Hatch

R OSIE’S BAR AND Grill wasn’t one of my regular haunts, not that I had many these days. Most of my drinks were poured in the Dogs’ clubhouse and I rarely had time to hang out there these days. Being a husband and father meant my life didn’t belong to me, and being the president of an MC meant I was responsible for lives and livelihoods of nearly a hundred people. Members and their families had become part of my extended family, and I would do whatever it took to protect them all.

Rosie’s wasn’t quite in the sticks, but you could see them from there. In fact, you could see them through any number of the vintage leaded glass windows that were the pride of the establishment. But I didn’t choose the location based solely on its architecture. Approximately one hundred and fifty feet to the east of the bar was a dense wooded area. Hidden in those woods, tucked away within the ubiquitous Douglas Fir pine trees found all over the pacific northwest was a talented young woman named Trouble. Trouble was a biker and full-patch member of the Burning Saints MC. She was the old lady of a fellow Saint named Doozer and the club’s only female member. She was also a highly skilled sniper, part of an elite FBI task force, and my personal guardian angel. If Warlock so much as reached for his beer in a way Trouble doesn’t like, she’d been instructed to put a .308 Winchester through his skull via the window next to our booth.

Trouble parked a half a mile up the road and hiked into her position over an hour ago as we assumed the Spiders had lookouts stationed in the area. I rode up alone and unarmed exactly on time to ward off any suspicions, to find Warlock waiting for me in the parking lot. He was leaning against his bike, smoking a cigarette.

“You still sucking on those cancer sticks, huh?” I asked as I climbed off my bike.

Warlock smiled wide. “Cancer ain’t gonna kill me, old buddy. You know that.”

“Oh, yeah. What do I know?”

“Cigarettes won’t be my cause of death. The life is gonna be what brings on my demise. Likely from someone in the life, you know? Hell Hatch. Maybe you’re the lucky biker who punches my final clock.”

“I’m here to talk peace, that’s all,” I replied.

“Of course you are. The road to peace leads to Hatch. Everybody knows that.”

I nodded. “Good. Let’s sit down, have a drink for old times’ sake, and figure out a peaceful solution to our problems.”

“Jesus, Hatch. I’ve got to take some ‘How to be an MC president’ classes from you. You sound more like a Don these days. It’s beautiful.”

I shook my head and chuckled. “Same old Warlock.”

We made our way inside and were seated at the table I’d secretly prearranged for us two days earlier. From our location, Trouble had a straight, unobstructed shot to Warlock’s head, without fear of hitting any patrons or staff members.

The place was mostly empty, and our waitress, Maggie, came to the table right away, ready to take our drink orders.

“What can we pour for you, gentlemen?” she asked for what I imagined must have been the ten-thousandth time. She was a beautiful woman who looked to be in her late sixties. Most of them spent in places just like this one if I had to guess.

I motioned to Warlock. “Please, you order first.”

Warlock flashed that devilish grin of his. “What I drink depends entirely on the occasion. What, roughly, would you say is the occasion of our little soirée tonight among the pines?”

“Let’s call it a ‘meeting of the minds,’” I replied.

“How diplomatic,” Warlock said. “In that case, I’ll take a double of your top shelf vodka, Beluga if you have it, over ice, with one un-squeezed lime wedge. If the vodka is shit, I’ll know it, if the lime is squeezed, I’ll know it. If the drink is perfect and delicious...big tips all around.”

Maggie smiled and turned to me.

“I’d love a pint of whatever’s on tap, that isn’t an IPA,” I said.

“Coming right up,” she replied, and disappeared.

“A meeting of the minds, huh?” Warlock said. “Not exactly warm and fuzzy, but not too clinical either. Certainly nothing said that would cause offense. My god, Hatch. You truly are a magnificent silver tongue devil, aren’t you.”

“You’re one to talk. Using words like soirée and drinking top shelf Russian vodka.”

“I understand you’ve never been a guest of the state to any of her fine detention facilities,” Warlock said.

I shook my head. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Well, I have. Three times. And I learned really quickly. There’s a lot of time to read when you’re locked inside a cage.”

“That’s admirable. Not everybody in your position chooses to better themself.”

Warlock let out a short, sharp, laugh. “Better myself? Fuck no. I’d love to lie to you and say I was searching for enlightenment, but that’s not true, and you’d see right through that shit. I simply did everything I could to keep from going fucking crazy. Pretty soon though, I realized that I liked to read. Funny because I hated reading when I was a little kid, ya know? School tried to make me read, my mom tried to make me read, my Sunday school teacher, the green fucking grocer. After the sixth grade, no one could get me to sit down and read anything other than a comic book, car manuals, or engine schematics. But once I was inside, I had all that time on my fuckin’ hands and a library filled with everything from a full set of the nineteen-eighty-three edition of the Encyclopedia Brittanica to the complete works of John Keats. I found I loved it all.”

I grabbed a peanut from the bowl in front of me and cracked it open. “You read poetry?”

“I read everything,” he replied. “I became a voracious reader. Tearing through damn near everything I could get my hands on. But you know what my favorite book is of all time?”

“What’s that?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. You ever read that one, Hatch?” he asked in a menacing tone, his facial expression changing as if a dark cloud had passed over him.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Maggie said, returning with our drinks. “This is our amber ale,” she said, setting a beautiful pint in front of me. “And a double Beluga, rocks, one, unmolested lime wedge.”

“I think I might have to marry you, Maggie,” Warlock said, his charming persona returning instantly.

“My husband might take issue with that, but you look like you could probably take him in a fight,” she replied with a wink. “Now, can I get you boys anything to eat?”

I shook my head.

“Looks like we’re just here for the drinks and your company,” Warlock said.

