21. Kevlar
Kevlar
LED lighting. Upgraded sound system. A floor that wasn’t sticky as fuck. Petrol Gentleman’s Club had gotten quite a few upgrades in the three years Kevlar had been away. The Dixie Mafia had turned it into a respectable den of debauchery.
Having to check their cuts at the door pissed him off. This place used to be a seedy spot to score blow. Sure, they’d slapped lipstick on a pig, and Kevlar knew they fancied themselves swanky aristocrats with their expensive suits and luxury cars, but the truth was they peddled pussy.
Expensive cunt, but they sold sex.
No matter how much someone polished a turd, it still stank.
So, for Kevlar, all this pomp and circumstance was unnecessary.
Either way, he had to eat crow and walk into the strip club his former club once ran and ask for help from the men who had stolen it from them. They purposely wanted the meeting here.
Disrespectful? Maybe, but he couldn’t afford to take offense. He needed them to back him in the face of the Scorpions until his numbers increased. Three and a half members weren’t enough.
Shaking hands with Joseph, Michael, and Eddie, Kevlar couldn’t help but notice Harper’s boyfriend, Paul, wasn’t there. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. From what Kevlar knew, Paul was an enforcer. His hands were bloodier than any other.
As he scooted into the booth with Kid beside him, he decided to be optimistic.
The Dixie Mafia mustn’t view him as a threat.
While their opinion could be considered another insult, Kevlar had to look past it, because in a sense it was the truth.
Their numbers in Oklahoma were too small to go against them.
For now, he’d accept their gesture as a sign that they thought of him as friendly. They were practically family after all, with his sister fucking Paul on the regular. Not to mention they were in bed with Remi—in the metaphorical sense. His sister liked the ladies.
If anyone in Oklahoma would do business with him, it was the Dixie Dicks.
A cute blond woman with a snatched waist and her tits popped up high enough she could rest her chin on them bopped over to their table carrying a lit-up drink tray.
“Is there anything I can get for you?” she asked, scanning the table.
Kid waved a hand, declining.
“Cutty and water,” Eddie said, gesturing to the table as he undid a button on his suit jacket.
“Tequila,” Kevlar answered. “Bottle and a shot glass.”
The woman glanced toward Eddie.
He nodded before taking a seat beside the two who controlled their syndicate.
Wearing a bright, cheery smile, the waitress, clad in lacy lingerie, squeaked, “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
The Dixie Mafia, from what Kevlar remembered, wasn’t like the Italians, Irish, or Russians in the area, but pretty fucking close.
They didn’t have titles but respected rank.
Joseph, the man across from him, and his brother-in-law, Michael, were in charge.
Their kids were next in the hierarchy, and then there were soldiers.
Everyone had a role to play, and they worked like a decently oiled machine from what he recalled.
Though there was that mess with the Irish. He wondered if that was still going on.
“Mickey tells us you’re in town for good,” Michael commented as he rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands.
“Yep,” Kevlar said. “New club, though.”
He wanted to dispel any concerns that there would be bad blood between him and the men who had burned down his former clubhouse.
Eddie ran a finger along the stubble on his chin. “For how long? Are you just passing through?”
They could only wish.
Kevlar shook his head. “We heard you had a Scorpion problem.”
Michael and Eddie exchanged glances. Kevlar believed their expression meant they’d had a run-in with the vermin already. Good. That could only bolster his case.
“Kid and I are home for good.” He gestured to his brother and himself. “We’d like your help in getting rid of your pests.”
“Alright.” The waitress had returned, her tray filled with beverages. “I’ve got some Cutty and water and a bottle of tequila,” she announced as she dispensed the drinks.
The men at the table quieted and eyed each other as though whoever had the best stare would win. Win what? Oklahoma City? Kevlar scoffed internally. That wasn’t happening. No one could corner the market on this place. There was too much to be had. Territory and turf wars were bound to happen.
Despite the chaos of multiple syndicates operating in the same vicinity, things were pretty civil.
Everyone maintained a different piece of the pie with little overlap.
The Russians handled trafficking women, the Irish handled guns and exports, the Colombians dabbled in the drug market, the Dixie Dicks had their illegal casinos, and the Italians oversaw a little of everything. They were the big fish.
Bikers were often the scum on the shoe of these pretentious assholes.
Probably because they diversified. Kevlar wanted to dip his toe into all of what there was to delve into.
Though what he had the most backing for was arms deals, so he’d be going up against the Irish once he got his shit together. A problem for another day.
Right now, his focus was on getting the support of the Dixie Mafia to take out the Scorpions. One situation at a time.
“What makes you think we can’t handle the pest problem?” Michael asked after the woman had left the table.
“You can,” Kevlar responded honestly as he cracked open the white and blue bottle of Clase Azul Reposado Tequila. “But why do it alone and risk your own when we can help?”
“Because you don’t have any men,” Joseph declared.
Doing his best not to bristle, Kevlar poured the alcohol into his shot glass. “Not here, but I can get them. They’re a phone call away. The Royal Bastards are national.” He placed the bottle on the table. “We’re not going anywhere. I’d much rather have you as an ally than an enemy.”
Holding the older man’s gaze, he threw back the shot.
No salt.
No lime.
Just the raw burn of quality tequila. He let it linger in his mouth before he swallowed. “Besides, we’re practically family.”