15. Kevlar
Kevlar
Bells chimed above their heads as Kevlar and Kid walked through the door of the laundromat.
It smelled of bleach and sorrow. Dryers hummed as they tumbled.
A television mounted on the wall played mind-numbing daytime programming.
Tucked in the corners, near the ceiling, were four cameras watching over the place.
A woman sat in a plastic chair scrolling on her phone, while another flipped through a magazine behind the counter.
The clerk didn’t even look up, let alone greet them. Not very friendly, but then again, this was theoretically a laundromat. What people were supposed to do there was pretty straightforward. There was no need to be over-the-top sociable.
Speaking of warm welcomes, from a back room came a young man in a suit, smoothing his hand along his tie. His gaze swept up and down Kevlar and his brother as he eyed them skeptically.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
The young woman behind the counter glanced up and flicked her attention between them, before she flipped the page of her magazine—clearly disinterested.
This was the same building Kevlar’s older sister, Harper, had once worked at forever ago. As far as he knew, the last time a biker stepped foot inside it, someone got shot. Of course their security would haul ass up there when men in leather vests showed up.
“I’m looking for Joseph or Michael,” Kevlar said, referring to the two men who led the Dixie Mafia. “But I’ll settle for Paul.” His sister’s boyfriend.
Resting his elbow on the counter, the man, who undoubtedly was a soldier for the unconventional Southern mob running the casino in the bowels of this laundromat, sighed. “And you are?”
Rolling his tongue in his mouth, Kevlar considered how he should introduce himself.
Did he go by the moniker he hadn’t used since the Roughneck Riders imploded?
His legal name? Or what he was currently called?
He doubted this guy would know any of them.
Mob boy was far too low in the ranks. Kevlar needed someone higher up.
Unfortunately, he had to get through this dickhead first.
“Little Junior.” A voice came from the back room.
The soldier before him straightened and spun toward the new man who had just appeared.
Wearing a navy suit, a crisp white shirt, and no tie, a man with brown hair, graying at the temples, and brown eyes approached.
He patted the soldier on the shoulder in a subtle gesture of dismissal.
Stepping around him, wearing an enormous smile, the new fella’s attention flicked between Kevlar and his brother.
“It’s been a year or two, hasn’t it?”
Three, but who was counting?
“Is this your brother?” He gestured toward Kid, who lifted his chin a bit higher.
Who was this asshole? How did he know who they were?
“I want to talk to Paul,” Kevlar said.
The man cocked his head to the side. “Why?”
“Business,” Kevlar said vaguely as his annoyance simmered.
The man nodded. “He’s not here.”
“Where can I find him?” Kevlar didn’t have time to play games. The Bloody Scorpions were gaining a foothold. If he didn’t move fast enough, he could lose his territory before he even staked his claim.
The unknown man waved a hand. “Come on. We should discuss this in private.”
Kevlar glanced at Kid, who shrugged.
Following a man in a syndicate into a back room never ended well.
However, they needed the help of the Dixie Mafia.
Unfortunately, that meant they’d have to entertain them and jump through a few hoops to get it.
Politics were the worst part of running a criminal enterprise.
What Kevlar wouldn’t give to not have to deal with this bullshit.
Begrudgingly, he and his brother trailed the unknown person through the doorway, into the back storage area, and descended a hidden set of steps. All the while, his hackles were raised and his Spidey senses tingled off the charts.
At the bottom, they walked through yet another locked door and onto a casino floor. The lights of the slot machines flashed. Bells chimed. A few men in the corner hooted as they tossed dice, playing craps.
The trio walked past all the excitement. Beside the counter with the bars—where Kevlar assumed people exchanged money for chips and vice versa—was yet another locked door. They went through that and into a hidden space.
Inside, there was a kitchenette with a microwave, sink, coffee maker, and a refrigerator. A small card table was in the middle of the room with four folding chairs around it. Once the door closed, sealing them inside what appeared to be a break room, the noise from the casino dulled significantly.
The man gestured to the seat. “Sit. Let’s discuss.”
“And you are?” Kevlar finally asked.
Puffing out his chest, the man stuck out a hand. “Mickey Kirk, Michael’s son.”
Ah! He was someone. Kevlar accepted the gesture and shook his hand before taking a seat.
His brother merely nodded and sat beside Kevlar.
Unbuttoning his blazer, Mickey joined them. “So, what brings you back to town?”
“We’re home,” Kevlar said.
Mickey relaxed in the chair. He said nothing else. No questions. He merely watched Kevlar expectantly.
Kevlar shifted in his seat. Answering to another person, who wasn’t his president, wasn’t his style. Especially considering he was sent to start a club. He was supposed to be in charge, not this pompous dingus.
But he had to play nice if he wanted to get his club off the ground. He needed the Dixie fucks more than they did him.
“You know the Roughneck Riders are gone,” Kevlar said.
Mickey nodded.
“The Royal Bastards want to set up a mutually beneficial arrangement,” he said, leaning over the table, resting his elbows on it and clasping his hands together. “Considering our family ties, I had hoped yours would be open to that.”
Mickey pursed his lips but said nothing. His gaze shifted from Kevlar to Kid as though assessing them while he tapped the table.
“We’re open to giving your family five percent of our earnings for the first five years,” Kevlar offered. “In exchange for your backing and support while we get up and running.”
“I’ll discuss it with my father and uncle. We’ll be in touch.”