Chapter 3
3
O NE MONTH LATER
I sat down at what had become my usual table in the club. A raised section off to the side which gave me a perfect view of the whole room including the stage where the girls danced. We called it our VIP section and charged more for the booze and private seating. For some reason people loved to feel like they were getting something special when in reality they were getting screwed with premium prices for everyday booze.
I shortened the name to The Tropics, and an hour ago, they hung the multi-colored LED sign outside with cool script lettering and flashing palm trees. It was finally all coming together, but the last month was a combination shit-show and hard fuckin’ work.
I’d hired a local contractor Ricky suggested to rip apart the old place from the inside out. After some fast talking and a little begging, which pissed me the fuck off, I bled some money out of Jameson. The Bastards were a national club with chapters all over the U.S. so when he started to give me a hard time I called bullshit. He tried to throw my past at me, but I countered with the reason he wanted me here in the first place—to connect with Sandoval. And what better way to connect with the head of the cartel than to piss him off by changing shit up.
If you’re starting to see a common theme here, you’re right—I have a habit of pissing people off. It started at a young age when I realized if I didn’t fight for what I wanted I got shit. Then as a cage fighter and member of the Bastards pissing people off and playing out of the box paid off—until it didn’t, but old habits are hard to break and in the end Jameson decided to fund the renovation.
I had them gut the place right down to the disgusting kitchen that housed armies of roaches and grease traps that hadn’t ever been cleaned. When they pulled out the stove and griddle Blood almost dry heaved at the dead rats rotting underneath. I felt like the guy on Bar Rescue who helps bar owners revive their business. Only difference was, this was my place and I couldn’t walk away when the job was over. I was here for the long haul so if I had to be here shit was gonna go my way.
I may be a one-percenter, outlaw biker who is a dog with women, but one thing I can’t tolerate is dirt, clutter, or anything resembling the crappy foster homes I grew up in years ago. The brothers ragged me about being OCD and all kinds of other shit but I didn’t care. Even back in San Diego I had the club girls clean my rooms once, sometimes twice a week, so there was no fuckin’ way I could live or work in this vermin infested bar.
I put Blood in charge of hiring the new staff, since we were only able to keep a handful of the old workers. As I guessed the first day, most of them were tweakers and some were outright addicts doing lines on their makeup tables. I even caught one shooting up in the ladies’ room. No fuckin’ way was that happening and it had nothing to do with my high moral character. Addicts couldn’t be trusted. They’d steal from you, lie, and even sell their mother for a high and I had not the time or the patience for that bullshit. I wasn’t running a rehab facility. In fact, I hoped to get this place up and operating at a profit, make my connections with Sandoval and maybe in a few months be back in the States and back in the good graces of my national prez.
So far, Blood hired a much better quality of workers both male and female, plus Blood wasn’t swayed by pouty lips or big tits. He was hard-ass all the way and never let pleasure interfere with business. It worked out well. I basically stayed in the office and took care of the delivery invoices, shipments of liquor, and the bills that followed.
Not my favorite job, but it had to be done, and it kept me busy and away from the staff. Namely, the female staff as I vowed to stay far the fuck away from any of them. A few of them already approached me thinking they could go through me to get to Blood, but I shut them down real fuckin’ quick making it clear they were to report to Blood only.
This was the last stop for me on a long shitty road, and there was no way I was letting a bitch or my traitorous dick get in the way.
“Place looks amazing, boss.” Ricky sat down in the chair next to me. His knowledge of the locals and the language proved invaluable. Plus, the kid loved to work. No job too big or too small. The construction crew he suggested was somehow related to him, and I was starting to believe Ricky was related to most of the town.
“Anything would be better than what was here.” I sipped at the club soda and lemon I nabbed from the newly fitted bar equipped with soda guns that actually worked and beer taps that weren’t clogged with shit. I cut way back on my day drinking and kept my eyes on the workers making sure the renovation went as planned.
“I was thinking.” Ricky pointed to my cut. “How do I get one of those vests? ”
“First of all, it’s a cut. Secondly, you don’t just get it you have to earn it.”
“How?”
I cocked my head not quite sure if he was serious. “You gotta prospect.”
“What word means prospect? I don’t understand.”
“Prospect is . . . Someone who works to earn their colors.”
“Colors?”
Ok, so if the kid wanted a lesson, I guess I was the one to school him.
I turned my back to him. “The insignia in the back are my colors and those patches are called rockers.” I pulled at my cut. “And this isn’t a vest, it’s a cut.”
“So, how do I become one of these prospects?”
