Christopher Golden - Sons of Anarchy - Bratva

“He any good at it?”

Joyce gave a small shrug. “Couldn’t make a decent pancake to save his life, but his eggs are fantastic. You’ll see.”

Jax made his way to the front of the building, stopping only to empty his bladder on the way. The main bar area took up about half of the building itself, mostly oak beams and thick floorboards soaked with decades of spilled beer and smelling every year of it. There were no shining brass railings in this place and no mirrors on the walls—the clientele the Tombstone Bar drew in weren’t too fond of staring at their own reflections. There were booths and tables with mismatched chairs, simple and to the point. Behind the long bar were racks of alcohol built up like bookends on either side of a huge marble grave marker with Rollie’s full name on it. The damn tombstone was the only thing in the bar that looked like anyone ever bothered to clean it.

“Morning, Jackson,” Rollie said, rising from a stool near the plate-glass windows at the front of the room. His hair had more salt than pepper these days, and his gut had belled out a bit since Jax had last seen him, but he still exuded the same combination of warmth, intelligence, and mischief as ever.

“Rollie,” Jax said. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

Chibs and Opie were seated at the bar with Antonio, Thor, and Baghead, all of them digging into plates of breakfast. Opie raised an eyebrow and gave a nod, silently letting Jax know the food had his seal of approval. Chibs didn’t even look up, and Jax had to smile. It had been a long ride, and his own stomach growled at the fantastic smells coming from the little kitchen.

Rollie shook Jax’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder.

“If you’d let me know you were coming, I would’ve at least had the boys change the sheets back there,” Rollie said, frowning in disapproval.

Anyone else, Jax would’ve doubted it, but he took Rollie at his word.

“I know you would have, brother. Couldn’t do it, though.”

“Bag said something seemed off,” Rollie noted. “You guys are up at four in the morning, I got to figure there’s trouble. Maybe you ought to lay it out for me.”

Jax glanced over at Bag and the others. “You want to do that here or in your office?”

Rollie understood his meaning. “No prospects here this morning. You can consider whatever you say here just as sacrosanct as anything you’d say in chapel.”

Jax nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure how well Baghead could keep a secret, and he didn’t know Antonio very well, but he trusted Rollie.

The service door swung open, and Hopper stepped through with a wide plate heaped high with food.

“Jax, come sit down,” he said. “Thor wants his food eaten hot. He’s been keeping it warm back there, but don’t test his patience.”

Jax shook his head. Hopper had his hair tied back with a rubber band and his goatee cinched together with a little iron ring.

“Damn, Hopper. I hope Thor makes a better chef than you do a waitress.”

“Sit down, asshole,” Hopper growled, sliding his plate none-too-gently onto the bar.

“Can you talk and eat at the same time?” Rollie asked. If it was a joke, he didn’t let on.

“I’ll manage,” Jax said, ravenous now.

He walked to the bar and slid onto a stool, trading nods and greetings with the other men in the room.“You guys eat like this all the time?” he asked, digging his fork into the eggs.

“Couple times a week, when Thor feels like cooking,” Antonio said.

“I might never go home,” Chibs said, pushing away his empty plate.

Jax let business slide for a couple of minutes while he tucked into the plate of food, heaping eggs on top of toast.

After he’d finished half the plate, Rollie dragged a stool over beside him, a mug of coffee in his hand.

“All right, man from Charming. Your belly ain’t growlin’ quite so loud now. You want to explain your under-cover-of-night arrival and, more importantly, why you’re not wearing your cuts? If I showed up at your place without mine, I don’t think I’d have received such a warm welcome.”

Jax wiped crumbs from his mustache, nodding. “It’s appreciated, Rollie.” He turned on the stool, facing Rollie and making sure as many of the other SAMNOV guys could see him as possible. “Short version…”

And he told them.

When he’d finished the story, Baghead choked up a mouthful of phlegm. “Goddamn Russkies,” Bag said, and spat the wad into his empty juice glass.

Rollie laid a hand on his own prodigious gut, brows knitted in contemplation.

“We try to fly under the radar down here, man,” he said. “You know that. We’ve been in our share of scrapes, but we try to keep business running smoothly, focus on the finer things. But family is family. Until you know your sister’s safe, you’ve got whatever you need from us. Blood, sweat, and tears.”

Jax leaned in toward Rollie. “Thank you, brother. I know you try to keep things looking legit. We’ll do everything we can to avoid bringing trouble to your door.”

“Aye,” Chibs agreed.

Opie had turned to watch the conversation unfold, and he raised a coffee mug to signal his own agreement.

“What can we do?” Rollie asked.

Jax inhaled the stale-beer aroma of the bar, the warmth of it, and the camaraderie of the men of the North Vegas charter. These guys had a good thing going, and he didn’t want to blow it for them, especially when things had been so tense in Charming. The last thing he wanted was to drag his shit over someone else’s threshold.

“Right now, just a place to lay our heads and some information.” He glanced around at Hopper, Antonio, Thor, and Bag. “Anything in the air about rival Bratva factions?”

A lot of shaking heads.

Rollie looked thoughtful and then shrugged. “We’ve got connections with the local PD. Cooperative relationships, ya know? And there are guys we could talk to who have deep ties to the old mob powers that still run most of the dark money in Vegas. I don’t know how much help they’re gonna be, but we can give it a shot.”

Someone coughed at the back of the bar, and they all turned to see that Joyce had entered the room. How long he’d been listening, Jax couldn’t be sure.

“Bag, you gonna tell them about the Birdman’s place?” Joyce asked, the bull’s-eye scar on his cheek gleaming angrily in the daylight filtering in front of the bar.

Baghead frowned, hands fluttering toward his face as if he felt some insect harrying him and wanted to swat it away. He twitched, sniffed, and then nodded swiftly.

“Right, right, Harry,” Bag said, one side of his mouth lifting in a smile. “Stupid of me, yeah? Should’ve thought of that without you making me think of it.”

Harry Joyce . Jax had forgotten the guy’s first name.

“Who’s the Birdman?” Opie asked.

Bag flinched toward him as if he’d forgotten Opie had a voice. “Guy likes old jazz, plus he keeps a bunch of parakeets in the club. Strip club, called Birdland. People think the name comes from the girls, ‘birds,’ like they’d call ’em in London or whatever, but it’s the jazz connection. Famous club in New York has the same name, but not the naked titties and definitely not the parakeets.”

Chibs leaned back against the bar and crossed his arms. “I’m lost. How is this relevant?”

Jax glanced at Joyce, hoping for a rescue, and he wasn’t disappointed.

“Birdland’s always got a few Russian Mafia guys hanging around,” Joyce said. “You wanna find out what the Bratva are up to in Vegas right now, that’s the place to start.”

“Got a contact at the club?” Jax asked, turning to Rollie. “Someone who can point us the right way?”

Rollie clapped him on the shoulder. “We can do better than a contact. Wait till tonight, and Joyce’ll go with you. He’ll know the faces and the names.”