Page 79 of Benga's Rise

What now? “Yeah, Boss?”

“That ought to work, right? We sit him Indian style and his feet won’t slide. Try it. See if we could use it for bigger dicks.”

Not even on my life. “I’m never getting on the fucking dish, Brother.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not cuffing you to it. I just want to make sure it’s versatile.”

No fucking way. “Scraps!” I yell.

“Yeah, Boss,” he yells back from a row of bikes toward the stair side.

“We need a hand.”

“You couldn’t sit for a fucking minute? I was just checking.”

Fuck no. “You sit in the dish.”

He looks shocked. I’m not sure he isn’t going to shoot me and drag me on it. “I’m not a dick,” he says. I’m relieved he’s not shooting me.

I shrug. “Neither am I. I’m not sitting in the fucking dinner plate you had Horn build for your entertainment. You want to check size, you sit in it.”

He turns fast. Shit. I watch his hands. “Scraps, sit in the fucking dish so I can see if it will work for a bigger size.”

Letting out my breath, I smile while Scraps sits in the dish. “Banks is going to get a dealership and garage here. It will get all these bikes out, stop us from freighting the bikes in and incorporate the junkyard with the Internet shit.”

He nods. “Indian style. We have to cuff feet on so he’s not sliding around like a sausage sitting on a plate alone. Banks was waiting, but it’s time. There’s no room in here for them to store even our bikes.”

“That’s why I told him to do it. He doesn’t want to end up on the dish so he’s doing it.”

He looks surprised again. “He’s not a dick, I wouldn’t put Banks on the dish.”

Scraps looks up at him. “You put me on it.”

“I’m just checking size. Fucking Brothers. Put your hands on the handles.”

Scraps looks at me like I’m giving the fucking crazy orders, but puts his hands angled to the back. “This feels pretty good.”

I shake my head. He should not encourage this in any way.

“Hold on, I’m going to spin you.” And that’s why. Cort uses two hands to yank the plate spinning it. It goes flying forward and spinning like a top. “Those creeper wheels work good.” He acts like Scraps isn’t screaming bloody murder.

I look at Horn and he’s watching Cort with shock clearly evident on his face. Scraps leans and the plate rolls with his weight right into a row of bikes. Horn starts yelling about just finishing the row as the bikes go down hitting the next row. I can’t stop watching. It’s like a ten-car pile-up, but with a plate and bikes. Horn kicks the side of the plate and it goes the other way. Scraps isn’t holding on this time. He tries to roll to the side and the plate heads right for the Craftsman toolboxes. When he turns his body, the plate moves, but he slides right off the plate and into the wrench drawer that someone left open. Fuck that looked painful.

We start walking to Scraps to see if he’s okay. Horn is yelling about his tools now. Jesus. “I should have cuffed him on it.”

“This is the reason I’m never sitting on the dish.”

He nods. “Smart, Brother. I didn’t know the creeper wheels would work that good. He’s a big Brother.”

“You okay, Scraps?” It takes us both to pull him up.

“Yeah, Boss.” He’s unsteady so I don’t let him go.

Cort pulls his phone. “Patcher, Scraps has a lump and cut on his head. Under the building. Thanks.”

“Patcher will come fix you up. Have a Prospect drive you home when he’s done.”

Jesus, Horn starts yelling about the mess and no help. “I’ll get Prospects to help you, stop yelling. You kicked him over here. I just spun him.”