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“I’d like to make a motion to pull out of the heroin trade and sell the remaining goods to the Aces.”
Prosper brought down the gavel. “A motion is put on the table. Any one second?”
“I second.” Riker lifted his chin.
“Ayes?” Reno recorded the number in a ledger.
“Nays?”
“I vote no!” Drummer called out.
“Twenty in favor, one opposed. Majority rules—Motion carried.” Prosper brought down the gavel twice more. “Steak, shrimp and corn is on the grill, salad’s in the fridge, beer’s on tap. Enjoy, my brothers. I need the board to give me about five minutes with my man, Drummer. Go have a brew and I’ll call you in when I’m ready. Riker and Gunner don’t go far, I’m gonna need to speak to you, too.”
The men walked out, and Drummer Jones stayed put. His shoulders were slumped, but his eyes glittered with angry arrogance.
When he looked at Prosper it was with such a quiet rage, that for a moment it set Prosper back on his heels.
But Prosper knew all about guys like Drummer. They were a dime a dozen in the MC world. He was a violent man who liked to do violent things. The club had used him more than once as an enforcer, and while Prosper considered those types of orders (when he had to give them) to be a necessary evil, Drummer jumped at the chance to torture and mutilate. Prosper considered him a twisted fucker and watched him closely over the years, but he had proven himself to be a loyal soldier and a good earner albeit a cold- hearted bastard. Although Drummer was a long time member of the club, the brothers barely tolerated him and he hadn’t formed any real friendships.
“You know my old lady blames the patch for breaking us up.” He glared at Prosper.
“Yeah. Well you know, and I know that ain’t true, Drummer.” Prosper nodded, watching him carefully.
Drummer’s eyes shifted slightly. “Just that I was counting on the money to show the bitch it ain’t what she thinks. Show her that the club takes care of its own. I was counting on that heroin money to set up myself. That strip joint, The Polished Pussy, out on Route 33 is going up for auction next month and if I could get it at the right price? Wham! I could work at least half of that off book, then that ex-wife cunt of mine couldn’t soak me for college tuition.”
“Jesus.” Prosper muttered to himself. Drummer really was a major asshole, trying to get out of helping his kids make something of themselves? Poor fucking Deidre, things must have been worse for her than anyone even thought. Prosper had always liked her. She had been a quiet, loyal woman who had stood by her man longer than he deserved or was smart for her to do.
It had been about five years now since Deirdre had left him and Drummer had just gone downhill from there. The club had had to bail him out more than a couple of times for drunken and disorderly and there was that one time when he had roughed up club pussy. Not only had that not sit well with Prosper, it violated club code.
Drummer had been put on notice—either cut that shit out or lose his patch. For a while after that, Prosper had assigned a couple of prospects to keep an eye on him. Drummer full on resented it, but since it was that way or the highway, he accepted it—with hostility and anger. It had been a couple of years since then and Drummer had been towing the line. But looking at him now, Prosper could see a quiet rage brewing right under the surface and it made Prosper think that he should have just cut Drummer loose when he had had the chance.
“Have a seat, brother.” Prosper kicked out a chair from the table and nodded to it. Drummer sat but Prosper remained standing. “Talk to me.”
“Me talk to you? I said my piece in the vote, it didn’t mean shit.” Drummer sneered. Then he reached for his smokes. Drummer was just on the other side of fifty years old, but he looked a hell of a lot older. His beer gut had gotten out of control and hung over a large silver belt buckle with the MC logo on it.
Drummer had always worn his salt and pepper hair long but Prosper noticed now that it was on the greasy side and Drummer’s beard was tangled and ratty. His nails were untrimmed and there was a crescent of dirt under each one. Drummer had hands the size of ham hocks and each finger was decorated with cheaply made and overly large skull ring. He had the word hate inked one letter at a time on each finger of his left hand.
Prosper was aware that the MC had an image, and he was also aware that at least part of that image was more a representation of the life-style choice—the leathers, the ink, the in-your-face persona, rather than a true window into the man himself. But looking at him now, Prosper realized that Drummer had become exactly what he looked like—a mean, dirty, angry, sonofabitch.
Prosper waited while Drummer took another long draw of the cigarette. He stared at Prosper through the trail of smoke.
Disrespectful fucker
“You need to take fucking stock of yourself, Drummer. You look like you just rolled out from under a rock and you stink of booze, piss and sweat. No way to represent, man. Up to this point you’ve been harming only yourself by being too lazy or stupid to see that you’re turning into a piss-ass drunk. But now your bad fucking choices are interfering with the running of this club and I ain’t gonna let that happen.”
“That ain’t true,” Drummer shot out. “This club comes first with me, you know that, cost me my marriage, my kids…I lost fucking everything staying loyal to this club!”
“This club cost you nothing!” Prosper bellowed out. “Don’t you fucking pull that shit out again. Deirdre leaving you was a fucking million years ago and had nothing to do with the club! Club is the only thing that stuck by you and now I’m beginning to doubt the wisdom of that fucking choice!”
Prosper was furious as he continued to shout at ear splitting decibels. “When I propose a business arrangement that is in the best interest of this club and you thumb your fucking nose at it? You vote it down because of some personal damn agenda? Not fucking happening! You been with the Saints fifteen damn years and all that time you’ve been earning just like the rest of us. If it never occurred to you to put something a way for a rainy fucking day then that’s on you!”
“Calm the fuck down.” Drummer snarled.
Prosper lunged. He grabbed Drummer by the shoulders of his leather cut and pulled the big man up like he weighed nothing at all. Then Prosper slammed Drummer against the wall and pointed a finger in his face.
“The next time this club takes a vote and you’re the only nay-sayer, I’m gonna take one of those knives that you’re so fond of using and slice out your fucking tongue. Then I’m personally gonna skin that angel that you have the fucking honor…the honor…of wearing, right the off your back. You hear me, mother-fucker?”
“Yes sir.” This time the only tone in Drummer’s voice was one of respect…and fear.
