Page 47 of Devil's Marker

“Kept R.C. company. Just like Boss told me to.”

Cue narrowed his eyes in a way that made Win think he was going to be questioned, but to his relief, Cue seemed to decide to let it go. “Whatever.”

“What’s happened?” Looking around Win could see that people were engaged in little pockets of serious conversation.

“We got eyes on S&B. Got a call that their prez and enforcer had pulled into the Harley dealership. Boss thought it would be a good time to have a little talk. So we rode over.”

“Who’s we?”

“’Bout sixteen of us. We got two at the hospital watchin’ Hop. Left the two prospects here.” He eyed Win. “You were away on an errand. The rest of us showed in force. Put a perimeter around the building.”

“On a Saturday? When all the doctors and lawyers and candlestick makers are buyin’ rides or repairs or Sturgis shirts? Bet the dealership loved that.”

“They didn’t. They called the cops.”

“That was to be expected. Don’t ya think?”

“Listen, smart ass. You want to know or not?”

“Yeah, Cue. I wanna know.”

“Four of us went inside. Boss. Zip. Smash. And me. The fuckers were lookin’ at a Dyna Street Bob, pretty as you please. They didn’t look worried when we walked up. In fact they did that thing where they smiled, but they weren’t really smilin’. You know what I mean?”

“Smirk or sneer?”

Cue seemed to think about that for a second. “Smirk, I think. Coulda been sneers. Maybe one smirked and one sneered. Hard to tell.”

“Got it.”

“So the low life prez is wearin’ his cut with no shirt underneath. Damn trashy look if you ask me. Worse than a wife beater. They both got big long beards like ZZ Top. But they ain’t no ZZ Top if ya know what I mean.”

“I do.”

“Plus. It’d be too dumb for words in a fight. Anybody who gets ahold of a beard like that can lead a man around like a fuckin’ horse with a bridle. Head goes where the beard goes. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” Win nodded.

“Their prez is kinda young. Too young to be a prez. And redheaded. You know what that means.”

“What?”

“Hothead. Reds are always hotheads. Like they got fire in the blood or somethin’.” Win nodded without conceding agreement to Cue’s brand of folk wisdom. “Anyways, when Boss walks up to ‘em, Dredge… that’s the prez’s name, Dredge widens his stance like this,” Cue demonstrated, “and crossed his arms over his chest.” Cue demonstrated that as well.

“Boss says, ‘Dredge’.

“Dredge says, ‘What do you want?”

“’Want to have a little talk about what happened to one of my boys earlier in the week. Out on 35?’

“Dredge looks at the guy with him, tall ugly-as-hell cocksucker with a scar across his face right here.” Cue drew his finger across his own face to illustrate the path of ‘cocksucker’s’ scar. “The man shakes his head and looks unconcerned like he’s clueless to what Boss is talkin’ about.

“Boss says, ‘This mean you’re denyin’ it?’ And he has his eyebrows up to here when he asks.” He points to a spot just above his own hairline. “I can tell you from long time experience that, when Boss’s eyebrows are way up here, you’d best be tellin’ him what he wants to know. Post. Haste.”

“Duly noted.”

Cue nodded as if to say that he approved of the prudence Win showed by taking his warning to heart.

“Dredge says, ‘We’re here to look at a ride. You got somethin’ to say, say it. If not, be somewhere else ‘cause we got things to do.’ Now, see, that’s the wrong kind of thing to say to Boss.”

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