Page 7 of Devil’s Disciples

I spun around. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

He tilted his head toward the window. “Is that really your bicycle?”

“No,” I said with a wink. “I’m driving the red Ferrari.”

3

Baker

The owner of a coin-operated carwash has a license to launder money. The income was all cash, and could be manipulated one way or the other. Filtering a few hundred thousand dollars of ill-gotten gains a year through one was an easy task that couldn’t be traced.

My LLC owned three of them, but I was far from a businessman.

I was the president of a motorcycle club, an outlaw, and a thief.

A professional thief.

Nonetheless, I needed an office to make my business appear legitimate. So, my LLC bought a three-story building within walking distance of the San Diego Bay. The upper floor was my office. The second floor served as my place of residence. Below that was the Devil’s Disciples clubhouse. Beneath the clubhouse was an underground parking garage.

We used the parking garage to store our motorcycle collection and a few exotic cars. The clubhouse was primarily for drinking beer, relaxing, and an occasional party. The office was reserved as my escape from society, and for planning robberies.

On paper, the men in the MC were employees of the company. They received paychecks, paid their taxes, and were seen from time to time performing maintenance on the car washes they managed.

Logistically speaking – at least for me – having the operation in one facility was problematic. There was no evading the men in the club, regardless of what time of day it was. I lived and breathed the MC.

Wearing a guilty smile, Cash sauntered into my office with one hand hidden behind his back. Half the distance to my desk, he paused and arched an eyebrow.

I shot from my seat, pulled my knife from my pocket, and flicked the blade open with my thumb. “If you’ve got another snake behind your back, I’ll cut you. Again. I guarantee you it’ll be worse than the last time.”

“Settle down. And put up the blade, motherfucker.” His grin widened. “You’re gonna love it.”

“I’m not kidding, Cash.” I took a few steps back. “I’ll cut you and carve that snake into chunks.”

“It’s not a snake. It’s an idea.”

I nodded toward his missing hand. “You’ve got an idea in your back pocket?”

“Something like that.”

“Let’s see it.”

He took a few steps in my direction. “You’re going to like it.”

“So far I’m not impressed.”

He produced his hand. A business card was wedged between his fingers. He flipped it onto the desk in front of me. I picked it up, read the face of it, and then turned it over. A rudimentary hand-drawn diamond and a shitty sketch of a gold coin adorned the back. Apparently, the graphic designer was a six-year-old child.

“Pat’s Gold and Diamond Exchange.” I sat down and gestured toward the empty chair on the other side of my desk. “Let me guess. You bought a wedding ring, and you’re going to marry that stripper from Oceanside. What’s her name? The one with the extra nipple? Crystal?”

He gave me a cross look, and then sat. “It’s a mole.”

I tossed the card across the desk. “A nipple-shaped mole that sits right beside her mole-shaped nipple.”

“Fuck you, Baker. She can’t help it.”

“You doing it in June, or is that too cliché?”

His face formed a defiant scowl. “That place is getting a new alarm system.”