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“Couldn’t exactly offer you a ride on my bike,” I told him as he approached, still eyeing me up, trying to decide my angle.
“The fuck you want to offer me a ride for?”
“To drive you to a… job interview,” I said, shrugging.
“A job, huh?”
“We keep an eye on the guys who are getting out,” I explained. “Decide who might be a good fit.”
“For your little club,” he said, waving toward the 1% patch on my cut.
“It is a bit little right now,” I agreed. “But growing. And we have a mother and sister chapter that are strong too.”
“Yeah? Henchmen, huh? What’d I hear about you fucks? Guns, right?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“Lot of money in that,” he said, clearly already warming to the idea.
From what we could tell about Saúl “Coach” Garza, he’d been taking care of himself, but hadn’t exactly been rolling in it. The last on-record job we could find for him was at a construction company.
Money was a motivator for anyone.
But money when you were fresh-out with no cash, no job, and a hard road ahead of you at finding a new one when you were an ex-con? Yeah, it was a huge factor. We knew that. That’s why we liked reaching out to guys this way, more so than trying to recruit anyone who might already have shit going for themselves.
“It’s a reliable business,” I agreed.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Crow.”
“Crow,” he said, offering me his hand. “They call me Coach.”
“Yeah, what’s the story on that? We couldn’t figure it out.”
“The guys inside,” he said, shaking his head. “Thought it was fucked that I do yoga and read books,” he said, gesturing with his other hand where a copy of Tao Te Ching, all well-worn and re-read, was situated. A quick look at the bag he was carrying said there were likely more books in there as well. “They thought I was spouting shit to teach them shit. So they started calling me Guru, but I had to remind them that no one uses that word anymore, with it being offensive and shit. So they settled on Coach.”
“Never known a lot of prisoners who gave a shit about being offensive,” I said, brows drawing together.
“Well, I can be a bit of a… hands-on teacher too,” he said, shooting me a smirk.
Yeah, he was a good pick.
Seemingly level-headed, but willing to fight.
That was what Slash was looking for.
“So, Coach, do you want to come meet the president and see about prospecting?”
“Prospecting,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Just a fancy way of saying I’d be your servant for a few months, yeah?”
“Well, just until the neck schmuck gets released,” I told him, getting a chuckle out of him.
“Alright. Yeah. Let’s go meet the big man,” he agreed, making his way toward the car, tossing his shit on the floor, then climbing in. “So this area, this is Shady Valley,” he said as I got in and pulled away from the prison.
“Yeah. Not a whole lot to write home about. Not compared to the big cities. But we have a bar. It’s owned by the Irish mob. Then there’s a pool hall. That’s owned by the Bratva. And there’s a gym we suspect is owned by another crew.”
“Lot going on for a small town,” Coach said, watching as we pulled past the motel.
“Yeah. You’re from Victorville, right?” I asked.
“Hm? Yeah. And Vallejo.”
“Rougher areas than this. From the outside, this town runs like an average small town. Relatively safe streets, good schools, that kinda shit. We try not to let our shit hit the normal people here.”
“And the cops don’t target you?” he asked after I drove him down the main street just to give him a tour before heading back to the warehouse that served as our clubhouse/home.
“Think they know they’re out of their depths with the organized crime in town. So they keep themselves busy with the petty shit. And the domestic calls. And taking naps in their cars over by the schools when they think no one is paying attention.”
“So, I’m not the first con you recruited?” he asked.
“No. We have a guy named Judge with us right now.”
“Heard of ‘em. We weren’t in the same block. But heard of ‘em. Used to run with the Albanians.”
“That’s him. The Albanians are gone. That’s where the Bratva came in.”
“Got it. But what about the corrections officers?” he asked. “They give Judge shit? Figure they must live in this town.”
“I’m sure they’ve given him looks or a sly comment here or there, but you’ll find they’re a lot less cocky when they know they’re on our turf, and they aren’t the only ones with weapons.”
To that, he nodded as I pulled into the lot of the warehouse.
“This is your headquarters?”
“Clubhouse,” I corrected. “Yeah, we converted most of it except the third floor. Where you will probably need to chase critters out of on occasion.”
