“I’m starving,” he said.
“Well, riding the range is hungry work,” said Jack.
“Too right. Not had a good meal for two days.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. Not that you had a choice. We don’t do cordon bleu but people love what we do.”
“Good to know. Could eat a horse’s arse.”
“And while that’d be appropriate retribution, we ain’t got that.”
“Never mind,” Bunny said, scanning the menu. He pointed at the bottom. “What’s this thing?”
“You don’t want that,” said Jack.
“You’ve not told me what it is yet.”
“It’ll be the worst decision you’ll make today, and that’s really saying something.”
“Jack, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re quite the ray of sunshine.”
“OK,” Jack said, folding his rag neatly. “If you must know, the apocalypse platter is everything on the menu, and I mean everything. And if you finish it in under two hours, you eat for free. You don’t, and it’s one hundred bucks, no matter how far you got.”
Bunny pointed at the small print. “What’s this bit?”
“Oh no.”
“C’mon, out with it.”
“I’m just saying, as someone who works here, I would rather not watch somebody attempt this. Order anything else and I’ll throw in free fries.”
“It says,” said Bunny, running his finger under the type, “that if you finish the apocalypse platter, not only is it free, but you can drink as much beer as you like. On the house.”
He smiled at Jack – a wonky-eyed smile that many men had seen over the years, normally right before their lives took a decided turn for the worse.
Jack sighed, then shouted over his shoulder into the kitchen. “Miguel, we got somebody for the platter.”
Bunny rubbed his hands together gleefully.
Jack hit a couple of buttons on the register and extended a hand. “That’ll be a hundred bucks.”
“But—”
“You’ve got to pay up front. If you make it, you’ll get it back. I started doing it this way because, with God as my witness, I am not going through another dead, fat guy’s pockets looking for money.”
Chapter Two
John Manzano – Mad Dog to his friends – looked at the line of four men standing in front of him. Up until an hour ago they would’ve considered themselves to be his friends, but assuming they were still able to read facial expressions, they wouldn’t be so confident now. They were pledges in the Razorbacks, the biker gang of which Mad Dog was the leader, and they’d embarrassed him. For a man in his position, being made to look a fool was not good.
Mad Dog didn’t wish to be called by that name any more. It felt unprofessional. He’d been reading a book by this Fortune 500 guy, Johnny Shure, and he was surprised how much of it rang true for his situation. There was a long and glorious history of people who had made their fortunes on the darker side of the street before going legit. It was the American Dream. John Manzano could do that, Mad Dog could not. If Joe Kennedy had been called Mad Dog, he’d never have made it over that particular fence.
One of the chapters in Shure’s book had been “You Are Who You Say You Are”, but it had made redefining yourself sound a lot easier than he’d found it to be. Mad Dog had started trying to refer to himself as “Manzano” or just “boss”, but nobody had followed suit. They’d just given him funny looks when he did it.
The Razorbacks had a hard-won reputation. They could bring the pain if they needed to, and they were solid if you held up your end of a bargain. Only a fool would dismiss the importance of reputation. When you were running a criminal enterprise like theirs, it was your single biggest asset. You could have all the guns, product and men you wanted, but if people didn’t fear you, you were in trouble.
He’d been surprised to find out from Johnny Shure that those big companies were the same. The stock market was all about reputation. If people believed you were making money and handling your business, your price went up. If it looked as if you were weak, then the price went down and the vultures started to circle. Reality didn’t matter – perception was everything.
None of this was to say the Razorbacks had an issue in the rep stakes, but you couldn’t rest on your laurels. If his five years as leader had taught Mad Dog anything, it was that you had to stay vigilant. Problems happened fast and came out of nowhere. You could never show weakness. Any hiccups at this point would be particularly unwelcome. He was in the middle of leading the gang in a new direction, and the last thing he wanted were distractions.
They were all in his large office in the back of the Razorbacks clubhouse, way out in the Mojave Desert off Route 50. It was a great location. Far, far away from anywhere. Nobody could end up here by accident, and you could see law enforcement coming from miles away, literally. Even a drone would have to be nearly in space to stay out of view, thanks to those blue Nevada skies. The desert also made it really easy to get rid of any problems. You could bury them, or just let the buzzards and whatever else take care of it. The Mojave will devour whatever you give it if you know how to feed it right.
There were six other members of the gang sitting around the room. It wasn’t like an ordinary organisation. You had associate members, members who’d wandered off, gone straight or were serving time. Staffing was a “fluid
