The Word of a Liar (35 page)

The icy stares of members of Sons of Thunder trailed Mason as he ventured inside. Spider and Monk spun on barstools to face him. Spider slid off the stool and then walked toward Mason. Mad Dog at the rear, Mason had nowhere to run. He swallowed. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.  A stern looking Spider stopped. They faced off. Mason noticed a bulge under Spider’s cuts. The president’s handlebar mustache twitched. Spider unbuttoned one of the chains fastening his vest and reached inside. Mason blinked.
This is it! They’re going to shoot me. Mad Dog must have told them after all.
He wondered what it would feel like to be dead.

A smile broke across the plane of Spider’s jaw as he withdrew his hand. He held out Mason’s cuts.

“You ought to have this. You’ve more than earned the right to wear the colors of Sons of Thunder. The other brothers were right,” Spider said as he swept his hand in all directions. The men in the room nodded. “Mad Dog and I shouldn’t have voted you out bad.” 

Before Mason could react, Spider embraced him in a big bear hug. Stunned by the unexpected twist of events, emotion suspended Mason’s speech. Spider released him. 

Mad Dog’s arm went around his shoulder. Laughing, he handed Mason back his pistol. “I had you going didn’t I, Rambo?”

Mason shook his head. “You… crazy… fucking… bastard!”

“As I’ve told you, brother. I can’t help messin’ with you,” Mad Dog said and threw his head back and laughed.

“This calls for a toast. Nick, bring a bottle of Jack and glasses over here!” Spider hollered to the bartender, who immediately complied.

Standing at a table, Spider poured the whiskey into three glasses and handed one to Mad Dog and one to Mason. The other he raised for all to see.

“Sons of the Thunder,” his deep raspy voice rang out. “To Rambo, a righteous brother.”

The men lifted glasses in a somber salute. Mason watched their faces. In unison, they chugged the whiskey and then slammed their empty shot glasses on the bar, chanting his name.

Mason bit his bottom lip, his composure slipping away. These burly crude men he had come to know over the last couple of years meant everything. They had his respect and admiration. Mason would never forget that moment. He nodded his gratitude because fighting back tears, he couldn’t speak.

Spider and Mad Dog sat at the table, motioning Mason to sit. He did so with a glad heart. Once again, tenor and bass sounds of male laughter resounded throughout the tavern. Music played on the jukebox. Members came over and expressed their concern for Ellen and offered support but were careful not to speak of what Mason had done to garner their deepest admiration. They all knew those words were too dangerous.

Despite being surrounded by the comradery of his brothers, Mason’s heart remained heavy with worry and grief. A wailing blues guitar played a song he didn’t recognize. He stood and headed over to the jukebox. His thoughts of Ellen conjoined with the angry squeal of the guitar. The melancholy notes struck at the chords of his despair.  He wanted to yell and scream for it to stop. 

Mad Dog stood by his side. He patted Mason’s shoulder. “She’s not going to die, Rambo. Ellen’s a strong woman. Remember how mad she was when we made her go back to the rally and how she tied into Road Tramp at the Halloween Party?”

Mad Dog smiled.

“What if she isn’t strong enough to get through this?” Mason’s voiced hitched as he asked.

Mad Dog sighed. “You carry on. You do your best to keep movin’ forward without her.”

Tears glistened in Mad Dog’s dark eyes.  The guitar stopped. Silence settled. 

Mason nodded. He rubbed the edge of his nose and then pulled back his shoulders in an effort to maintain control.

A cold draft brought their attention to the entrance door. Four uniformed police officers entered along with the two frozen prospects. From the rear exit, several more officers burst in upon the patrons of the Ritz. Two men, one a tall black man wearing a dark brown overcoat and the other a short husky man with a wide black mustache, followed the officers. The brothers watched with narrowed mistrustful eyes as the cops fanned out into the room, squelching the party atmosphere.

The tall black man proceeded over to the bar and showed Nick his badge. "I’m Detective Bradley. I’m looking for Mason Hackett. He sometimes goes by the name of Rambo.”

