Page 11 of Monk
“Work on it harder.”
I nod and wipe away a couple of water spots on the gas tank I missed earlier. He’s right. I shouldn’t talk about club officers like that. But Cosmo and I have a relationship that’s different from most others. I can say things to him I’ll never say to Poe or Prophet—the founder and President of the MC.
I smile at him. I know he’s already heard Cosmo tell the story, and now he’s probing for my version of events. Though I’m surprised it’s not Trig—Mick Spears, the MC’s sergeant at arms—out here questioning me. I know I can get myself into trouble if I represent the club poorly. We already don’t have the greatest of reputations in Blue Rock Bay, so we try to keep our noses clean and don’t need any more bad publicity.
I look over and see our pair of prospects loading boxes of canned goods and other items into one of the club’s vans. They’re laughing and joking with each other before Rusty, one of our guys, walks over and starts giving them both a ration of shit, yelling and screaming at them in a performance worthy of the nastiest drill sergeant I ever had back in the service.
“Rusty takes his prospect hazing pretty seriously,” I note.
Poe nods. “I remember he was particularly hard on you.”
I shrug. “Only because I was the only prospect at the time. Nobody to act as a buffer and kind of share the load of his bullshit.”
Poe laughs and hands me a sheet of paper, so I take a look, amazed that three months have already gone by when I read the advertisement for St. Agnes’ quarterly food drive.
“That time already?” I say.
He nods. “It is. So, I can expect to see you taking a shift at the booth tomorrow, yeah?”
“Of course,” I reply. “But why do we do this? I mean, the people in town hate us. Act like we’re a bunch of uncivilized animals.”
Poe says with a smug look on his face, “Because we are uncivilized animals. But let me ask you this: why did you beat the shit out of that kid at Randy’s?”
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t beat the shit out of him. I gave him a bloody nose.”
“Fine, whatever. Why’d you do it?”
“Because he put his hands on Maggie.”
Poe nods. “Sure, but why did that bother you?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t like the idea of that guy coming into our town, thinking he can put his hands on Maggie like that.”
“Exactly. Our town. We’re as much a part of this community as anybody, kid. People don’t have to like or respect us. What they think of us is ultimately irrelevant,” he says. “But we take care of our own. We take care of our community. And there are people who are hurtin’ and need the help we provide, whether they thank us for it or not. Get it?”
I nod. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Good lad.”
The sound of a car coming through the gates in the wall that surrounds the clubhouse draws our attention. I let out a groan when I see the Sheriff’s Ford Interceptor pulling into our yard. He parks near the garage and climbs out of the SUV. Poe gives me a friendly clap on the shoulder.
“Got a feelin’ he’s here for you,” he says.
“Yeah, me too.”
“Have fun with that.”
Poe heads back to the clubhouse, giving a wave to the sheriff. All around the yard, the guys are eyeballing Sheriff Singer as he strides across the yard toward me. I didn’t hear him approaching, but Cosmo appears at my side, a happy expression on his face.
“Thought you could use a little moral support,” he says.
“Appreciate it.”
Sheriff Milton Singer—Milt to people who actually like the guy—looks like he’s just walked out of central casting for the role of “small town sheriff.” With his silver hair, narrow eyes, deep lines etched into his face, and a jaw that seems to be permanently clenched, he’s also got a bit of an aging gunslinger look about him as well.
He used to play football at Stanford back in the day and has retained that tall, strong frame that’s thick with muscle. Time’s caught up with him, and he’s carrying a bit more paunch than I assume he had back in his playing days.
“Afternoon, Milt,” Cosmo greets him.
