Page 27 of Gonzo's Grudge
Loco shook his head. “Sins of the father always have to be paid by someone.”
We finished the run, turned the trucks over to men who didn’t ask many questions, then split. I hit the motel, stared at the ceiling long enough to feel pathetic and called her.
“Hello?” she said, voice soft, like she was trying to pull the sound back into her.
“It’s me.” I replied, expecting her to know who I was.
A breath, a quiet that wasn’t empty. “You haven’t been around.”
“Yeah. Run. Out of state. Called to check in on you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t, but I did.”
Silence stretched. I could hear noise through the phone—mutterings of a person, but I couldn’t make out who. “How’s… GJ?” she asked.
The name was a blade every time. “Hanging on best anyone can doing time for something they didn’t do.”
“He’ll hold on,” she whispered. “He has you.”
I shut my eyes wishing my boy was free. “And you? IvaLeigh, how are you doing?”
“I’m managing,” she said, a smile under the words that I could feel but not see. “It’s easier now that you called.”
“Good. Don’t let shit get to you. I’ll see you when I get back.” She seemed to pipe up after that. I let her talk about Darla and Collin and school. Not that I gave two shits about any of it. When she started yawning, I used it as an exit to get off the phone.
Only once I told her good night did I find a way to sleep for myself. No one ever had me this knotted up inside and I didn’t like the feeling.
By the time we rolled back into Dreadnought, my bones hurt from riding. I didn’t go to my cabin. Didn’t go see her. Church had been called, and the club came first. The only way I could keep either of them safe was to keep the table strong.
The clubhouse lot was already full when I pulled in. The building threw long shadows across the asphalt. Music bled through the walls, bass steady as a heartbeat. Inside, the main room smelled like old smoke and new polish; somebody had cleaned while we were gone. Good. Felt like a place that could hold the weight.
I pushed through to the vault. The oak table scarred by a thousand knuckles, chairs labeled by patches and time, Pop’s gavel waiting at the head like a small hammer that had crushed big problems. His chair will always look too big. It didn’t matter that I filled it now; the wood still remembered him.
Brothers slid into seats. Shanks. Tower. Pull. Jester. Loco. Disciple. Peanut. One by one, they kept coming in. Clutch, followed by Dippy. Lead and Chains were the last in to seal the door behind them. Burn with a folder so thick it looked like it could stop a bullet was ready to share with the club.
I picked up the gavel and let it fall once. The room snapped tight. “Call to order.”
Burn didn’t wait for me to ask. He stood, the top page of his file clipped to a cardboard back, the rest bound in rubber bands. He looked like a man who’d dug up a body and was about to show it to us.
“Judge Walsh,” he said.
A growl rolled around the table, low and collective.
Burn flipped the top sheet. “We been saying for weeks he’s on the take. I can now tell you who’s holding the leash and why he wears the fucking collar to toe the line. Walsh has been having an affair—last two years—with a married woman from Ashe County. Husband’s a bank VP at Tri-State Southern. Woman’s name is Darlene Kemp. She runs business arrangements for the bank.”
Nails snorted. “Of course her name is Darlene.”
Burn didn’t smile. He laid photographs down in the center—blurry telephoto shots of Walsh and a woman with big hair and careful makeup going in and out of a chain hotel. Receipts followed—rooms at the Belvoir Inn off 18, six times, spaced out like they thought they were smart. Text prints came next: time-stamped messages from a burner number saved under some idiot pseudonym.
“How’s Hampton factor?” I asked, voice steady.
Burn tapped the corner of a receipt. “Hotel’s on a county vendor card. Not Walsh’s. Belongs to the Civic Renewal Office. Hampton’s office administers it. That card got swiped for two rooms, four nights, right before Walsh accepted a ‘temporary assignment’ to the district bench here.” Burn’s finger moved to another paper. “Private investigator on Hampton’s payroll from last fall—one Ted Malley—caught them together. Hampton confronted Walsh with photos, told him he’d back his appointment if Walsh played ball in this district. Ball equals bail denials, motion denials, jury instructions we all saw.”
“Jesus,” Loco muttered. “Who approved the card use?”
“County clerk’s office. We got a name: Sutter. Signed off with a forged ‘emergency lodging’ note under the flood relief line item.” Burn’s eyes went colder. “Which brings me to part two. Hampton’s been embezzling federal and state funds since the pandemic money started flowing. He set up three shell vendors—Stanley Aggregate & Paving LLC, Cape Yaw Consulting, and a nonprofit front called Douglas & Fine Arts Initiative. He shuffles grants through change orders, ‘emergency’ procurements, no-bid contracts, then launders through those three. Out the back end, money hits personal accounts, personal real estate, and debts owed by people he’s got under his thumb.”
