Monk by Ivy Black

Chapter Six

Monk

I lean back against my bike and take a drag off my cigarette. I look up at the sky and exhale, my plume of smoke drifting up toward the thick clouds overhead. A couple of our guys, Max and Eric, are leaning against the van, copping a smoke while we wait.

“They’re late,” I say.

“They’re always late,” Cosmo replies as he steps up beside me.

We’re standing in a vacant parking lot in the shadow of a derelict warehouse that’s situated in an unincorporated stretch of land well east of Blue Rock Bay that’s about halfway to Fresno. Once upon a time, some folks banded together and tried to make a go of it out here in the middle of nowhere. Their attempt at making a home out here went tits up, and now all that’s left are tumbleweeds and a host of dilapidated buildings. It’s a modern-day ghost town, which of course, makes it perfect for the business we’re doing out here.

I take another drag and look toward the road. “I hate people who can’t manage to be on time.”

Cosmo laughs. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a little anal retentive about shit?”

“You tell me all the time.”

“Yet you never seem to hear me.”

“Oh, I hear you,” I say to him with arched brows. “I just think you’re full of shit.”

His sudden laughter booms across the empty parking lot, startling Max and Eric, both of them instinctively reaching for the 9mm handguns tucked into the back of their jeans. I wave them off, showing them there’s nothing to be worried about, and they relax and go back to talking and smoking.

“I didn’t think it possible, but I may have found somebody wound tighter than you,” Cosmo says.

“Yeah, well, having to deal with these clowns will do that. Why do we deal with these guys anyway?”

“Money,” he replies. “Theirs spends as easily as anybody else’s.”

I nod, having no choice but to acknowledge the truth of the statement. We make good money dealing with them, and I never complain when I get my cut, so I guess I ought to probably keep my mouth shut about them. It’s just hard to do sometimes.

“Why do you hate them so much?” Cosmo asks.

I shrug. “They’re unpredictable. They always look like they’re a hair’s breadth from unloading on us. Especially Miguel. That dude’s not right up here,” I tell him, tapping my head to emphasize the point.

Cosmo waves me off. “Miguel’s all right. Yeah, he’s a little intense. But you just need to know how to talk to him.”

“I’d rather not have to.”

He laughs. “Hey, if you ever want to be road captain, you’re going to have to know how to get along with other MCs.”

“Who says I want to be road captain?”

“I know you, kid. You’re smart, ambitious,” he says. “I know you’re a natural-born leader. Why wouldn’t you want to have a leadership position in the club?”

I breathe out a mouthful of smoke and watch it drift off. “Maybe I don’t want the responsibility. Maybe I’m good where I am, doing what I’m doing now.”

He scoffs. “Playing bodyguard on these runs? You’re better than that. Even I know that.”

I start to grin. “You’re on these runs with me. What’s that say about you?”

“That I’m in charge out here. Being road captain’s a good gig,” he replies and punches me in the shoulder. “Besides, if I ever decide I want higher office, this adds to my résumé.”

“Christ, you make it sound so political.”

“Make no mistake, kid, everything is political. Especially in an MC,” he tells me, his voice earnest. “That’s why it’s important to know who you’re backing. Who you’re not. And more important than anything else, who you vouch for. In the club, your word is everything. Remember that.”

The rumble of engines approaching draws my attention and I see a pair of bikes riding in front of a black van. If it had been sunny, the chrome on the two bikes would be blinding. They’ve got ape hangers—those above-the-shoulder handlebars that are appropriately named given the gorillas on the backs of those Harleys.

They roll to a stop near us, and their van pulls in beside them. I drop my smoke and crush it out under my boot. Miguel Cerrano, known as Tarantula, gets off his bike and unbuckles the chin strap. He’s the road captain for Montezuma’s Raiders—a Mexican MC that operates in the Fresno/Bakersfield Central Valley corridor. He takes off his gloves, drops them into his helmet, and hangs it off the handlebars. His men stand near the van, waiting for their cue.

“Que pasa, hermanos?” he greets us.

Cosmo gives him a handshake and a brief, two-thumps-on-the-back embrace. I shake his hand and give him a nod, and he smiles at me like the Cheshire Cat.

“This one,” he says, his voice thickly accented. “Always so serious and shit.”

Cosmo smiles. “Yeah, we’re trying to break him off that habit.”

“Life is to be enjoyed, ese,” he tells me. “Learn to laugh a little, eh?”

“Yeah, I’ll take that under advisement, thanks.”

Tarantula looks at me stonily for a moment, then breaks into raucous laughter. He claps me on the shoulder, then elbows his man—Bala—in the ribs. Bala laughs along with him, as his eyes remain fixed on me. I suspect Bala and I are a lot more alike than not. He’s here to do a job and look after his MC—same as me.

I can tell that Bala’s smart. Shrewd. He may look to some like he’s laidback and is blissfully unaware of what’s going on around him, but I know the guy doesn’t miss a thing. And also, from having been in the military, I can tell you the guy is coiled tight, and though he may look casual, he’s ready for action in a heartbeat. If shit goes sideways, Bala is the first one I’ll take out because he’s obviously the biggest threat so far.

“How are things in the Central Valley?” Cosmo asks.

Tarantula shrugs. “It’s okay. Hot as fuck, but all good.”

“Business still rolling?”

He nods. “Boomin’, baby. Lots of people movin’ into the area means lots of new customers. Business is good, ese.”

“That’s good,” Cosmo replies. “We need to talk about upping quantities?”

“Could be. Could be. My prez will be callin’ yours, I’m sure.”

“Good to know. Anyway, should we get this done?”

Tarantula nods. “Let’s do it.”

