Frank Klus - Azaleas Don't Bloom Here

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until the fourth day of their departure. As Ray and Cassandra were traveling down the same road as Pamela, they saw a motorcycle gang roar past them. “Hogs,” Cassandra said.

“They’re known in these parts.”

“Do you think they could be after Eugene?”

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions, dear. Increase our speed and follow them.”

Jeff Blakely heard the roar. He looked outside to see a motorcycle gang. They were whooping it up and revving their engines. Startled, Jeff came out, and their leader, wearing a helmet in the shape of a hog’s head, walked toward him. He was grinning. Jeff stepped back.

“Got room for me and my Hogs?” Carlos Colderon asked.

Jeff tried to remain calm and polite. “Yes, certainly, sir. How many are there in your party?”

Colderon just laughed, and the others began to cackle as they entered the office. Colderon was a big man of Mexican heritage, though he spoke little Spanish. Raised in the angry east end of Los Angeles, he got his start with an old biker gang that controlled that part of the city. Drafted into the Mideast Wars, he displayed a ferocity that marked him for greatness. He won a dozen or more medals while serving in the Green Berets. When he was mustered out of the military he joined the Blue Squad as one of their leaders, but he soon fell out of favor with them, and started his own paramilitary organization—the Hogs. Created to control, he’d rob from anyone that had money, and used the money to buy favors. He’d steal off Blues and RAC soldiers to create a powerful force that Casimir won over a few years later.

Life was good for Carlos, who thought he could retire and live a life of luxury, but he soon got bored with that. His Hogs, in the meantime, couldn’t decide on a leader, and talked Colderon into returning. Now, sporting a full grey beard and a 300-pound bulk frame, he changed the mission of the Hogs. Now, they’d work for the Squad or RAC as mercenaries, charging plenty of money for their services. He shed much of his membership, keeping the best of them, and waited for Casimir to call him with his next mission. Now, working for a guy he swore he’d never work for, his fee doubled.

“This your sign-in book?” Colderon said to Blakely.

“Yes—”

Colderon grabbed the book before Jeff could finish. “Who is Jennifer and Phillip Mulligan?”

“The last two guests. Why do you ask?”

“What’d they look like?”

“That information is private, I’m afraid.”

“He’s afraid,” Colderon said to his guffawing Hogs. “Says its private,” stretching out the word. The Hogs continued laughing.

Turning to Blakely, he said, nonchalantly, “When did they leave?”

“A little while ago.”

“Where were they going?”

“I don’t know.”

Colderon smiled and looked at his Hogs. Then he turned back to Blakeley, only now the smile was gone. “Now, proprietor, these are the new rules. You work for me from now on. When I ask you questions, you give me straight-forward answers; no bullshit. Get it?”

Jeff didn’t answer.

Colderon growled and slapped him viciously, sending him sprawling to the floor, and against his front desk. He was stunned; the Hogs cackled.

Colderon helped him up.

“GET IT?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, who were those last guests? I want to know their real names.”

“I only know what they wrote in the reservation log.”

“What did they look like?”

Blakely was flustered. He dabbed his cut lip with the sleeve of his shirt, and then stared at Colderon. “The woman was in her late sixties, I believe; grey hair, nice figure, glasses, attractive. The gentleman was about five-eight, mid-fifties, grey hair, fairly heavy set.”

Colderon smiled now. “That’s better. Now we’re off to a good start. Now, proprietor, where did they go?”

“They went north, but they didn’t tell me where they were going, and I never ask.”

“Describe their vehicle.”

“It was grey, I think; a sedan. I didn’t notice anything else.”

“He’s lying, boss,” one of the Hogs said. “Look, it’s all right here in the book.”

Colderon checked it out, and then turned vicious again. He moved toward Blakely, who backed into a wall. Colderon hit him with a vicious right hook and knocked him to the floor. Then picked him up again.

“I swear to God I didn’t know that.”

“What is her real name?”

“I don’t know.” Blakely was in tears as he dabbed his left cheek. Colderon struck him again.

“Pamela Piper.”

“What was the man’s name?”

“I don’t know.”

“YES, YOU DO! DON’T MAKE ME ASK YOU AGAIN.”

“Sulke. That’s all I know.” Blakely was bleeding from both lips, and his left eye was swelling up.

“Where were they going?”

“They wouldn’t tell me.”

“YOU’RE LYING!”

“I swear, I don’t know.”

Colderon slapped him hard again, and then again. “WHERE WERE THEY GOING?” grabbing Blakely by the shirt.

“New America.”

Ray and Cassandra saw the Hogs in the motel parking lot, and drove around back. “You count the number of bikes, Cass?”

“Six.”

“Let’s make sure we count six when they leave.”

They waited almost a half hour before they left. They drove away fast, going north. “It seems pretty clear they know exactly where to go,” Ray said, who drove around the front to check on the proprietor.

“Ray, shouldn’t we be going after them?”

“There’re six of them and only two of us, Cass. Let’s talk to the proprietor first.”

When Ray and Cassandra walked in they found Blakely sitting on the floor with his back to the front wall. His hands were on his face and he was weeping noticeably.

“Mr. Blakely,” Ray said. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

The two helped Jeff to his feet, and sat him down in a chair. Cassandra went out to grab a first aid kit.

“Mr. Blakely, my name is Ray O’Reilly. I’m assisting Pamela in getting Eugene to New America.”

Jeff looked at him, still rattled. “I ratted on them.” He just kept shaking his head back and forth. “I ratted on them,” he repeated somewhat mournfully.

Cassandra returned and began treating his wounds. “They gave you a nice shiner,” she said with a smile.

“They know what she was driving, and got the plate number from the log book.”

Ray took a look at it; saw the names, car plates and description. Ray smiled. “Pamela’s certainly no fool—false description.”

“You mean they’re chasing the wrong vehicle?”

“You didn’t give them away,” Cassandra said.

“Let me call Pamela anyway, so they can duck out of the way,” Ray said.

Dirksen Building, Third Floor, Office of Senator Everson Moore.

Ev paced behind his desk, looking worried, when Gino Cuccione entered his office. Ev looked at him. Cuccione pointed to the bar and Ev nodded. “Make one for me too.”

“Well, you were right. Intelligence was a little slow.” Gino walked over to the credenza, grabbed a couple glasses, and put a couple ice cubes in them before picking out a bottle of Cutty Sark. He fixed the drinks.

“Okay, let’s hear it,” Ev said.

“Dennis O’Reilly negotiated a deal with them—twenty-five G’s.” He handed Ev a drink and took a swig. “I think it was Jaydan Casimir’s doing. He uses them for especially difficult assignments. He had to convince them he’d be working for O’Reilly.” Gino downed the remainder of his drink, and poured himself another one.