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The club had been much smaller then, right after a horrifying number had been wiped out from the war between the rival club that came into town and us. Mark hadn’t shown any signs of stress over the low numbers then. I’m sure we can make it too. It will just mean more long hours until we have enough hands to manage the tasks that need doing.
“Philip says he’s got a handful of guys he knows from the town just north of us who might be interested. It wouldn’t hurt if they’re like twenty minutes away. Right?” Dally offers as he rolls back beneath the car.
“Considering the guys who have been coming knocking lately, I’ll take someone twenty minutes away if that’s what it takes.”
“I’ll let Philip know.”
“How’d the last shipment go with John’s men?” I ask, tightening a cap before closing the Nissan’s hood.
“Everett’s a piece of shit,” Rico says, stepping into the shop.
Dallas chuckles. “I can’t argue with that.”
“But it’s nothing we can’t handle. He's just too big for his britches. But don’t worry. We’re cutting him down to size.” Knuckles snickers.
“He tried pushing you boys to expand the coke sales?” I ask.
The danger of opening a sister chapter that’s supposed to stay clean is working with familiar partners who might want to push it the wrong way. And while I’m sure Mark wouldn’t mind too much if that’s the direction things went, I’m trying my best to maintain a legal operation.
“Nah.” Rico shakes his head. “He’s made a few snide remarks, but nothing more than that. I think John gets it, and he doesn’t want to screw himself over with Mark.”
“Good.” I glance up at the clock on the wall. “It’s about time for church. Dally, wrap it up.”
A few clanking bangs follow my orders before Dally slides out from under the car. “Well, that’ll hold for now.”
We both wipe our hands on oil cloths before the boys follow me out the back door. Part of what I like about the new location of the shop and clubhouse is that they’re within walking distance of each other. We make our way across the waterfront warehouse converted into the new clubhouse and residence. In the heat of the summer, we’ll be able to open one side of the clubhouse with the glass garage doors to expand the patio, and in the winter, it will still be nice and bright.
When we enter the newly renovated space, our ten new members and three new recruits are already waiting, some playing pool, others darts. Nodding to each as I make eye contact with them on my way into the meeting room, I assess the members of my club. They’re good men, strong, some older than me, but that doesn’t matter. It would be tough to find a full club of men under twenty-three. That’s part of what comes with being a young president.
“All right. Let’s get this meeting started,” I command, stepping up to the front of the room and turning to see everyone already has their attention on me. “We have a new shipment coming in tonight. I need five of you ready to transfer the load, two men willing to drive it to Pennsylvania by morning.”
James and Tommy, two of our younger members, volunteer readily, so I assigned them to the drive—a larger cut. Then added Will, Rummy, and Benjie.
“The rest of you, I want working on getting the bar finished. It better be ready by this weekend for our grand opening.”
A cheer rises up from the men, and I smile. Our shipment for stocking the bar will be in by then, and I’ve hired someone to man the bar, one of the Whitfield girls looking for a job. I know the boys will appreciate a pretty face. Me, I’ve got my own, one I much prefer. But Shelby is a pretty girl who will keep the guys entertained.
“Skinny, Tank, and Teddy,” I say, addressing the new recruits. “We’ve got a mission for you.” Smiling wickedly, I relish the snickers coming from Dally, Knuckles, and Rico.
Grins spread on the other ten members’ faces. Those are the exact words I used for them when starting their initiation. Of course, there had been twenty of them then. It’s not like getting into the Devil’s Sons is for the faint of heart. Skinny pales visibly as he looks around. I doubt that he’ll make it. Then again, they sometimes surprise me. I’ve seen lesser men than him succeed. It’s more about the mental stamina than any physical strength. Although that never hurts.
“Follow me,” I instruct. “The rest of you can join if you want.”
It’s clear from the shuffling feet that no one is going to turn down the opportunity to watch what happens next. It’s one of those things where, when you’re going through initiation, you want nothing more than to crawl into a hole and disappear. But once you’re on the other side, a member of the club, it becomes a matter of pride.
Heading out to the shed behind the clubhouse, I swing the doors wide. It’s a similar space to the one behind the Blackmoor clubhouse. Utilitarian. Just four walls and a roof over wood floors. The shop is still full of construction materials from having converted the warehouse into our club residence. Hammers, nails, saws, and other tools lie strewn about the place. And at the back corner is a belt sander. Someone will definitely need to make sense of this disaster soon.
“All right, boys. Today’s the day. Are you Devil’s Sons, or are you not?”
Skinny, Tank, and Teddy all look as though they just might soil themselves. Several dark chuckles rumble around the confined space, making them pale further.
“Any brave soul care to go first?” I ask, turning to face them.
They all look between each other, none looking any more enthusiastic to start the ritual than the last. I’ll be surprised if any of the three end up going through with it. While plenty of people like riding bikes and love the idea of being part of a motorcycle gang, when it comes down to it, very few actually want to endure the pain that our club demands. It’s symbolic of the blood you’re willing to spill on behalf of your brothers. While most like the thought of a family built from men willing to bleed for one another, not everyone wants to take that to a literal level.
“No one?”
Another round of dark laughter fills the shed.