The officers standing at the room’s perimeter were visibly nervous. Beneath their dark blue hats, beads of sweat rolled down the sides of their faces.

“Don’t know anyone by that name,” Nick replied as he wiped the inside of a glass.

“I just want to talk to him. I have a few questions I’d like to ask him.” Bradley smiled. Mason watched some of the brothers reach down to the tops of their heavy leather boots. “You won’t mind if we have a look around, would you?” Bradley asked.

“You going to buy something?” Nick asked. “I don’t allow any loitering. It’s against the law, and I might have to call the cops.”

The patrons laughed.

The two detectives meandered cautiously around the room. Detective Bradly spotted Mason and Mad Dog.

“Caldwell,” Bradley called to the other man, nodding his head in the direction of the jukebox. The detectives approached the two men.

“Are you Mason Hackett?” Detective Bradley asked.

“What’s this about?” Spider’s deep voice thundered as he strode over to Mason and the detective.

“Who the hell are you?” Caldwell’s small dark eyes scrutinized Spider.

“I’m his big brother. So what can we do for you, officers?”

The two men’s eyes narrowed.

“Gentlemen… gentlemen… take it easy.” Detective Bradley put his hands up. "We’re not here to arrest anyone. We need to ask Mr. Hackett some questions about a shooting that took place a couple days ago.”

Bradley faced Mason. “Are you Hackett?”

Mason grinned. “Never met the man.”

Detective Caldwell leaned into Mason. The man reminded Mason of a bulldog. “If you’re not Hackett, then I’m Santa Claus. Did you work for Jack Nelson? Do you carry a .45 caliber Glock?”

“I drove cars for Jack, and I don’t own a gun. Guns scare me.” Mason smirked.

The men in the bar roared with laughter.

Detective Bradley frowned. “Mr. Hackett, I’d like you to come down to the station with us and answer a few questions.”

Spider stepped between Mason and Bradley. He rolled his shoulders back. “Look detective, we’re all friends here and we’ve got nothin’ to hide. Why not ask him your questions right here?”

Mad Dog moved next to Caldwell. Members of Sons of Thunder who had been playing pool discretely reversed their grip on the pool cues and stood like warriors with their spears at   two of you, there’s ten.” His fierce eyes bore into the faces of the detectives. “Why don’t you come back when you’re serious, and we’ll talk then?”

Mason stepped away from Spider. “Let’s all be cool.”

Mason brought his hands up, palms facing outward.

“Turn around, Mr. Hackett, and put your hands on the wall. I’m going to pat you down for your safety as well my own,” Bradley commanded. He motioned for a uniformed officer.

Mason complied.

“I want you to understand you’re not under arrest,” Detective Bradley continued, “but anything you do or say can be used to further this investigation.”

The officer patted Mason’s jacket pocket. He removed the Glock and handed it to Bradley. 

Mason sighed, shaking his head. Handcuffs enslaved his wrists. Two officers grabbed his arms and spun him around.

Detective Bradly held the pistol. “I thought you were afraid of guns, Mr. Hackett? Makes me wonder what else you’re lying about.” 

The officers dragged Mason through the tavern and out into the parking lot. A light dusting of snow covered the awaiting police cars. Detective Bradley opened the back door of a squad car,
and then the officers shoved Mason inside.

CHAPTER thirty-three

Marshall McCabe, aka Mason Hackett, aka Rambo, sat alone in the small interrogation room of the Milwaukee Police Department. He drummed his fingers on the metal tabletop. He still hadn’t gotten a call from the hospital. Worry and fatigue were beginning to take their toll. He wanted to punch his fist through a wall to rid himself of the festering volatile energy. He wanted to ride his motorcycle. Speed and the freedom it offered were exactly what he craved.

The door behind him opened.

Marshall turned.

Detective Bradley and Police Chief Stevenson entered.

A big man, Lenard Stevenson was easily over six foot, and Marshall guessed him to weigh close to three hundred pounds. Stevenson threw a thick file folder on the table. Breathing heavily, his dark eyes, barely visible beneath bushy brows, he stared back at Marshall.

