David Putnam - The Replacements

Drago held his fists up chest high, ready to take on the M16s with muscle, bare knuckles, and pure, insane stupidity. Two bikers covered Mack and me on the floor with their guns, as the third moved in closer. “Get on the floor, fat man, or I’ll open you up like a tomato soup can.”

“Come on, Drago, do what he says,” I said. “They got us cold.”

“Do it, fat man. Do it right now.”

“Drago,” I said, “come on, what good’s it gonna to do if you get yourself shot.” My words didn’t penetrate his anger. I could see that at any second he’d pull his internal trigger and go on them, take his best and final shot.

“Hey, Meat, do what he says, get on the floor,” said Clay Warfield. “We’re just going to talk here.”

“Let ’em shoot, the cops’ll come runnin’,” Drago said. “The cops are watchin’ the clubhouse. You want the cops all up in your shit, Clay? I don’t think so.”

Clay broke into a smile. “Looks like we’re in what you’d call a white trash stand-off.” The smile intensified the crazy in his eyes. “What’d you do with Roy Boy and Slim Jim? You put ’em down?” He said it casually, as if their deaths had been expected and the prospects meant nothing to him.

Clay turned to a quiet biker dressed in chinos and a long-sleeve blue shirt. “Sandman, check it out.”

The Sandman walked by us and down the hall to the office. He stuck his head in and came back. “They’ve been spanked but they’re still breathin’. The safe’s open. Dipshit here ruined it, just like you thought he would. I liked that safe. A damn fine antique, and he drilled two huge holes in it.”

I got up and brushed off my hands. “You want to talk, let’s talk.” One biker jabbed the barrel of his rifle into my gut, a fool’s move. I could’ve taken it from him. But then we all would have died. He yelled, “Get back down.”

Clay held up his hand to stop him. Mack got up and peeled off a cheeseburger wrapper from Bakers stuck to his leg and let the trash drop back to the floor.

“Get their guns and pat them down,” said Clay.

This time the biker played it smart and handed his rifle to a partner. He put us up against the wall, relieved us of our pistols, and patted us down. He took the sheriff’s radio, looked it over, and tossed it into the debris on the floor.

Drago had not changed his posture. “We got nothin’ to talk about. And you tell your man to keep his dick-beaters off me or we’re gonna have a problem.”

“Sure we do, Meat, we have a lot to talk about. Tell me true, do you have a gun on you?”

“Don’t call me Meat.” He lifted up his football jersey and did a slow turn. The maneuver had a dual purpose. Showed Clay’s foot soldiers his tattoos, showed them exactly who they were messing with. Drago sneered at them. “You can kill us but you can’t eat us.”

Robby Wicks had said the same thing a few times when we had our asses in a crack.

Clay Warfield nodded to one of his men. “See to Slim Jim.” One guy peeled off and hustled back to the office, the long chain from his belt, hooked to his wallet, rattled as he quick-stepped, the only noise in the silent room except our heavy breathing.

“The safe’s empty,” I said. “No one’s here but two prospects, and you come in using a Trojan horse when you’re supposed to be on a Toys for Tots run. We were set up. How did you know we were coming?” As soon as I said it, the answer popped up all on its own. What a complete dumbass I’d been. This whole thing never had been about the money.

“I can see by the look on your face you know who it is, so why don’t you tell me his name?” said Clay.

“His name’s Jonas Mabry.”

“I don’t know him. Who is he?”

“He’s the guy who set me up.”

Clay nodded. “I know that, asshole, but why? This Mabry called me, gave me most of the details, but wouldn’t give me his name.”

“He’s someone who wants the worst kind of harm to come to me.”

“He did a good job, because I’m going to oblige him. Break into my house, try to steal my shit. You’re going to die in the worst possible way.”

Mack spoke for the first time. “You can’t shoot us. Like Drago said, it’ll make too much noise.” Mack took a step toward the front door. “We’re leaving, and you’re not going to stop us.”

The other two bikers with guns threw down on him. Mack hesitated.

Clay said to Mack, “I would strongly advise you to rethink what you’re about to do.”

The other biker came out carrying Slim Jim like a mother would a child, and semi-dragging Roy Boy, his nose bloated and bloody. Did all of these assholes have superhuman strength?

“What did you do to them, and which one of you did it?” asked Clay.

“I did it,” said Drago.

“No, I did it,” I said. “They jumped me and I defended myself. I think I broke his jaw.”

“What about Roy Boy?” asked Clay.

“I just knocked him silly. His nose might be broke. He’ll come out of it okay.”

Clay scoffed. “Broken jaw I can see, but just gettin’ your dick knocked in the dirt isn’t good enough. Neither of them made a decent enough show of themselves. We’ll settle up on that later. Take those cuffs off.”

The biker who’d dragged them out and set them on the floor pointed his M16 at the chain.

Clay yelled, “Hold it. Hold it you, dumbass. Haven’t you been paying attention to what’s going on here? Never mind. Jesus! I’m surrounded by idiots. Sandman, deal with that, would you please?”

Sandman went over, took a key from a key ring in his pocket, and undid the cuffs. Then he slapped Roy Boy until he came around, his face pink, his eyes going wide when he saw who had slapped him. Sandman jerked him to his feet.

Clay grabbed the rifle from the closest biker and shoved it into Roy Boy’s hands. “Now, you do exactly as I say when I say it. Do you understand?”

Roy Boy nodded. Clay said, “These three who desecrated our revered clubhouse don’t think I possess the brains or the balls to shoot them because the cops are right outside watching. Do you understand?”

Roy Boy again nodded as he held the gun, uncomfortable, as if it were an alien ray gun. Like Drago had said, he hadn’t made his bones and hadn’t been trained yet. Maybe he was about to get both accomplished at the same time.

“They’re burglars, you understand?” said Clay. “If I say shoot them, you shoot them. We’ll all leave in the plumbing van the same way we came in. You wait for the cops. You’ll get three years for manslaughter and be out in eighteen months, you got it?”

Roy Boy nodded. The truly scary thing about it, Clay was right.

“When you get out in three, you’ll have earned your patch,” said Clay. Roy Boy stood straighter, pulling back his shoulders.

“Right,” said Mack, “shoot us with an illegal machine gun, because that’s what that gun is classified as, and you’ll get life, guaranteed.”

That quick, Roy Boy lost motivation. His shoulders slumped. He looked at Clay for confirmation.

“Son of a bitch,” said Clay. He reached inside his denim jacket and pulled out a beautiful H &K P9 from a shoulder holster. He jerked the M16 from Roy Boy’s hands and shoved the P9 into them. He spun on Mack. “Who the hell are you?”

“Like you said, I’m a burglar.”

“Chickenshit, sneak thief burglars don’t know the law. Not like that.”

Mack shrugged.

Clay turned back to Drago. “Drago, you want outta this mess? I’ll give you one chance. You tell me true, I’ll reinstate you with full privileges.”

Reinstate him? He’d said he was never an SS.

Drago sneered. “Not a chance in hell. You killed Willy. No, you assassinated Willy. Gunned him in cold blood. Walked right up and put the gun to the back of his head and pulled the trigger. And for no good reason other than you just didn’t want to cut the money three ways. He was with us. He told us which armored car to hit. He was my friend. No, Mr . President, you’re going to have to kill me first.”