Page 60 of Thick

I stared blankly at Tate.

I recalled what Turner said. Prison justice is blind to loopholes, legal restrictions, and limitations. Inside the walls, the men get no less than what they have coming to them.

Darin Wheatland got what he had coming. Only someone on the outside could have found out about the deal he was cutting with the DA.

Tate was that man.

It didn’t bother me to think that it may have been Tate that killed Wheatland. In fact, it filled me with an ironic sense of pride. Knowing that I stood amongst the real Dirty Diablos was an honor.

Strangely, as Crip and Tate talked, I didn’t feel out of place. I simply stood and put the pieces of the puzzle together, feeling all the while that I was fortunate to have met the man who I’d grown to love as being Becker Wallace.

“Be right back,” Tate said.

I smiled. “Okay.”

He walked into the building, and then returned, wearing his kutte. His patch read Meathead, and I wondered how he got the name.

“Meathead, huh?’

He grinned. “Meat, for short.”

“Why Meathead?”

“When I was a kid, I signed my school paperwork Tate R, for Tate Reynolds. I wasn’t old enough to spell my last name, and the teacher didn’t require it. With the ‘E’ and the ‘R’ being so close to one another, all the kids started calling me Tater. Soon, they started calling me meat and taters. I didn’t like Tater, so the name Meat stuck. Been called Meat for as long as I can remember. This club changed it to Meathead.”

“I like that story. It’s cute.”

“I should probably go,” I said. “Leave you to your gathering.”

“No,” he said. “Stay for a while. A few of the Ol’ Ladies will be here in a minute. Peyton’s on her way.”

“Who’s Peyton?”

“Crips Ol’ Lady.”

I wondered if she was really a thrill-seeking reporter that wrote articles for Newsweek. In the book, she surfed, skateboarded, snowboarded, and skydived. She wrote articles for Newsweek, but only about what she wanted to. She was intrigued by bikers, and by their sense of brotherhood. An article she was writing is what brought her to meet Crip.

If a topless jeep came rolling into the parking lot, I feared I’d pee my pants right on the spot.

We stood and talked for several minutes, and the men seemed genuinely interested in everything I had to offer the conversations. They asked about prison, about my car, and then we discussed the music Tate and I listened to along the way.

I felt accepted for once. No one was talking behind my back. There were no fingers being pointed nor was anyone whispering about me under their breath.

We were simply people who enjoyed fast cars, old music, and motorcycles.

The sound of distant music grew louder with each passing second. I glanced to the left, but saw nothing.

I looked at Pee Bee, who was telling a story about killing a rattlesnake while he stopped to take a piss at the edge of the desert.

The sound of Aerosmith’s Walk This Way boomed in the distance. I glanced to my left again, wondering where the music was coming from. Just as I prepared to turn toward Pee Bee, a gray Jeep Wrangler – sans top and doors – came around the corner. With Steven Tyler’s voice blaring from the speakers a brunette dressed in a bikini top and cut-offs came to screeching stop at my side.

The girl jumped out of the Jeep and pulled off her aviator sunglasses. “Out for good?”

Tate smiled. “Yep.”

“Everything’s everything?”

“Yep.”