Page 21 of Minus

“I’m great. I was in the area,” I lied.

He stared at me for a second (like he did when he didn’t believe me) but didn’t challenge me. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

“Well, I better head out,” I said, and slid off my stool. “Early meeting tomorrow.”

“Thanks for dropping by,” Maisie said.

I hugged them both, then walked out to my car, but I waited until I was out of their neighborhood before dialing Booker’s wife, Dani. My brother had almost omniscient ways and I didn’t want to chance him hearing our conversation.

Minus

The MORNING’S rideback to the Sanctuary was shorter than I’d like. The weather was perfect, traffic was light, and as much as I hated to admit it, Cutter’s gift fit me like a glove. As brief as it was, the ride helped center me, to stop my mind from racing. As to what I was going to say to Cutter once we arrived, I had no idea. I wasn’t as angry for being jerked around as I was last night, but my confusion about the situation was growing.

The parking lot was populated with the rides of those still sleeping it off inside. Many of the Saints crew were getting up there in years, but still partied like they were young men. This meant longer hangovers and shorter lifespans for many of them. No doubt, last night’s battle of the livers had surelyleft its share of casualties on the field.

The property was littered with beer cans, food wrappers, and red plastic cups. For reasons unknown to me, the chapel had been made up with Christmas decorations, complete with a giant inflatable snowman and a plastic nativity set. The three wise men had been replaced with novelty inflatable sex dolls. They were all male models, with “realistic” chest hair, and each was wearing a Santa hat over his junk. The three of them lined up with their mouths open made them look as if they were saying, “Ho, Ho, Ho.”

“What the baby Jesus happened after we left last night?” Clutch asked.

“I’m not sure we really want to know.”

“Let’s go find Cutter,” Clutch said.

“If he’s not stuck in the fuckin’ chimney.”

The inside of the chapel looked as if a bomb had gone off during the taping of the “Burning Saints Holiday Special.” A very fresh-looking fir tree was propped up in the corner and decorated liberally with beer cans, bras, and panties. The tree looked as if it hadn’t been cut down, but rather pulled out of the ground. Grown ass men were passed out with Christmas ornaments hung in their beards. Tinsel was draped over every imaginable surface. Where there wasn’t tinsel, there was trash. Saints were strewn about the place, asleep on any chair, sofa, or available flat surface. “Christmas with the Devil” by Spinal Tap played on repeat in the background but did little to drown out the sound of twenty or more men snoring.

“What the fuck is that smell?” Clutch held a hand over his nose and mouth, as a sickening odor wafted my way, instantly making me want to hurl. The search for the smell’s source led me to the kitchen, where I’d indeed found the scene of the crime.

The murder weapon. Eggnog.

To be more specific, some sort of biker eggnog. Cartons upon cartons of eggshells were stacked by the trash, next to empty milk and Bailey’s bottles. There was also at least a half-dozen bottles of Jägermeister next to a giant punchbowl,that held the remainder of this wicked holiday concoction.

“What the fuck?” Clutch asked in horror. “How much of this shit did they make?”

“How much of it did they drink?” I asked, as another wave of the foul odor hit us.

“Oh, shit. How much did they puke up? We gotta get the fuck outta here, Minus. Let’s find Cutter and split.”

As we made our way back to Cutter’s room, I prepared myself for the worst. I tapped gently on his door and was surprised to hear him respond instantly.

“Come on in,” he answered brightly.

I entered to find Cutter fully alert and dressed for the streets. His beard was trimmed, his hair was slicked back, and although he was utilizing a silver-topped cane, he looked ten years younger than the man I’d seen last night.

“Minus, good morning. You okay? You’ve got a goofy look on your face.”

“To be honest, I expected you to be wearing a Santa suit, face down in a puddle of whatever the fuck I saw in that punchbowl,” I said, motioning toward the kitchen.

“Jägenogg. It’s one of Warthog’s holiday traditions.”

“It smells like a fucking chemical weapon,” I said. “No wonder you have cancer.”

Cutter laughed. “I don’t drink that shit! You think I’m crazy?”

“I guess that’s why you’re the last man standing today.”

“The boys took the news hard last night, God bless ’em, and they drank hard to soften the blow.”

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