Cosmo gives me a nod and I walk over to the van with Bala and motion for the boys to open the back doors. As soon as they do, Bala inspects the contents: two hundred pounds of medical-grade weed. Bala picks up one of the bags and gives it a sniff. He turns to Tarantula and gives him a thumbs-up.

Bala and I step back, and I let my guys help his guys load the bags of weed into their van. Neither of us speaks for a long moment, but the air between us crackles with tension. Finally, he looks over at me with a curled upper lip.

“You don’t like me, do you?” he asks.

“I don’t know you.”

“Yeah, but you stand there all high and mighty. You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”

I give him an incredulous look, but don’t say anything because I think the question’s so stupid it doesn’t even merit a response. I don’t think he’s challenging me, though. There’s no hard edge to his voice. I honestly think that, for whatever reason, he’s just curious.

“Yeah, you think you’re better than me,” he says.

“I never took you to be the insecure type.”

He shrugs. “It ain’t like that, homie. It’s just curious that you think you’re better than me.”

“How do you figure?”

“I’m a biker. You’re a biker. I deal drugs. You deal drugs. I buy guns. You sell guns. You do crimes. I do crimes. From where I stand, we’re two sides of the same coin, homie. You’re no better than me, and I’m no worse than you,” he explains.

I watch Max and Eric carry the bags to the other van, letting Bala’s words rattle around in my head for a minute. It’s a perspective I haven’t considered before. The truth is, I’ve never actually thought of myself as being better than Bala and his crew. It’s just that I’ve considered them to be criminals and have somehow spared myself the same label.

To be fair, neither I nor any of the Pharaohs do anything remotely close to what the Raiders do. We don’t deal in the kind of drugs they do. We don’t murder people—and I know for fact that they do. And it’s in those distinctions I’ve found a way to tell myself I am not like them. Nor any of the other MCs we deal with.

But put in stark terms like that—terms I’ve shielded myself from, I suppose—a criminal is a criminal. Crimes are crimes. Yeah, there’s a matter of degree, but the bottom line is that I still commit crimes. Same as Bala. I guess I’ve been engaging in a little self-delusion to protect myself from the idea that I really am the dirtbag Sheriff Singer seems to think I am.

“Well, I never said I was better than you,” I finally tell him.

“You sure act like it.”

“Don’t mean to. If it helps, I know I’m not.”

He nods as if it does indeed help. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around what he’s just said. I’m not one who likes to lie to myself. And I definitely don’t like being a hypocrite. Finding out I’m doing both things is kind of a trip. It’s something I’ll have to think more about later.

“We good?” I ask.

“Yeah. We’re good.”

The guys finish loading and close the doors on the vans. Cosmo and Tarantula look pretty engaged with each other and are having an animated conversation. What about, I have no idea. It doesn’t look heated, so I’m not overly worried about it, but I’m keeping an eye on things.

“You know what they’re talking about?” I ask.

He nods. “Our prez wants to know if you guys have a hookup for meth. We’re lookin’ to get into the biz.”

“Yeah, I can already tell you that’s not gonna happen. We don’t roll with that shit.”

Bala shrugs. “Money can open a lot of doors, man. And that market is flush with cash. There’s a lot of money to be made.”

I shake my head. “Ain’t gonna happen. Weed is as hardcore as we get.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I guess we’ll see.”

“Suppose we will.”

Tarantula waves Bala over, and he turns to me, putting his fist out. I hesitate for a moment but give him a nod and bump my fist against his. A smile crosses his face as he turns and heads over to his crew. I walk over to Cosmo and we watch Montezuma’s Raiders take off, kicking up a tail of dust and gravel in their wake.

“Tell me we’re not gettin’ into the meth business,” I say.

“It’s a legit offer. I gotta take it to Prophet.”

“Dude, we don’t deal that shit.”

He shrugs. “We sling dope, man.”

“We sling weed.”

“And guns.”

It’s like a bad replay of my conversation with Bala all over again. But unlike that chat, I have Prophet’s own words to fall back on, him saying that weed’s one thing, but we don’t put that sort of hard poison into the world. That’s not our thing. And Prophet has always said it never will be.

It’s then that Bala’s words float back into my head. Money opens a lot of doors. I hope that’s not the case. If we get into that sort of business, I don’t know if I can keep riding with the Pharaohs.

“It’d bother you if we started slingin’ meth, huh?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. I’ve always thought that we’re a club that tries to do the right thing. More or less anyway. But one thing I thought for sure was that we don’t put that sort of shit into the world.”

“My feeling? It’s DOA,” Cosmo tries to reassure me. “But like I said, it’s a legit offer, and it’s my job to bring it to the prez.”

I don’t know Prophet extremely well, but I like to think he’s a standup guy. My every instinct tells me he is. He’s guided the Pharaohs along a path most MCs don’t travel. We’re not saints, but there are far worse out there than us. But there are a lot of things I don’t know about the man.

“How much does Prophet value money?” I ask.

“Probably not as much as you fear. But I guess we’ll see,” he replies. “Come on. We need to get to St. Aggie’s. We still have a shift in the booth.”

I feel amused at the incongruity of it all. Here we are, on the cusp of potentially starting to sling meth… and we’re going to work a food drive at a local church. But this is one thing I know we do and I’m comfortable with it. Doing good and giving back to our community is something I actually enjoy. It helps me feel like less of a dirtbag.

We mount our bikes as the boys drive off in the van. Cosmo turns to me, his expression earnest.

“Don’t worry, kid,” he says. “I don’t think Prophet’s going to go for it.”

I nod. “Good to know.”

He gives me a cocky look. “But don’t start gettin’ the idea that we’re fuckin’ saints. We’re most definitely not.”

He drives off, leaving me there smiling to myself as I twist the throttle and take off after him.