Making the Cut (2 page)

Keeping up on the federal and state gun laws was my job. Having the local cops on our side didn’t hurt matters, and we strived to keep the club out of legal trouble with our gun business. Staying out of jail in general was next to impossible, but outlaw motorcycle clubs weren’t known for abiding by the law.

The
Selected Sinners
were no exception.

“If I’m going to get this order filled in two weeks, I better find Hollywood. Got anything else?” Otis asked as he tossed his bottle in the trash.

I pointed toward the trash can and pulled against the rubber band wrapped around my left wrist. As I released it, snapping it into my wrist, I spoke, “Take that stinkin’ motherfucker to the shop. I don’t want to smell it. And that’s all I got, Otis.”

He shook his head and leaned over the trash can. As he pulled the empty bottle from the trash he turned to face me and rolled his eyes. Slowly he began to saunter toward the door. Otis did everything slow and easy until it was time to throw down in a fight, and then everything turned to lightning speed. I always imagined him saving his energy for such occasions. To watch him leisurely make his way through the day was almost exhausting.

“Better yet, smack that Prospect upside the head with it first. Maybe you’ll knock some sense into his stupid ass,” I laughed.

“Cut him some slack, Slice. He’s a good kid,” Otis sighed as he reached for the door handle with his free hand

“He may be a good kid, but I have my doubts that he’ll make a good
Sinner
,” I responded as I looked up at our motto posted on the wall.

The Devil Looks After His Own.

“We’ll see,” Otis said as he walked through the door.

“Damned sure will,” I huffed.

Damned sure will.

AXTON

Our club was located in a town twenty miles south of Wichita. We’d chosen the particular town because it was close to the action of the larger city, and easier for us to conduct business without constant scrutiny from local law enforcement. Winfield was small at 13,000 people, but a fifteen minute ride from the largest city in the state, boasting 375,000 people.

We did our best to toe the line in the city, and the local law enforcement looked upon us as a blessing instead of a curse. Frank Downtain was the city’s Chief of Police, and he had two underlings to assist him in watching over the city. Winfield wasn’t as adventurous as other large cities, but having the club operate from there was easy. Truly a step back in time, living in Winfield was almost as if we were in the 1950’s.

Frank was in his mid-forties, overweight, and underpaid. As with most small town cops, lining his pockets with a little money went a long way. As soon as we arrived in the city, filtering money Frank’s way began, and it hadn’t stopped. Having been in the city almost ten years, we’d developed a relationship allowing him to do his job, and us to do ours. We made every effort to keep our actions civil in the small town, and he looked the other direction if we ever needed him to. To keep matters palatable to both parties, we attempted to minimize our exposure to criminal activity under Frank’s watch.

For ten years, everything worked well. From time-to-time, Frank had the club resolve issues he couldn’t iron out under the limit of the law. It came as no surprise, and provided support of my belief that
laws are meant to be broken
every time we were asked to assist him in something he wasn’t able to do under the watchful eye of the City Attorney or the State Court.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Frank and I shared a booth in the local Mexican restaurant. The only two patrons in the restaurant, we had the luxury of speaking freely. We often chose the establishment for mid-afternoon meetings for the privacy alone. I shoved another forkful of Chile Pork Verde into my mouth, chewed it slowly while I stared at Frank, and as soon as I swallowed, began to speak.

“Fuck, Frank. Child pornography is a federal crime. Why not call in the Feds?” I asked.

I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and waited for him to respond. After looking over both shoulders, he leaned into the table as much as his beer belly would allow him to. After shuffling his elbows into place and raising his hands to his chin, he looked up. Still somewhat concerned about his little issue with a local photo collector, I fished in my bowl for another piece of elusive pork.

“Alright. I’ll tell you the
whole
story,” he whispered.

I lifted the empty fork from my bowl, rolled my eyes at the lack of pork, and grinned, “Wouldn’t expect otherwise, Frank. Hell, you and I been doin’ this for a
bit
, haven’t we?”

