“What do I have to report?” Dog asked. “Not a whole lot. Shit has been settled since you took out the rat. Product is running low on the streets. We’re looking at a new shipment in a couple of weeks.”
Dog was one of the few crew leaders Preacher liked and even did business with. He knew the score, and they managed to find a working relationship that suited them on the streets, at the club, and in their pocket. They made money off each other.
So long as Dog was willing to watch his back, Preacher did the same, keeping them both out of trouble.
“Shipment is happening in three weeks. Until then, tell some of the old ones to pay up in advance,” he said, handing Dog his cut for the fights.
The bodies had already been disposed of. They wouldn’t be found, and no one would come looking. One of their rules for the fights to the death, they had to be nobodies, and before anyone fought, there was a thorough background check.
Any prissy little rich boy, or someone rebelling was immediately removed with no hope of a return.
He didn’t have room for cops investigating his business. When it did happen, it cost him a fortune.
Dog waved the envelope in front of him. “Next month it’s your time to find some men. I’m out for the time being.”
“I’m already on it.” He had a couple of volunteers who wanted to make a name for themselves.
“How is that son of yours? Still keeping out of trouble?”
Preacher stared at Dog. A couple of months ago, Bishop thought himself a racer and had tried to compete using one of his cars in a race. The winner took all the cars and the women to do with as they pleased.
Bishop didn’t go to the race with a woman, and with a car he didn’t own. If it hadn’t been for Dog, Bishop would have ended up on the cutting block. No one raced without papers and bitches.
Preacher wasn’t interested in the races. He helped Dog by paying the cops to look the other way, but that was it. Everything else was between Dog and the competitors.
He got a nice cut at the end of it, but again, it was just money, and he had plenty of that.
“Bishop is … a teenager. A horny, no-good teenager. His attention span is as long as his need to get his dick wet, and that is about it.” He shrugged. “Nothing else I can tell you about with him.”
“Were you like him at your age?” Dog asked.
Preacher stared at Dog. The only reason they were having this conversation was his respect for helping him out; otherwise, he wouldn’t be bothering. He didn’t bring his son into any of his activities.
Dog held his hands up. “I’ll keep to myself. Good doing business with you as always.”
With his own cut, Preacher headed out to where Bear, Frost, and Grave were waiting.
“You okay, Preach?” Bear asked. “You look ready to kill someone.”
“Are we finally taking on Dog’s crew because I would totally be in that fucking fight,” Grave said. “I can’t stand that fucker.”
“No fighting. Just an equal cut, which we’ll decide at the meet tomorrow night.” Running his fingers through his hair, he felt it was getting a little too long now. He was going to have to get it cut, or do something with his hair.
He didn’t like it long, but he also hated going to any hairdresser and there was no way he was trusting any other woman with his hair.
Climbing onto his bike, he turned the engine over, and it purred to life, just like the beauty it was.
Pulling away from the abandoned building, he glanced back over his shoulder, and it was like they never visited there. No one would think of the blood and death shed at the building. This one was owned by Dog, under an alias he had no doubt.
Preacher liked to use offshore accounts to make certain purchases, especially ones he didn’t want traced back to him.
There were always means and ways of getting shit done.
Grave and Frost headed back to the clubhouse while he went in search of Billy, the cop on his payroll who had requested a meeting.
They didn’t go into town.
Billy was a little paranoid when it came to his identity and would often only meet with him out of town at a diner that was off the beaten tracks, and owned by an old woman who cooked everything in bacon fat or lard.
Parking several miles before their destination, he and Bear removed their leather cuts, folding them up and placing them in the sack on their bikes.
Rolling down his sleeves, he covered up his ink, and also pulled the neckline on his shirt up so no one caught sight of any distinguishing ink. He had a lot of it.