“You gotta prove yourself worthy of wearing the colors by doing jobs for the club.”
Ricky motioned to the workers around the bar. “I think I’ve already proved myself. I bring you my family and friends to work for you, and clean up. They are all doing jobs for your club.”
The kid had a point, but . . .
“If there’s something else you need me to do, I’ll do it. I see the way you and Blood act together. Like you have a common bond, a friendship.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Blood is my club brother and I’d give my life for the fucker.”
“That’s what I want. To be a part of something.” Ricky paused. “Here in Mexico and especially Tijuana there’s much crime and unfairness. You either work for the cartel and the criminals or you starve. My father is old school and he refuses to live the life of a bandito. So most times my family does without.”
All I had to do was walk a few blocks off the main street to see the poverty and the way most of the people were forced to live. I’d never been one to look too deeply into things figuring life was fuckin’ hard and sometimes less hard, but the shit I’d seen in only a few weeks wasn’t right.
“If you’re really serious about patching in I’ll talk it over with Blood.”
“Yes, I would like that.” Ricky pushed away from the table a big grin on his face.
What the hell, I needed more than just Blood down here, and Jameson had said to start up a new crew. I had some contacts out with one of the American guys who fought at the cage fights down here, but having a local might have its own benefits. Especially since Ricky was young and seemed eager to learn the business and the club.
Of course, this time I wouldn’t fall into any traps. I’d have him thoroughly vetted by a computer geek we used in San Diego. What I should’ve done three months ago when Crank brought in the prospect/DEA agent. A little too late to be worrying about that shit but it still dug at me. One of my brothers betraying me and the club was one thing, but the fact I never saw it coming gave me a pain deep in my gut. Well, what was the old saying—fool me twice shame on me—yeah, no fuckin’ way I’d let that happen again.
Blood ambled over and joined me. He’d been interviewing bouncers all afternoon and he didn’t look happy.
“What’s up your ass?” I knocked a cig out of the pack on the table and lit up.
“I’m trying to hire guys who know their shit, but they’re more interested in busting heads and dragging people out to the back alley.” Blood massaged the back of his neck. “Back home I’d call an agency and they’d send over some qualified guys. Here it’s way different. The last guy is showing me all the weapons he carries and how he knows how to use them all. Fuckin’ ridiculous. I’m all about kicking ass, but not in plain sight and not with a shit load of illegal weapons that could get us shut down before we even open.”
“It’s pretty crazy. It’s like the rules we’re used to in the States don’t apply here.”
Blood leaned back in the chair, his eyes surveying the new stage with multiple poles so more than one girl could dance at a time, and the addition of new tables and chairs that weren’t splintered and rickety. Along with polished wood flooring and the raised section where we sat now.
“Hard to believe this is the same place.” Blood shoved a stack of postcards toward me advertising the opening.
I fanned through them noting the advertising of new dancers, and a whole new atmosphere, plus a free first drink when you presented the card to the bartender.
“Not bad. Should bring people in especially when they realize they won’t contract a disease from getting too close to the dancers or drinking the water.”
Blood huffed out a laugh. “I already made it clear the VIP rooms were for lap dances only. They wanna fuck the customers that’s on their own time in their own place. Not here. Cuts down on a lot of drama between the bitches and the customers, and less for us to worry about and clean up. Those old couches we threw out were fuckin’ disgusting.”
I jerked my chin toward Ricky on the other side of the room. “The kid was asking me all kinds of shit about the club.”
“Like what?”
“Like he wants to prospect. I had to explain to him what it meant, but he said he was interested. “
“No, shit.” Blood followed Ricky with his eyes. “He don’t mind working, that’s for sure.”
“I told him I’d talk to you, so maybe we’ll give him a shot.”
“Then we gotta do some prospecting for real. Can’t face Sandoval’s crew with just you and me and a prospect.”
It did surprise me Sandoval hadn’t already made an appearance since our renovations seemed to be the talk on the street. Ricky kept me and Blood hooked up with all the local gossip, but there had been no mention of Sandoval. Next week was our grand opening so maybe he was waiting until we were official.
“Agreed. After the opening, we’ll scope out the cage fights. I wanna check it out. Maybe bring in some extra cash.”
I liked to stick to what I knew. We’d run two strip clubs up in Cali, so revamping this place and hiring wasn’t really a big stretch. The cage fighting I’d been doing since I was a teen. Nothing like throwing punches and letting off all the aggression that could get my ass locked up again. Plus, my fighting was a huge moneymaker. Strippers used their tits and ass and I used my fists. It was all how you played the game and I always played to win.