He nodded his head, “I know, but it’s embarrassing. It makes me look incompetent and inexperienced. It’s fucking paperwork. This was going to be a good bust. Someone turned scumbag in, and we investigated it in-house. I could have called the Feds, but I don’t like those guys any more than you do. The Feds are a bunch of arrogant pricks. You know they always stick their badges in your face and tell you they’re on the scene and
head back to the station
like you’re some dip-shit and don’t know anything. Personally, I have no use for them. I just wish this would have gone smoother,” he paused and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.

As he rubbed his face, I nodded my head once in agreement, “Let’s hear it.”

He closed his eyes, and after a moment’s thought, opened them and began to speak softly.

“A middle school kid told his mother he’d been going to this guy’s house for a few years posing for pictures. He said the guy told him if he ever spoke of it, he’d cut his dick off and supposedly he gave this kid a schedule to follow to return to his place for...well…you know, blowjobs. And the other kids supported these statements. So this poor kid is scared to death. You know how little kids want to please adults and they look up to them? Well,
that
part makes my skin crawl. That this son-of-a-bitch used the fact he was an adult to manipulate the kid. So, scared to death and wanting to make the man happy that he was doing what the sick fucker wanted him to, the kid did it for years under the fear of being dismembered. Finally, he reached an age that he began to wonder and feel guilty. The shame and guilt as he got older made him come to his mother for help,” he hesitated and swallowed heavily.

I dropped my fork onto my plate and pushed my bowl to the center of the table. I felt my blood begin to boil. I reached under the table and stretched the rubber band until it almost snapped. As he began to speak again, I released it; snapping it into my wrist.

Snap!

“So, she came to us and we investigated. We held an awareness class at the school. Kids came forth and gave this guy up. Hell, it was almost a perfect investigation. Too damned good to be true is what it was. We typed up the search warrant, and raided his place. On his computer, we uhhm. On his computer, we found. We uhhm,” as he struggled to find the words to finish his sentence, his voice began to falter.

I raised my hand and turned my palm toward him, “I’ve heard enough.”

“Axton, you asked. Let me finish the story. I need to say it and you need to hear it anyway. So…” he paused and rubbed his temples with his fingertips.

As he sat quietly, he reached toward his eyes with his pinkie fingers and attempted to wipe tears from his cheeks. Being a cop in a city the size of Winfield, Frank would probably see a case like this one only once.

But that was one time too many.

After he regained his composure he wiped his eyes again and inhaled a deep breath, “Fuck, this is tougher than I thought; saying it and all. He uhhm. He had videos and pictures, Axton. A lot of them, hell they dated back for years and years. What looked like seven and eight year old kids sucking on his, you know…sucking on his dick while he told them how they were doing such a good job. He would ejaculate on their faces and make some of them swallow it. Sharpe puked when he saw it. I tried to hold myself together, being the Chief and all, but I just lost it. Broke down and started crying right as we watched it. I fucked this deal up, Axton, and I need some help.”

It was all I could do to keep from standing up and knocking all the shit off the table. Generally a reasonable man when it came to keeping my anger at bay, this was far more than I was able to contain. I wanted the address of the pedophile, and I wanted to skin the son-of-a-bitch alive.

I sat up straight in my seat and raised my hand. As Frank stared at my hand, his lip quivered. I reached into my cut and pulled out the small notepad I carried with me. I scribbled a note onto the page. I slid the open note pad to Frank’s side of the table as I held it in my hand.

Get me the information on where the fuck this motherfucker is. And I mean it this time, Frank. I’ve heard enough. I’m about to snap
.

As he read the note, I began to speak in complete contrast to what I had written, “Well, you know the club could help you
find
this guy, but we damned sure can’t do anything beyond that.”

I trusted Frank as much as a biker could trust a cop, but I didn’t
trust
him. I wasn’t dumb enough to get caught up in some conspiracy to commit murder charge, and if I spoke of the things he was asking of me, it would be all too easy for him - or someone else - to record the conversation and use it against me or the club later. To provide me a little false comfort, I always used my notepad to discuss matters which were contrary to the law.

Frank inhaled a deep breath and exhaled loudly as he lowered his hands to the table, “We made a mistake on the search warrant, Axton. And now the computer, everything – all the fruits of the search warrant – they’re gone. Basically we can’t use
any
of it. Everything else on this guy is clean. All we really had was the computer and three kids who were willing to testify. Now all we have is the testimony, and the parents are second guessing having the children testify now.”

