Chapter 32
thirty-two
DANE
Darcy rides my bike like she was born on it. Without being instructed, she leans into each turn of the road, keeping her hands tight around my waist. Her laughter echoes in the wind as I pull into Bedico Bob’s storage facility. After I park in a neat row of bikes, I reach for her hand, grasping it tightly until she has both feet on cement. A prospect from the Alabama chapter nods in acknowledgement before going back to watching after our prized possessions.
Parallel lockers block the view from anyone passing on the highway, some full of whatever junk the club’s managed to accumulate over the decades. Along the back, a metal warehouse runs the length of the land. That’s our casino, humble as it may be on the outside. It was built to house luxury fishing boats, but much of the area has either a dock or room for a boat house.
As I help Darcy pull off her helmet, she stares at the long rows of outdoor buildings and says, “This is the casino?”
“You didn’t put two and two together?”
“Never really thought about it. It was forbidden to play cards or gamble in the church.”
I can’t hide my scoff. “Religion never stopped anyone from finding their way here.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “None of them are in there now, are they?”
“Nah, they stopped coming.” Not until we started charging stiff membership fees. It was part of the revitalizing plan I worked out with Keith when he took over the gaming division. We closed the club to the public and made it members only. By trying to attract wealthier clientele, it allows us to bring in larger profits with smaller crowds. The thrill of an underground gaming establishment run by the infamous Bayou Dogs brings in more high rollers than ever before. Every Friday, bachelor parties, each sponsored by a member, come into town for the weekend. They spend their days fishing on boats the club owns, and nights with us, paying premium rates for the privilege of giving us even more of their money.
Most of the people applying for the privilege of membership own luxurious vacation homes called camps down the bayou. They drive up in shiny new diesel trucks, eager to escape the close confines of a remote getaway with their family. After noticing so many patrons dressed for fishing, Farm Boy jokingly suggested a “cover story” package—a cooler full of fresh-caught trout and redfish. It sells out every weekend.
We’ve come a long way since Bedico Bob used the building to host poker parties. Best of all, the club can still use the defunct business to launder money.
I place my hand on Darcy’s lower back as we walk toward a normal-looking door marked with a faded white and red office sign. The prospects we have working the door stand tense as we enter through the facade entrance. Flinch and Couyon are waiting on each side, the latter rolling a silver ring around his finger. Flinch’s eyes trace each move Darcy makes, his eyes already following her, the perfect bodyguard. He was never as green as most of the prospects, but there hasn’t even been the slightest slip.
As my grandfather did to me, I work him harder, pushing him further until not a single member could ever say his place with us wasn’t earned on his merit. It was one of the best things Grandpa could have ever done for me, and the only reason I haven’t brought Flinch’s name up for vote long ago.
Flinch pushes open the door and holds it while Couyon walks first. The tradition of the Sergeant-at-Arms escort is one I have every intent on discontinuing, but not when I’m in a crowd with Darcy.
The jolting noise of cheers from a televised boxing match overwhelms as soon as we enter, my hand resting on Darcy’s waist.
Overstimulating colored lights come from the fluorescent blinking of the slot machines. The clinking of coins is followed by the loud cheers of a winner who will inevitably leave broke. They always do. It’s only human nature. The more you win, the more you’re willing to lose to chase that high.
As soon as her feet hit the plush patterned carpet, Darcy stumbles to a stop. “You can’t even tell that it’s a storage building…” she says in awe, staring at the fabric draping from the metal roof, giving it a more intimate feeling. Insulation and sheetrock were added, and the walls were painted a rich blue to help with the illusion.
“So this is where you hide all those prospects,” Darcy mumbles as we pass a group of men in cuts without a bottom rocker. One in the space between each poker table, just to remind people who runs the club.
“In-house security,” I explain. “They are required to come in from other chapters for a month before they’re patched in.”
In part, this helps with the ever-growing casino, but also so we can get a feel for them before they’re our brothers. Without national officers, as the mother chapter, we act as oversight to the others. It stops us from having even more problems with three-letter agencies.
As I lead Darcy toward the back of the casino, the crowd breaks, allowing us to make our way there faster. My first problem to deal with? Gris-Gris, of course.
Couyon says that the Rottweiler’s taken up residence at the entryway to the back of the bar, growling and snapping at anyone who tries to step over him. No one can get in or out of the service area, and one of the female bartenders has to pee.
With all the beer bottles around, couldn’t it have been a man?
I find Gris-Gris curled into a ball like an obedient pet at his master’s side, head resting on his baseball-sized paws. He’s still wearing the pout that’s not left his face since we took him away from Owen to work.
The Rottweiler opens a bored eye when he feels me approach. “Gris-Gris,” I warn, glaring down at him. “What have I told you?”
He starts to shut his eyes again, ignoring me, but jerks to awareness when he notices Darcy.
“Hey, sweet boy. I’ve missed you,” she says as she leans down, palms on her thighs like she's talking to a child.
Immediately, Gris-Gris rolls directly in front of her, carrying his now ever-present baby blanket with him. He thumps his tail happily on the carpet, butt wiggling.
He doesn’t bat an eye as the trapped bartender runs past, preoccupied with the head rubs he’s already getting from Darcy. Couyon notices the pair as he approaches, sending a disapproving glare at the blanket still in Gris-Gris’ mouth.
