Page 267 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
Walter waves us over to spare seats at a table for six when we’re finished collecting our food. Bud’s sitting beside Walter and the other two seats are occupied by Baez, the road captain, and his wife, Erin. As soon as we’re seated, Erin leans over to Bren and begins chattering about tattoo designs. Baez occasionally interjects when Erin’s ideas get too wild, or at least too expensive, because she’s talking about two full sleeves and a back piece.
The men at the table let Erin’s chatter flow over them without much comment. They don’t need to fill the spaces with talk. They know each other. They trust each other. I have that with Logan, Manny, and Max, but I’ve missed sitting in a big room like this, filled with men who are more than friends.
I slide my arm across the back of Bren’s chair and draw her into my side. I’d have enjoyed the ride and the bikers’ camaraderie without her but having my girl with me transforms this into an experience to savor.
When Erin stops to breathe and eat some lo mein, I lean in and whisper in Bren’s ear, “How’re you doing, bold girl?”
She’s got a mouthful of spicy noodles herself but gives me a thumbs up. When she finishes chewing, she whispers back, “Green as grass, sir.”
“Good. Boys are going to pull me away for a half-hour after dinner. You okay out here by yourself?”
“Of course, sir. How much trouble can I get into?” She gives me that infinitely sassy grin before forking in another mouthful of noodles.
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Just remember, I’m taking you down into the basement where I’ll have you and your sore ass at my mercy for several hours.”
She gulps and her cheeks redden. Being out in the cold air today has given her lots of color, but my threat gives her even more. “I’ll be an angel, sir.”
“Mmm, remains to be seen. Do me a favor and stay out here in the bar. No wandering off.”
“Yes, sir.” She gives me the side-eye before taking another bite of noodles. “Everything okay?”
“Green as grass, girl.” But there’s no point tempting fate. As much as I want to be a part of this group, I don’t know everyone in it. There’s usually a bad apple or two in every barrel and I don’t want Bren to discover one while I’m out of earshot. I know she’s a big girl and can take care of herself, but I brought her into this group and I’m responsible for her safety.
Besides, Brenna’s looking as eye-catching as she always does with her dreads bound up in a big, tie-dyed bandana, wearing a black button-down that shows off her tits and trim waist and those oxblood leather pants that make me fucking drool every time she walks by. Some of the bikers are a hell of a lot better looking than I am and several of them have been giving her the appreciative eyeball. I don’t want one of them to throw her over their shoulder and ride off with her while I’m in the meeting.
Erin starts up again and I let Brenna return to the sleeve planning while I eat my own tongue-searing noodles. As I’m clearing my plate and wondering if Bren will ever let me live it down if I slink off to the bar for a glass of milk, the sergeant at arms comes up behind Walter, puts a hand on the president’sshoulder, and says, while looking at me, “We’re all set up in the Little Green Room.”
Walter nods. “Mac, you about done?”
They’re not wasting any time. “Sure. Just tell me where to take my plate.”
The plates stacked at the beginning of the long buffet were metal, probably Army surplus, instead of paper. Seems like a lot of washing up, but maybe the club figures it’s better for the environment, particularly if they have big meals like this often.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Us girls will take care of it,” Erin interjects.
“Okay.” I hope I haven’t just sentenced Brenna to KP duty, but I rise, giving her a kiss on the temple as I go.
Walter, Bud, and Baez rise with me, leaving Erin and Bren at the table. Erin scoots into the chair I was occupying so she can continue to regale Bren with ideas about her sleeves. I lift my eyebrows at Bren as I follow the bikers away from the table and towards a door behind the bar but she just gives me a wry smile. She’s probably used to this sort of tattoo-groupie.
Smiling to myself at the thought of being one of my favorite tattooist’s groupies, I walk through the door that the club’s VP, Miller, holds open for me. He closes the door once I’m through and I get the sense that this is a private space for the bikers, off-limits to everyone else. That sense is reinforced when I walk down a hall that’s draped with flags: all branches of the service, the state flag, the stars and stripes. There are pictures hung over the flags, of men wearing the Rolling Blue cut, standing proudly next to their bikes. Each picture has a diagonal black strip of cloth carefully pasted to the lower right corner and I realize these are the club’s departed. It’s a nice memorial, dignified but also celebrating their passion. There are worse ways to be remembered.
I hope I’ll be remembered this way someday, instead of a sad announcement in a Florida newspaper I never read.
Ahead of me, Bud holds open a door with an opaque glass window set into it and the words “Little Green Room” stenciled on the glass. It looks like it was part of the original factory, although I can’t imagine what a little green room would be for. The room I’m ushered into is a conference room, with an old, round, wooden table in the middle and straight-backed, wooden chairs drawn up around it. Both the table and chairs look like they were part of the original factory as well. The wood creaks as I take the seat Walter holds out for me.
Five of the Rolling Blue officers sit down around me. Walter, Miller, Bud, Stape, and Baez. Former DEA, cop, Air Force, cop, and ATF. Lot of service to our country gathered around this battered table. These are hard men, who have probably had to make the same sorts of decisions I have, and I respect them. I sit as comfortably in the chair as the unyielding wood allows and wait for them to say their piece.
Bud and Stape are carrying folders that they set down on the scarred table. The others arrange their hands, and their expressions, into what I’d call neutral ready. They’re alert, listening, but relaxed in the company of their brothers. That’s a level of comfort, of mental relaxation, that I’ve missed and would very much like to have again.
Bud shifts around on his seat and grumbles, “Why haven’t we replaced these damn chairs? They’re breaking my ass.”
There are chuckles around the table. “Helps keep meetings short,” Baez offers.
“Let’s get to it, then,” Walter says. “Mac, we’re going to talk about some club business. I’m not going to confiscate your phone, but I’d appreciate it if you’d turn it off in front of us.”
“Sure.” I take out my phone, tap it on, then power it off.
“Thanks for that,” Walter says. “I don’t think it’ll come as a surprise when I tell you we want you to join the club.”
