Dead Man Walking Page 5

  Spider took a moment to consider his proposal. “What about the rest of the MC?”

  “They’ll do minimal time if we find Blaze. So it’s in your best interests to take my deal.”

  “No, detective; I think it’s actually in your best interests. So here’s my counter offer. You take all of us or you can start lubing up that pretty ass of yours. A fresh piece of meat in here doesn’t go unnoticed.”

  “Forget it.”

  Spider leaned forward and stared deep into Ryan’s eyes. “Enjoy prison, detective.” He motioned for the guard to come over.

  “Wait!” Ryan exclaimed. “I’ll talk to the commissioner.”

  “And you trust the MC that much? Do you really think we would all come back to keep your ass outta jail?”

  “It’s the least you could do after the deal I made with the former commissioner. You owe me one. And Commissioner Marshall said he would reduce your sentences to the bare minimum for your cooperation. I’m sure you tough bikers can handle a year or two in the joint. What do you say?”

  “What about Blaze? They’ll throw the book at him.”

  “Then we need to find a way to change the status quo in his favour.”

  “And how do you plan on doing that?”

  “As of this moment I have no idea. Who knows? He might come back of his own accord. In the meantime we search for Blaze and buy some time till our luck changes. And don’t forget how smart he is when his back’s against the wall. Maybe he’ll think of something.”

  “Look this sounds great and all, but he’ll think we’ve all betrayed him. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

  “Then we’ll have to convince him otherwise.”

  Spider breathed heavily out his nose and he mulled over Ryan’s bold proposal. “Fuck it; I’m in,” he said. “One last joy ride before I lose my mind in this place.”

  Ryan signalled for the guard to return Spider to his cell. “I’ll be in touch,” Ryan said before Spider was escorted from the room.

  As Ryan and Hampton exited the visitors’ lounge, Hampton said, “Have you lost your goddamn mind? Do you really think the MC will honour the deal you just made? Not to mention what the commissioner’s going to say when you reveal your plans to find Blaze?”

  “Trust me, old timer, I know what I’m doing,” Ryan reassured him with a pat on the back.

  “I hope to God you do, young man. I hope to God you do.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  Chapter 11

  Blaze smirked to himself as Jane’s husband was secured in the back of a heavily guarded ambulance. He’d left a statement over the phone to the police department about what had happened. One less piece of shit to worry about, he thought.

  He left his perch in the doorway of the adjacent apartment block and made his way to the subway, riding a train back to Downtown Manhattan. He needed to speak with Skinny-Jay and find out what was going on regarding his conversation with Scarface.

  Skinny-Jay’s bodyguards escorted Blaze into his nightclub upon his arrival. Skinny-Jay’s golden teeth sparkled as he smiled at the sight of Blaze. “How’s my number one boy doin’?” he greeted him.

  “Apparently I don’t fight for you anymore. What’s the fucking deal?” Blaze replied.

  Skinny-Jay lazily draped his arm around Blaze’s shoulder as he walked him over to the bar and ordered two glasses of whisky. “It’s like this,” he started to explain. “When you signed up to fight for me, you were bound to a contract, and, man, have you made me shit-load of motherfuckin’ green. But those white motherfuckers in the brotherhood wanna take you elsewhere, and bargained a release from your contract. And they paid up, so you’re free to go.”

  “I don’t work for no one unless I fucking want to,” Blaze challenged him.

  Skinny-Jay shook his head. “You’d be wise to change your motherfuckin’ attitude. That ugly motherfucker, Scarface, is two-mill in the hole thanks to you, and won’t take no for a motherfuckin’ answer. He owns your punk-ass now.”

  “Not if I fucking say he doesn’t.”

  Skinny-Jay bared his teeth with a sardonic grin. “Let me give you some advice, Blaze: this is how we do business on the motherfuckin’ streets. If you wanna rumble with the big boys you gotta follow the rules or else you’ll wind up lying in a pool of your own motherfuckin’ blood on a corner somewhere. You feel me?”

  “You had no right selling me out like you did,” Blaze raised his tone of voice.