“He still has Owen’s blanket?” Darcy croons, like he’s the most pathetic creature in the world.
“We haven’t been able to get it away from him.”
“Aww, you like Owen, huh?”
“You’re rewarding him for being bad,” I point out.
“He’s so upset. Look at his face,” she insists.
Gris-Gris has pulled the wool over Darcy’s eyes. You’d think he was the victim instead of the one who just held a bartender hostage. With an exasperated huff, I command, “Gris-Gris, come,” and guide Darcy into the office. The unrepentant Rottweiler trots obediently at my old lady’s side, and I swear he’s wearing a bratty smile, happy tail flapping a mile a minute.
We cross through another metal door with a sign that insists, “Patched members only. Any customer who enters will have chips confiscated and membership revoked.”
Turning my attention to Couyon, I say, “I’ve decided to reassign Gris-Gris. Who would you recommend to take over for him?”
With a sly grin, he says, “Villanelle.”
The dog, who earned her name from the female, cold-hearted assassin on “Killing Eve.”
“Put Rex in her place on guard duty, and start bringing Villanelle for…special tasks.”
When I give Darcy a look, she’s biting her lips, a plea in her eyes, smart enough to ignore the conversation around her. “How do you feel about Gris-Gris staying with you long term? I want him to sleep in the nursery at night.” Working dog he may be, but with the claim Gris-Gris thinks he has on my son, I’m confident he’ll watch out for the baby closely. He can hear and smell long before a human can, alerting before danger even enters the home. It’ll also give me peace of mind as Owen grows more independent if he has Gris-Gris by his side.
As much as it pains me to give in to his tantrums, the best place for him is with Owen. He likes Darcy, but I think that has a lot to do with her proximity to the baby. Despite his recent misbehavior, if it came down to it, I have zero doubt Gris-Gris would handle business. He proved that when Darcy’s mother stopped by today.
“I can have him,” Darcy gasps, turning to hug me. She does a happy little dance, swinging us back and forth.
“He’s property of the club, but he can live with you, listen out at night when I’m not there.”
“Can I bring him to work so he’s not lonely? He’s used to being around people all day.”
I can’t say no to Darcy. “You’re the manager, so that’s up to you, but it’s best that he not go into the warehouse or storefront.” The words are about as useless as a razor is to Yogi. Gris-Gris is going to be her constant shadow.
Farm Boy looks up from the desk and lifts himself out of the chair. “I was wondering where you were.”
I take his place in the high back leather chair, swiveling toward the monitor, “Got here as fast as I could.”
Rummaging through my desk, I pull out a plastic card for the slot machines, and a large stack of chips. Pacing over to Darcy I hand them both to her with an apologetic look. “I have to take care of something for a bit. Farm Boy is going to stay with you. You can play the slots and stuff in the VIP area, but don’t go onto the main floor, okay?”
I wait for her smile to fade into disappointment and the inevitable guilt I feel. Instead, she just gives me a head nod. “Got it.”
I linger not wanting to leave her like this, but lean down to kiss her on the lips, an apology. “I’ll make it up to you. Take Gris-Gris with you okay?”
She points a thumb to Farm Boy. “I think I’m pretty safe.”
“Order a snack from the waitress if you’re hungry,” I say, striding away.
This is absolute bullshit. I’m stopped no fewer than four times in ten minutes. I’m letting Mudbug know tomorrow he’s being volun-told for the job. Folgers is in the building next to the casino, just a few steps away through the back entry. He looks up from the stack of cash spread over the table. “It’s all here.”
Impressive that a club the size of Sons of Perdition was able to come up with restitution so quickly.
“How did they take the news?”
He leans back in the folding chair, stretching his arms around his neck. “They aren’t happy about not getting Seth, but I made it clear they’re lucky they got the buckle back. They did want to know if you’d be willing to consider removing their ban on all Bayou Dog events in the future.”
My answer is crisp, “No.”
“They thought you weren’t handing Seth over because he’s a close family friend…” Folgers sneers.
Which is why they tried to sneak into our territory. They thought I’d protect him. “Did you bother correcting them?”
“I told them Seth was no friend of the club’s or yours, but that he was being dealt with by us.”
I absentmindedly flip through the cash, and it reminds me of how happy Darcy had been when she came home from the Easter egg hunt. The amount in the safe is slowly dwindling as she finds new places to hide her stash around the house like a ferret with a found treasure.
She seems to have decided against a safety deposit box. Whatever makes her feel happy. She knows I’ll help if she wants it.
“Did their’ prez talk?”
“Once he realized we were going to hit him harder with restitution if he didn’t. Seth owed them and was hiding. Won big right before they picked him up. They wouldn’t say why they ran him out of town, but I’m pretty sure it has to do with the road captain’s niece.”
So that's where he got the money he was blowing at our casino, what was left after that win. “Gone in a few hours,” I remark, disgusted. Gambling away while Owen and Darcy had almost nothing. “We never should have let him in the door…”
But then I wouldn’t have Darcy.
It’s Seth’s fault, though, isn’t it? He’s chosen his fate again and again.
With a tired sigh, I say, “Miami’s bringing Seth in tonight.”
Folgers looks up at me, an eyebrow raised expectantly. “Darcy will be at the compound…” he reminds me.
I nod. “Take him to the shed on the edge of the property. Have the airboat ready to go. I’ll do it myself.”