Page 35 of Rigid

“Did Meat let you do that shit?”

He didn’t respond. Hell, he didn’t need to. I could tell by the look on his face that Meat didn’t give a shit. At least Tank wasn’t the type to snitch Meat out.

“You’re not riding with him anymore,” I said, my tone stern. “I won’t put up with an ounce of your shit, understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I shook my head. “How long you been out of the Marines?”

“A little over a year.”

“How long was your basic training? The amount of time it took you to go from civilian to Marine?”

“Thirteen weeks, Sir.”

“Thirteen weeks?” I nodded as if he’d revealed something I was unaware of. “Well, guess what? Your training here is 52 fucking weeks. That ought to give you an idea of how cautious we are of letting the wrong motherfucker wear our patch. Our training is longer than the Marines, and we spend most of that extra time weeding out the fucktards, understand?”

He gave a sharp nod. “Yes, Sir.”

“That’s another thing. Call me sir again, and I’ll put a bullet in your thigh. We’ll change your name from Tank to Gimp. Got it?”

“Yes, S--” His eyes fell to the floor. He let out a sigh, and then he looked up. “What do I call you?”

“Smoke. Smokey. Or, Boss.” I grinned at the thought of him calling me Boss. “Yeah, let’s go with Boss. I like that. Forget the other two. Call me Boss.”

“Yes, Boss.”

I liked the sound of it.

“I thought I was the boss,” Crip said from behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder. “You’re the boss of all patched members. He’s a fucking prospect, and damned poor one at that. I’m Boss, as far as he’s concerned, until I say otherwise.”

Crip gave a nod. “Fair enough.”

“Got a minute?” Crip asked.

I lifted my chin slightly, and made eye contact with Tank. “Go count the fence posts out in the parking lot, prospect. Twice.”

“Yes, Boss.”

As Tank walked toward the parking lot, Crip turned toward me and chuckled. “See? All that shit you were asking him? It’s shit he can relate to.”

“Gotta speak a subordinate’s language,” I said. “Just like talking to a child. You gotta speak to ‘em in a language they can understand.”

He watched Tank saunter toward the fence, and then looked at me. “Why were you riding his ass? What was he doing?”

“We were coming up the 5 from Encinitas, and the dipshit kept riding out ahead of me. Hell, I was going 90, who fucking knows how fast he was going. Lost sight of him a few times.”

“What the fuck?” His eyes thinned. “You need to put a stop to that shit.”

I shot him a sideways look. “Motherfucker, did you just listen to our conversation? I did put a stop to that shit.”

“I’m not pissed off at you, I’m just pissed.” He swung the toe of his boot against a pebble, and kicked it across the shop floor. “Just got off the phone. They indicted Meathead.”

“Bad?”

“Felon in possession. Firearm in furtherance of a crime. Gave him the RICO act with the last charge, which was some bullshit about the guy being black. Said it was a hate crime.”