The girls needed to come through and clean the place out, Horse decided, looking around the clubhouse with distaste. Debris from last night’s party still littered the tables, couches and the long bar along one wall. Most of them were probably still sleeping it off upstairs, although a dirty blonde wearing a tight jean skirt and halter top was passed out on the couch, legs spread wide. Thank God he didn’t live here anymore; now that he had his own place he cringed at what used to seem normal in terms of hygiene.
Yup, getting old.
“You coming, bro?” asked Ruger, a heavily tattooed and pierced man with a short mohawk. He stood by the door with another of their prospects, Painter. “Last one.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Horse replied. He handed his gun to Painter, who set it carefully on the counter with the others, next to a box full of cell phones.
“You got mine in there already?” he asked. “Think I left it here last night.”
“Yeah.”
Horse nodded his thanks and walked into church.
Fifteen guys, all but three of their active, full-patch members, already sat around the big, scarred wooden table that had once decorated some fancy-assed conference room. Now it had a thousand nicks and little carvings in it, and a big RFFR painted in the center—Reapers Forever, Forever Reapers.
“Nice you could join us,” said Picnic, sitting at the head of the table. “Thought Serena might have sucked you in. Get lost in that snatch of hers?”
“It’s five o’clock exactly,” Horse said, shrugging as he draped his large frame across an empty chair. “What can I say? I’m a precisely tuned, high-performance machine, unlike you and that crap-ass bike you ride.”
“Fuck off,” Picnic said, grinning back. Then his expression grew more serious. “Okay, boys, we got something important to deal with today. I think you all know we’ve got a thief. Jeff Jensen, computer guy, out of the Yakima Valley. Got back from seeing him this morning, no progress at all.”
“He’s the guy handling our offshore stuff, right?” asked Ruger.
“Yeah,” Horse replied. “Computer genius, knows his shit, our transactions are untraceable. God knows we’re paying him for it too. But it’s not enough. He’s been skimming for months. Been tracking it down for a while now, already gave him opportunities to make it right, so it’s not just a matter of him screwing up. Definitely skimming. It’s small compared to our total volume, but we can’t let shit like this happen. Bad for business.”
“We let one do it, they’re all gonna try,” Picnic said. “We start losing respect, next thing you know the girls at the Line’ll be giving drinks and lap dances to another MC.”
“So what’s the damage?” asked Bam Bam.
“We’re right at $50k,” Horse answered. “It’s been push and pull, he grabs a couple grand, then tries to pay it back. He’s gambling, maybe using. I hate to lose him as an asset because we don’t have anyone else in the fold to replace him. That’s why we’ve given him so many chances to make things right. But his losses are getting bigger—as of last week he was only into us for $20k total, so it’s escalating fast. We let him go much longer and we’ll be down serious cash. He might even pull a runner on us.”
“We should put him in the ground,” Max said, voice firm and cold. Horse glanced at him, surprised to see his face flushed, the little muscle in his jaw flexing with suppressed emotion. Max was still on probation, and it wasn’t usual for a guy in his position to talk so much during church. Max’s blood tended to run hot though. He was one of the hardest men Horse had ever met, which was saying a lot. “We’ve done everything but lead this guy to the shitter and wipe his ass. He’s always making promises, always got an excuse, but nothing ever changes. You should’ve seen him last night. He’s definitely tweaking. Time to cut our losses.”
The words hung heavy in the air.
“How much does he know about club business?” asked Duck, a Vietnam vet who couldn’t make the long runs anymore. He spent most of his time in the clubhouse drinking beer and telling the girls stories about back in the day when men were men and women knew their place. Horse didn’t much like the man but he’d still trust him with his life.
He’d trust any of the brothers with his life.
“Too much,” Horse replied, his voice heavy. “Way too much. He’s a liability if we don’t take out some kind of insurance.”
“What kind insurance is good enough for a guy like that?” asked Max, clearly spoiling for a fight, although damned if Horse could understand why. “He’s a liar and a thief. The money we’ve been feeding him for his work should be enough for anyone. Instead he’s livin’ in a shithole, smoking weed and waiting for his sister to bring home her fuckin’ pathetic little paychecks. What kind of man lives like that? Even if he started playing it straight, we’d never be able to believe him. Probably full of all kinds of crazy lies.”