The thought of someone doing such shit to a helpless kid made me feel sick. The pedophile probably selected Winfield for his home because it was small and lacked competent law enforcement, under the belief the small town kids would never say a word to anyone, and he could continue to take advantage of them for as long as he wanted.

I turned my head and stared out the window, “That’s a damned shame, Frank. Sounds like a hell of a mess. I feel for those parents and kids.”

I stared out the window for a long moment. As I turned from the window to face Frank, I scribbled onto the notepad and held it under his nose. 

Consider it done. I’ll take care of it myself. Son-of-a-bitch, Frank. Fucking hell, and in this town, what the fuck, huh?

Frank reached into his shirt pocket and removed a pen. As he spoke, he scribbled onto the pad.

“I know. It makes me sick. Hell, I
have
kids,” he shrugged as he continued to write.

After he finished scribbling, I slid the notepad to my side of the table and looked down at what he had written. 

If this guy disappears, no one will give a shit. And hell, anyone could have done it. I’ll write it up as a missing person, and leave it at that. He doesn’t have any family, so who cares, right?

Growing angrier by the second, I clenched my jaw, reached toward my wrist and pulled the rubber band back. After I released it, snapping it into my wrist sharply, I stretched it tight again and released it.

Snap!

I looked down at the red welt growing on the inside of my wrist, “Well, I
don’t
have kids, but I’m a compassionate man. That’s a damn shame, Frank. Maybe a parent will get to him and make him pay, hell who knows.”

I picked my pen up from the table and wrote under the note Frank had written. I turned the pad to face Frank.

Get me the information. I’ll need a day or so to figure it out, and we’ll get it taken care of. I’ll make it clean and as simple as I can.

As he nodded his head, I slipped the pen and notepad into my cut.

“Now I have a story for you,” I sighed.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s not a big deal, really shouldn’t matter. I’m just trying to be respectful to ya, Frank.”

He sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and lowered them onto the top of his stomach, “Okay, what have you got?”

“We’re making a deal with a Mexican gang. They’re not an MC, but a
gang
. I have no idea if it’ll take place here or in Wichita, but it’ll be in about a week or so. If they come
here,
we’ll have ‘em at the clubhouse for a night. Shouldn’t be any problem, and they ought to be respectful, coming to our town and all,” I paused and considered what might realistically happen.

My experience with Mexican gangs was nil, and I had no idea what they planned to do regarding the delivery of the weapons. We preferred they come to us to pick them up, saving transportation and potential confiscation if stopped by the police. They may have planned on simply sending a man to pick up the weapons. Or, they might plan on coming to Winfield and having a celebration, a fucking fiesta of some sort. As Frank narrowed his gaze and leaned forward, I waited for his response.

“That’s it?” he shrugged.

I nodded my head, “I’ll keep you posted. Should be an
in and out
deal, and it’ll be legitimate. But you know, if a town local sees a gang of cholos rolling into town, they might give you a call.”

He leaned into his seat and sighed, “Yeah, you do that. Keep me posted.”

“Will do,” I said as I reached for my wallet. 

Frank shook his head, “I’ll get the tip.”

“You sure?” I asked.

He nodded his head.

“Well, I’ve got an ongoing criminal enterprise I need to look after,” I chuckled as I stood.

He tossed a twenty dollar bill onto the table and looked up, “And I’ve got to go set up a speed trap.”

I looked over my shoulder and grinned, “Utter hell, ain’t it?”

“Sometimes,” he responded.

As I began to think of the piece of child molesting shit I was going to rid the city of, I realized nowhere or no one was immune from what the bowels of society had to offer.

Society sees a man like me, wearing my
cut
covered in miscellaneous patches I’ve earned over the years, and they typically categorize me as scum. I had no doubt whenever the local child molester went to get groceries he was met by the girl at the checkout counter with a smile. As I threw my leg over the rear fender and dropped down onto the seat of my bike, I grinned. I couldn’t recall the last time someone smiled at me.

And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.