  Skinny-Jay’s charming demeanour turned ice-cold. “Watch you’re motherfuckin’ mouth, fool; you’d do well to remember who you’re talkin’ to.”

  Skinny-Jay’s bodyguards reached for their pistols without hesitation.

  Against all his instincts, Blaze knew it was best to back off. “All right, all right; I’m not looking for any trouble,” he said calmly.

  Skinny-Jay waved his guards off. “Look, I like you, Blaze, but you gotta learn your motherfuckin’ place. You came to me lookin’ to join the circuit, and we’ve both prospered from it. But to me you’re just another fighter of many to come. The only difference between you and the rest is that you don’t give a shit whether you win or die. You need to accept you’re a money machine. And if I’m giving up my money machine before your life or contract expires, I get compensated and your buyer owns you for the remainder of your contract. And it’s tough-motherfuckin’-shit if you don’t like it.”

  “So you mean Scarface owns me for another four months?”

  “You bet your motherfuckin’ ass he does.”

  Blaze downed his shot of whisky and slammed his tumbler down on the bar. “No one owns me unless I fucking say so.”

  “Then it’s been nice knowin’ you, Blaze.” Skinny-Jay picked up his glass and strutted away.

  “What happens if I wanna come back and fight for you?” Blaze called out.

  Skinny-Jay turned around and waddled straight up to Blaze’s face. He smiled. “If your white, motherfuckin’ ass is still breathing, I’ll happily hook you up. But in the meantime, if you ever need anything, you just motherfuckin’ ask, okay? You’re always welcome in my crib.”

  “I appreciate that,” Blaze said, then pushed his way through Skinny-Jay’s sea of bodyguards to a future of uncertainty beyond.

  Chapter 12

  “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Commissioner Marshall fumed at Ryan’s bold proposal. “Did you really think I would agree to release the members of the Sinners and Scarecrows from prison? You must think I’m crazy!”

  “I don’t see what you have to lose,” Ryan retorted. “Especially when you have my head as collateral.”

  “You don’t see what I have to lose? How about six of the most wanted men in the goddamn country!” he bellowed.

  Ryan’s voice crackled as attempted to reply; his throat was dry. He spotted a water cooler in the corner of the room and stood up from his side of the commissioner’s desk—located inside his temporary office on the top floor of the Milton City Homicide Unit. The commissioner was unimpressed at his manner. “Take your seat, detective; show me the goddamn respect I’ve earned.”

  Ryan cleared his throat with excessive volume. “Excuse me? You think you’ve earned my respect? You earned exactly squat from me! And right now you’re no better than the last piece of trash that tried to blackmail me into doing his bidding!” Ryan lost his temper. He was sick and tired of being bullied by what he could only describe as smug, pompous derelicts in positions of power. “You said my job was to bring Blaze home to answer for his crimes. Well I’ve found the most viable solution to make that happen. So the ball’s in your court, commissioner!”

  “You will watch your tone with me, detective,” he said firmly. “I can have you thrown out of the MCHU for insubordination. Do you hear me? You’ll be finished!” He thumped his fist on the desk-top.

  “Then bloody well do it!” Ryan marched to the end of his desk and flung it up and over on its end. Stationery and files filled with documents scattered across the vacant room.
The commissioner was taken aback by Ryan’s breakdown.

  “Come on!” Ryan continued. “Are you man or bloody mouse!” He picked up his chair and flung it across the room. It crashed into the door, making an almighty BANG! Two officers came charging in after hearing the commotion. In a matter of seconds they’d deduced the situation and subdued Ryan to the floor.

  “Cuff him,” the commissioner said curtly. “Toss him in the cells till he’s calmed down.”

  Ryan gave up the struggle and complied with the officers. They shoved him into one of the dirty cells in the basement and left him alone to think about his costly actions.

  Thirty minutes later Ryan felt as if the world was bearing down on his shoulders. He knew he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. I’m going to prison, he thought. And it’s all because of that selfish son of a bitch, Blaze. Why do I always take the rap for his actions? Then he remembered that he wasn’t completely innocent. He always broke the rules to attain justice. It was his only downfall as a man of the law, and now it had finally backfired.

