Page 16 of Devil's Marker

“You been causin’ quite a stir,” he said when Win topped the steps and came within a few feet.

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“I guess some dumb fuck prospect in El Paso snubbed you. Fucker is out on his ear and lickin’ his wounds.” After a brief chuckle at the stranger’s fate, he said, “You won’t be treated like that here.” Win followed when ‘Slim’ turned and started walking deeper into the interior.

“No? Well, I’ll give you a Ben Franklin to keep shut with Shirley’s old man about the chattin’ me up.”

“Deal.” The big guy chuckled. “Must suck to be you.”

“Let’s just say the new guy doesn’t need that kind of attention.”

Win’s first impression of the club’s massive main gathering space was that it was a unique fusion of mountain lodge with industrial accents and urban graffiti. Big square cedar support beams. Brick walls with graffiti-style biker murals. Distressed wood floors. Every wall had an oversized TV monitor. There were pool tables at one end. Seven long picnic tables with benches in the middle. Black leather modular sofa seating at the other end formed four distinct lounge or conversation areas. The focal point of the entire gigantic space was the horseshoe-shaped bar in the middle.

The pièce de résistance was a turntable high above the bar with a classic, collectible, and, no doubt, enormously costly, 1967 Pan-Shovel. Red. Gleaming chrome. Gorgeous. That bike, slowly going round and round, was damned near hypnotic.

Between the way the club was outfitted and the objet d’art in motorcycle form, Win tabulated revenues topping out much higher than he would have guessed. He wouldn’t have thought Waco, Texas would be an especially lucrative area for the kinds of shadow enterprises outlaw clubs pursued.

Perhaps the most surprising thing was the light. Win had expected the windowless space to be dark except for artificial light by fluorescent panels, maybe LCDs. But each of the four sections had a large expanse of divided skylights above. Overhead windows.

There was no arguing that it was supremely functional and well-suited to its purpose. It was also something that Win had never been tempted to call an MC clubhouse… beautiful. Like someone had invented a new style. Biker chic.

“Name’s Cue. Prez said to bring you back if any of us saw you.”

“Okay.”

“You met him before?”

“Your prez? No. I’ve been in California for a long time.”

Cue nodded. “Huns. That’s what we heard. Boss is all right. Fair. Ya know?” He turned to look at Win as he was stopping in front of a closed door. He knocked twice. Win heard a loud, “Yeah?”

Cue opened the door a crack. “Got the traveler, Boss.”

A waft of cigar smoke snaked out through the tiny space between the door and the jamb. It was still almost enough to make Win cough reflexively.

“Let me see him.” It was clear, sight unseen, that the Waco Marauders’ president possessed the gravelly, grumpy demeanor that seemed to be a universal trait of bikers who rise to that office.

Cue pushed the door open wider to reveal a large executive mahogany desk that would normally dominate any office. But when it came to vying for attention, the desk didn’t stand a chance. Behind it sat a guy with a presence so commanding he didn’t need to say a word to establish that he was master of the premises.

Bolivar Greer glanced up at Win. “Sit yourself down right there.” His chin indicated one of the chairs that sat in front of his desk.

Win turned his head back toward the hallway to take one last breath of merely partially contaminated oxygen before he stepped into the smoke-filled room so desperately in need of its own ventilation system. He sat down in the designated chair and waited, trying to will his eyes not to water. To no avail. Mind over body wasn’t working. Neither was blinking rapidly.

Win heard the door close behind him and thought it sounded as loud as a vault being closed with heavy hydraulics.

When the prez looked up, his mouth twitched. “I see there’s no point in offering you a cigar.”

“Used to smoke. Uh, cigarettes. Now my body treats smoke like an ex with a bad break up.”

Chuckling softly, the prez stubbed out his cigar. “The El Paso chapter sends their regrets that you weren’t welcomed.”

Win nodded. “Everybody was asleep except for a prospect who didn’t know what to do.”

“You makin’ excuses for him?”

Win held the man’s steady gaze as best he could with runny eyes. “No.” He shook his head. “I might be inclined to give him a pass if he’d been polite about it.”

With a knowing smirk of approval, the prez said, “I’m Bolivar Greer. Everybody calls me Boss.”

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