“So, McCabe, seems Forensics backs up your story,” Stevenson puffed as he took a seat opposite Marshall.

Detective Bradley sat on the corner of the table.

Marshall grinned. “Did you have any doubts it wouldn’t?”

“I never know with you,” Stevenson replied. “I know when I retire in a few years, I’m going to drop fifty pounds because I don’t have to deal with you anymore.”

“Are you telling me, Chief, I’m responsible for your emotional eating?”

Stevenson shook his head. “Screw you, McCabe.”

Picking up the folder, Stevenson leafed through the papers. “You did well for yourself on this one. Jack Nelson is dead. You saved the taxpayers a lot of money. Not only did you get the goods on his drug trafficking operation, you solved a murder case. Pretty impressive I’d say.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you think any of those guys you’ve been hanging around with have figured out you’re a cop?” Stevenson asked.

“I doubt it. Bradley’s little show at the tavern tonight was quite impressive. Christ, man, you brought a whole platoon,” Marshall said looking at his handler.

“Hey, I remember how several of those assholes almost ambushed me when I went into that place after that woman got killed. This time I was taking no chances,” Bradley said.

“Did you get the envelope from my house?” Marshall asked.

“All checked in as evidence.”

“One thing I’ve got to know,” Marshall asked as he stood up and walked over to Bradley. “Why didn’t you stop Ellen from going into the warehouse? You were right there in the van, and you couldn’t keep her away?”

Marshall glared into the eyes of the black man.

Bradley leaned back. He spoke through clenched teeth.

“How the hell was I supposed to know who she was? We thought she was one of Jack’s little numbers, and I didn’t want to risk screwing things up by blowing our cover for some drug dealer’s bimbo. What was I supposed to do? Call your cell and let you know your girlfriend was coming for you? You’re the one who insisted on going in there without a wire.”

The two men looked as if they were going to go for one another when Police Chief Stevenson’s booming voice broke them apart.

“Take it easy, you two. Why the hell do you guys always have to butt heads? How long have you two been working together, and you still can’t get along?”

“We get along,” Bradley said with a note of sarcasm. “It’s a love-hate kind of relationship.”

“Yeah, Chief,” Marshall replied as he walked back around the table. “We’re like those married couples the beat cops have to arrest every other month on domestic violence charges.”

The two men laughed.

Police Chief Stevenson frowned, looking over at Marshall. “Why I hauled your ass down here was to find out if your cover is blown. What about that O’Donnell fellow? You think he knows?”

Marshall shook his head.

“Well, that’s good news because I was thinking about keeping you under for a little while longer. We’ve got another case where I think your cover as a biker would help immensely. Are you interested?”

“You know me. I’m always interested.”

“Great,” Stevenson said, slapping the tabletop with his fingers. He rose as Marshall did the same. Stevenson reached across the table. The two men shook hands.

“Sorry all your great police work won’t be in print, McCabe, but I’ll make sure it gets in your file,” Stevenson said.

“Thanks, Chief,” Marshall said.

Marshall fidgeted. He always felt uncomfortable when people complimented his work.

“Now get your ass out of here and get some sleep. You look like shit!”

“I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry about your girlfriend, McCabe. We’re all praying for her quick recovery,” Chief Stevenson said.

Marshall nodded and then started for the door

Bradley called to him. “Hey, bro, you’re going to need these. They were right where you told me they would be when I went over to your undercover pad to get the money.”

Bradley tossed a set of truck keys at Marshall.

Marshall caught them with one hand.

“Your truck is parked out in the impound lot. Thought I’d park it there in case anyone came snooping around the station.”

“Thanks,” Marshall said.

“Hey, McCabe, one more thing. If things would’ve gotten out of hand at that tavern tonight, whose side would you’ve been on?” Detective Bradley asked.

Marshall smiled. “The right side, of course.”

Bradley nodded his head uncertainly.

The interrogation room door slammed shut behind him as Marshall headed down the corridor. The officers on duty gave him suspicious looks as he walked passed.  Stepping out into the cold, winter night, Marshall McCabe was in a hurry to get back to Ellen and his life as Mason Hackett.