  The door to the cells opened from the corridor outside. Ryan saw the silhouette of Commissioner Marshall appear in the doorway. He let the door slowly close behind him till it clicked shut. The damp, concrete room was dimly lit; every other light bulb on the ceiling had blown. Commissioner Marshall paced forward with his hands cupped behind his back. He was in full control, and Ryan knew it. “I’d like to apologise for my actions–” Ryan started.

  “Hold your tongue, detective,” the commissioner cut him off. “It is I who wishes to apologise.”

  Stunned, Ryan sat up straight, eagerly awaiting the next words to come from the commissioner’s mouth.

  “It was not my intention to appear as blackmailing you into tracking down your former associate,” he said. “It would displease me greatly if people were to think I was acting in an inappropriate manner towards a highly regarded individual such as yourself. But the fact remains that your sins have caught you out, and it’s time to pay the piper. You will put an end to this relationship or association or whatever it is you want to call it with Bobby Blaise and the MC, and you will comply with the rules and regulations of the MCHU and laws of this country in respect to doing your job.”

  “What about, you know, what happened in your office?” Ryan asked meekly.

  The commissioner smiled. “I understand you are under a significant amount of stress—with your fiancée calling off the wedding after discovering the truth about Bobby’s whereabouts, and now the added pressure I’ve put on you to bring him home.”

  Surprised, Ryan asked, “How did you know about the wedding being called off?”

  “Let’s just say your partner, Detective Steve Hampton and I go back a long way. He filled me in on a few details about you. In fact he’s convinced me that we should try your preposterous idea.”

  “You mean you’ll let me use the MC to find Blaze?”

  “After much consideration, I’ve decided it may be our only course of action. You may take three members of your choice with you. The others will remain here as collateral. But they must all return home. To ensure this happens, I’ve made arrangements with New Zealand customs to clear your firearm so that if any of the SAS members try and make a break for it...well...let’s just say I want them brought home dead or alive. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, sir.” He nodded solemnly.

  “And be warned: should you be successful in your objectives, you are never to speak to or associate with Bobby Blaise or the Sinners & Scarecrows after this is over. You are to cut all ties and view them only as low-life criminals. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  “Good. Now get out of my sight. And don’t come back unless you have Bobby Blaise in custody, or I swear to God you’ll be sorry.”

  Chapter 13

  “Did you follow him?” Scarface asked Lucky over the phone from inside the brotherhood’s clubhouse. It was a former meat processing plant that had gone belly-up some twenty years before. Scarface stood motionless—gazing out through the wide, tinted windows from the meeting room on the second floor—across the vast, mostly-empty car park. Beyond the boundary of the brotherhood’s compound was a sea of aging industrial buildings, each filling the sky with thick, grey plumes of smoke as far as the eye could see. Scarface was still reeling from the news that one of his closest brothers had been arrested and hospitalised during the night. And what Lucky was about to tell him wasn’t going to help his foul mood.

  “I lost him,” Lucky replied.

  Scarface cursed and exhaled sharply through his nose with frustration. “What happened?”

  “Blaze rode the subway and the train left the station before I reached the platform. My leg slowed me down with all those fucking stairs. But he resurfaced this morning at Jimmy’s Corner,” he quickly added. “He seems to have a thing for that place.”

  “Is he still there?” Scarface asked hopefully.

  “He’s shovelling breakfast down his gob as we speak.”

  “Good. Don’t let him out of your sight. I’m on my way. Blaze will join the brotherhood today whether he wants to or not.”

  “And if he doesn’t come quietly?”

  “It’s your job to make sure he does.”

  “I won’t let you down.” Lucky clicked off the call.

  *

  Blaze pushed his empty plate back across the bar. “You sure know how to fucking cook,” he said as he sipped his coffee.

  “It’s the least I can do for my number one customer,” Jimmy replied. The former boxing champion and owner of the bar flashed him a grin. “I honestly don’t know why you persist in coming here. You could do a whole lot better than this shithole.”

