is cheap and simple to create. The main ingredients can be found in almost every barn from here to Fargo. The problem with drugs is the competition. Protecting turf often ends in bloody wars. And the numbe
r of my fellow inmates that were in because of drugs was too numerous to count. It doesn’t surprise me that a club that lost its leader would look to something like trafficking to replenish its bank account.
“Junior reached out to me after you boys went up to move some of the assets. He wondered if I’d loan him a member or two. We need to find out what Misery knows, what other clubs are involved, and if it's going to touch us,” he replies darkly.
“Wrecker shouldn’t go alone,” Flint interjects.
“Yeah I know.” Judge drums his fingers on the bar top.
Easy and Michigan share an unhappy glance. It makes sense for one of them to go with me but Annie, their girl, is about to pop.
“How about Abel?” I interject. “He went up with us to move the assets, so Junior and the crew are familiar with him.”
“I like it,” Flint muses.
This decides it for Judge. He gives an abrupt chin nod toward Easy. “Call up BangBang and get an exec council vote.”
It doesn’t take long for BangBang to roar up on his bike. The vote is unanimous. Two Death Lords will go up to Minneapolis and find out what the fuck is going down with Misery. Trainor is to be watched by us while the local Death Lords and a few other friendlies put feelers out about Schmidt and any trafficking.
“Do you think county is into this?” I ask Judge and I walk out from the chapel room that runs in the back of the granary that serves as our clubhouse into the main area. Abel is sitting at the bar nursing a beer.
“We can't be too careful but I'll feel Dahlman out.” Dahlman being the county sheriff.
“When I go to Misery how do I play it?”