“Well, you boys just holler when you’re ready for the next round,” Maggie said before disappearing back into the kitchen.

“God damn, can you imagine the smoke show she must have been back in her day?” Warlock asked.

I raised my glass, and Warlock responded, raising his.

“To the beautiful Maggie and to peace,” I said.

“Salud,” Warlock replied, before taking a drink of his Vodka.

“Well? Does it pass inspection, or do I need to wait here while you go and kill the bartender?”

“We’re good,” he replied.

“Are we good?” I asked, motioning between the two of us.

“If you’re asking if I enjoyed the basket full of weed, the answer is no. Another thing incarceration gave me was a way to kick meth. Once free from the grip of methamphetamines, I vowed to never touch drugs again.”

“Glad to hear it and congratulations on your... ah... sobriety?” I said, formed as more of a question because I’m not sure his idea of sobriety was the same as mine.

During a recent all members meeting I told my guys that Warlock was unpredictable, and this was the kind of shit I was talking about. Here he was, trying to corner every drug market in northern Oregon while toasting to his own three years of prison house sobriety.

“Earlier I asked if you’d read, the Count of Monte Cristo by Dumas,” Warlock said.

“Uh, yeah. Back in high school, I think. I don’t remember much. It’s about a French guy in prison, right?”

Warlock smiled. “It’s about an innocent man who is unjustly sent to prison for six years, but escapes, amasses wealth and power then takes his revenge on those who benefited from his incarceration. Sounds a little familiar, don’t you think?”

“You getting locked up had nothing to do with me,” I said.

“Not the last few stretches, but back when we were kids, you left me holding the bag when you split San Diego for Portland. I got locked up for the first time right after you left. From then on, I was in and out of the pen for the next thirty years, bro.”

“You can’t possibly put any of that shit on me. You know why I had to come up to Portland, and I told you straight up that I was gonna join Crow’s new club.”

“ We had a club. Me and you, down in Daygo. Remember? We were just starting to make a name for ourselves when you split.”

“We were kids. We had five members and one of them didn’t even have a bike.”

“It was a start, but everything ended as soon as you left, and I had to start all over again without you.”

“Everything ended when you fucked my wife,” I snapped. “I could have ended you right then and there, but I didn’t.”

“You didn’t kill me because you knew your marriage was already over and you didn’t have the balls to call the time of death.”

I scowled. “So, what? I’m supposed to thank you for betraying me?”

“I woke you the fuck up is what I did. And look at what happened after that. You started a club, found an old lady, got married and had kids. Now you’re a club president and everybody seems to think you walk on fucking water.”

“So, you’re pissed off that I’m happy?”

Warlock shook his head. “I’m pissed that you did it all without me. After everything we’d been though, and you know what the fuck I’m talking about, you abandoned me. I went to prison, and you went to the penthouse. I showed you what a whore your old lady really was, and you were to damned self-righteous to see what a gift I’d given you. You tossed me out like a piece of trash and now I want some compensation.”

“Jesus Christ, Warlock. I thought we were here to talk about the future, not dig up the past.”

“All I have is the past. You had a future.”

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

“I told you, already. I want your grow business.”

“We gave you our answer. I can’t afford to lose the grow op and Sundance doesn’t want to do business with you. It’s nothing personal. It’s simply business. We run a clean and legal shop and don’t need blood from the streets staining our reputation. ”

Warlock threw his hands up. “I get it. One hundred percent was greedy on my part. You can’t blame a guy for trying though, can you? How about twenty percent? Does that sound better to you?”

“Even if I could get Sundance to agree, why the hell should I give you twenty percent?”

Warlock laughed. “Oh, shit. That’s my bad, brother. No, I meant I’d settle for taking only eighty percent and giving you twenty, which would be mighty generous on my part to be honest. You get twenty percent of a lucrative business in which you need not lay a hand in and the peace of mind that the Dogs and their families can sleep well at night.”

I stood up. “We’re not brothers and I’m not afraid of you. We dealt with your predecessors and the Beast, and we can deal with you. I’m not sure what it is about my club that makes you all think you can fuck with us, but you’d be wise not to underestimate us. Do yourself and your club a favor. Stay in Gresham and forget you ever knew my name.”

“I thought you’d be smarter than this Hatch. I hoped that after tonight you might even consider patching over to the Spiders. You and anyone else from your club. It’s the smart move, man. We’re growing and we could use guys like you.”

I peeled a hundred off my money roll and threw it on the table. “That’s for the drinks and a tip for Maggie. Now here’s a tip for you. Stay the fuck away from my family, stay the fuck away from my club, and stay the fuck away from me, or I will make you dig your own grave before I put you in it.”

Warlock jumped to his feet, pointing to a patch on his cut. “Can you read that, motherfucker? It says one percenter. I will put two in the back of your head without hesitation.”

“Makes sense,” I replied. “That’s usually how a coward does it.”

“You’re lucky I respected you enough to come without fire power,” Warlock seethed.

“Oh, yeah? I don’t fuckin’ respect you at all,” I said before giving the signal.

A round from Trouble’s rifle pierced through the window nearest our table and embedded itself into a nearby support column. Warlock looked like he didn’t know whether to shit his pants or lunge at me across the table.

“Make a single, solitary move and the next bullet has your name on it,” I said.

“If you think I’m just gonna let this slide—”

“I’d strongly advise that you walk the fuck away from the Dogs of Fire and our allies,” I said. “Portland will never belong to the Spiders.” I peeled off another five-hundred dollars, and dropped it on the table. “That’s for the mess.”

With that, I turned and walked away. Once I was on my bike and ready to roll, I gave Trouble another signal and smiled as I rode away to the sound of high-powered rounds ripping through Warlock’s bike.