  Blaze grinned back at the tall, middle-aged African-American. “What can I say? I’m a man of simple tastes. This place suits me fine. Plus I appreciate you letting me sleep out the back when I first arrived in town. It was fucking cold out on the streets.”

  “I’m sure it was. So, where are you staying now?”

  “Nowhere in particular. I just travel around, poking my nose into places where it isn’t necessarily wanted.”

  Jimmy’s deep voice chuckled. “Well, you just be careful out there. You know you’re always welcome to the mattress out the back anytime.”

  “You’re a fucking champion, Jimmy.”

  “Damn right I am!” His jovial voice boomed across the vacant room. “State champion ten years running!” He turned around, jabbing the air while admiring the memorabilia on his wall from his fighting days.

  “I wish I could’ve seen you in your prime,” Blaze said, noticing Jimmy still had the body of an athlete. For fifty-something the grey-haired bartender could easily dismantle anyone who tried anything foolish with him.

  “Yes, well, if it weren’t for two broken wrists and a rib injury that just wouldn’t heal, I’d still be in the ring.” He closed his eyes, dreaming of the times his arm had been raised by the match referee as the bout-winner. “But between this bar and coaching the next generation of champions in my spare time, my legacy lives on.”

  They were startled as a gust of wind brushed over them as someone opened the front door. “We’re not open,” Jimmy called out to the scruffy skinhead approaching the bar.

  “Apparently you are,” Lucky replied, motioning to Blaze’s dirty plate.

  Blaze noticed the numbers: 88 tattooed to Lucky’s wrist. “I thought I told Scarface to leave me be,” he said fiercely.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lucky replied. “I’m just here for coffee.”

  Blaze scoffed. “The tattoo on your wrist, asshole. Eight-eight: stands for the eighth letter in the alphabet, times-two: HH: Heil Hitler.

  Jimmy stepped from beyond the bar and confronted Lucky. “Get your punk-ass outta my joint before I show you how weak and pathetic you truly are.”

  Lucky spat at Jimmy’s feet. “Come on grandpa, let’s see what you got.”
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br />   Jimmy rolled up his shirt sleeves. His beefed-up biceps were a sight to behold.

  Lucky snickered, and pulled a pistol from inside his jacket, levelling it at Jimmy’s face. “Beat it, old man. This doesn’t have to get ugly for you; I’m here for Blaze.”

  “I don’t think so,” Blaze intervened, nodding at Jimmy to back off. Jimmy held up his hands and retreated behind the bar and out to the storeroom.

  As soon as Jimmy was out of harm’s way, Lucky said to Blaze, “Sit down and don’t fucking move.” He motioned his pistol towards the bar stool.

  Blaze took a step forward.

  “I’m warning you.”

  “Or what? You’ll shoot me?” He took another step towards him. “You don’t have the fucking balls.”

  Lucky fired a round into the polished wood floor right next to Blaze’s black boot. Instead of backing off, Blaze used the sudden flash of noise to his advantage, reached for a near-full bottle of rum sitting on the bar and flung it at Lucky’s face.

  Lucky dropped the gun and cried out while clutching at his jaw after the bottle shattered on impact.

  Blaze casually walked over to him and retrieved the pistol from the floor. He took a brief moment to examine the Sig Sauer Pro semi-automatic before pocketing it. He bent down and coldly said in Lucky’s ear, “I want you to give Scarface a message for me—”

  “How about you tell me to my face?” Scarface interjected as he entered the bar behind him, disappointed to see Lucky crumpled in a heap with his head dangling on the floor.

  Blaze wasted no time. He angrily launched at him, clutching at the collar of his black leather jacket and slamming his face down on one of the tables. He drew Lucky’s pistol from his pocket and held the barrel hard against Scarface’s temple as he leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Stay the fuck away from me. If I see you or one of your bitches come near me again, I’ll fucking kill you. You got it?”

  Scarface was in shock. He tried to spit out an answer, but nothing would come.

  Blaze’s anger heightened. He used all of his strength to bury the Sig’s barrel deep into Scarface’s temple. “I said, have you fucking got it?” he seethed.