forth. “We go to Bend.”
Bend, Oregon. Why did it have to be Bend? Personally I would’ve rather gone back to Odessa, and that place was a pit. Bend parks itself on the high plains desert area east of Eugene and just north of the Deschutes National Forest. In the summer, the grass is dry, the juniper trees look scrofulous and the only thing growing that’s not a bilious sage green lives right next to the river that runs through town where all the expensive houses are located. Living in one of those makes you the elite among cockroaches.
Okay, a little harsh, a little pessimistic. But not by much.
The old truck trundled past downtown where the touristy shops and restaurants are located, catering to whatever yuppie trade there might be and took us to the outskirts, where the real people with real information could be found. The information we sought couldn’t be provided by the drinkers of appletinis and cosmopolitans.
Feighan’s stood on the crossroads of Hopeless and Helpless, catering to people who liked their beer cold, their TV sports played at volumes even rock bands would cringe at and prided themselves on the thickness of their chest hair. That included the women.
We walked into a room lit by bad fluorescents and cheesy neon beer signs. Even though it was a hair past noon there were at least twenty people drinking, playing pool or watching satellite TV, drinks clutched in fists, complexions sallow and tired. Mike and I moseyed up to the bar (always wanted to say that) and sat with elbows resting on a none-too-clean bar top.
“What can I get you folks?” asked a youngish bartender whose ponytail barely contained his curly black hair. A yellow t-shirt with FEIGHAN’S stretched tight across his broad shoulders and chest.
I held up two fingers. “Buds, please.”
When the bartender came back, I held up a hundred dollar bill. “The change is yours for some information.”
He smiled, revealing very even, very white teeth through the scruff on his face. “You cops?”
Mike shook his head. “Nope.”
The young man took my hundred. “You guys watch too many cop shows. I would’ve been happy with a ten.” Chuckling, he made change and stuffed the bills in his front pocket. “It’s good business to cooperate with the cops. What do you want to know?”
“Wonderful,” I groused. Mike took a sip of bear to hide his smile.
“Really, mister, bartenders aren’t like in the movies. We’re just average Joes looking to make a few dollars here and there. Just ask your questions.”
A soft sniggering came from my left. It was a wooly old man in a Red Sox ball cap sporting a walrus moustache. He seemed to find the whole conversation humorous. A second later Mike joined in.
Red faced, I asked, “We’re looking for a biker gang by the name of Demon’s Blood.”
The bartender’s tan faded. “You don’t want to mess with those idiots, dude. Not if you want to keep your nose attached to your face.”
Mike piped up. “Bad guys?”
“The worst,” the old fellow next to me chimed in, his voice made husky by cigarettes. “They don’t come into town much, don’t shit where they eat, you know, but them boys like to raise a ruckus all through the state. Heard they messed up a fella in Lebanon so bad he can’t walk no more.”
I kept my eyes on the bartender. “Where do they hang their hats?”
“Mister, you’re committing suicide and I won’t help a man kill himself.” Two fingers dipped into his front pocket and started to pull out the folding change he’d stuffed there.
It was Mike who put an end to the bartender’s resistance. “Son,” he drawled. “If we don’t take care of the business we have with the gang, a lot of people are going to wish they committed suicide.” From his flat top to his boots, he radiated confidence and resolve.
It was enough for the young man, if just barely. The change disappeared back into his jeans. “In Terrebonne. Their leader owns a bar up there.”
Mike’s eyebrows shot up. “Their leader? Alexander?”
“No one knows his name,” the old man jumped in. “Calls himself Shiv.”
“The Hard Way. That’s all I got, dude.” The bartender left to pour a beer.
Mike shot me a look. “The Hard way?” he whispered.
My voice was equally quiet. “Lousy name.”
“So how do we handle it?”
I shot him a toothy grin. “I have the beginnings of a cunning plan.”
“Oh, Lord.”
Chapter Sixteen
Mike
If I were a cursing man, I would’ve laid a blue streak all the way from Bend to Terrebonne, but I had put that part of my past behind me when I left the Army. Morgan’s (funny how easily I’d stopped thinking of him as Jude) plan had me scared spitless, but to save Alexander’s soul from the infernal parasite, I had to put fear behind me. Just like in Iraq.
Danzinger’s handled the distribution of beer and liquor in the area, including the Hard Way. It didn’t take much to find out when the next delivery of beer would be heading to the gang’s club-only a judicious use of ten grand of Morgan’s cash, mainly, a bribe to the dispatcher for a uniform and a temporary assignment as a delivery driver. The next scheduled delivery was for the next day, so we holed up in a hotel until it was time for action.
Once my cover was in place, Morgan disappeared to “arrange for backup” should I need it. That had me worried, but there was nothing for it. I just had to trust him.
The beer truck handled like a pig on a skateboard, but I managed to steer the darn thing all the way to Terrebonne, a blip on the road so small that if you blinked, you’d miss it. Thanks to the jolly dispatcher, I had an easy-to-read map to get me to the bar.
If Bend had a hope of green, Terrebonne abandoned that hope a long time ago, some time just before the dawn of Mankind. The only thing that separated it from Las Cruces was the winter wind that howled down the flat land.
Toasty in a dark blue Danzinger’s jacket, I pulled up to the back entrance of the bar. The dispatcher had given me the code to the surprisingly sophisticated electronic lock that safeguarded the back door. Made me wonder why such a crappy looking little place needed one.
I try not to be judgmental, but the Hard Way looked like the kind of place where the bartender swept up teeth as well as trash at the end of business. The patchy roof needed re-shingling; the parking lot resembled the surface of the moon while most of the windows contained wood, not glass. Nevertheless, the front and sides of the building had enough Harleys packed together for a Sturgis rally-a border of chrome, steel and rubber.
After opening the truck for delivery, I started to punch the code for the back door. Halfway through the sequence, it opened. A bearded, grimy man in dark biker leathers and a scraggly beard leaned out.
“Where’s Dave?” he asked gruffly, beady eyes narrowed.
I kept my tone noncommittal and shrugged. “Not available today.”
He gave me a squint while I studied him in return. Big, flabby, tattoos on neck and chest, biker leather ripped at the shoulders so the fat arms could swing free. Long, tangled brown hair. Not a boss, just a flunky, I surmised.
His study of me was mercifully brief. After all, I was wearing the Danzinger uniform-the navy-blue pants, short-sleeved shirt and ball cap. Despite that, I could feel his cold appraisal. Apparently I passed muster because he pushed the door open wide and propped it with a cinder block.
With a smile and a nod to the troglodyte, I unloaded a keg that I placed on my shoulder with a grunt and carried in.
With the big lummox in the way there was barely enough room in the dimly lit storage area for me to
