“Of course,” he said, patting my arms. “Are we set to begin church?”
“In about three minutes, yep,” I said. “If you don’t see anyone else come in at the appropriate time, round them up or let me know, will ya?”
“Of course.”
I smiled, patted him on the shoulder, and sat down at my seat at the front of the church. Maybe Father Marcellus and the others were right.
Maybe I did need to get more involved. Maybe I need to be a more present member of the club.
But...
I had a few fears about that which I wasn’t willing to clarify, not even to myself.
A few seconds later, Michael “Patriot” Giordano, my closest friend in the club, came in with a big grin.
“I’ll be goddamned,” he said, raising his arms for a hug. “The big man decided to actually show up early.”
“Oh, please, it can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, it is,” he said, but his laughter and his physical contact distracted from the weight of his bluntness. “How are you, man? You look like you’re dragging a bit.”
I looked over his shoulder and focused my ears on the door, trying to sense if someone else was about to come into the room.
“I went to the graveyard this morning,” he said. “I don’t know that that will ever be enjoyable.”
“Shit, man, why would it be?” Patriot said as he took his seat, lighting a cigarette and then taking a gulp of whiskey.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just thought maybe by now, a full year later, I might be over it. I mean, the club is going great, we’re making money, and—”
“Profit’s not everything here,” Patriot interrupted. “In fact, unlike most businesses, I would argue it’s second. Or third. Sure as hell ain’t first, man.”
I crossed my arms. What were we, if not a business?
“We’re a club, Lane,” he said, answering my silent question as he usually tended to do. “A club is about brotherhood. You can pay people and bail them out with the funds we have, but that’s just the minimum of what we do here. You need to partake more.”
How many fucking times was I going to have to listen to that shit?
“I hear you,” I said, deflecting his statement.
“Well, you may hear me, but the other club members don’t hear you, man,” Patriot said.
I was about to bum a cigarette from him, but the harshness of his words left me reeling so bad I just stared at him for several seconds.
“You think I’m kidding?” he said, arching an eyebrow. “You know of all the people here, I’m going to tell you the truth the most, brother.”
“I’m well aware, thanks,” I grumbled. “Can we just drop this until after the meeting?”
Patriot looked like he wanted to do anything but. He was now leaning forward in his chair, elbows on the table, as if trying to get closer to peer into my mind and better understand what I was asking.
“Alright,” he finally said.
He wasn’t letting me off the hook. We both heard footsteps approaching.
“But you have to promise me you will, man. We’ll do it right here if we have to.”
“Okay,” I said, quickly finishing my words before the oldest officer, Red Raven, the Secretary, walked in. He gave me a firm handshake, looked at me with his one good eye, nodded, and took his seat.
Red Raven was the oldest member of the club, not just the officers, and probably the closest to having to retire due to physical limitations. His hands didn’t hold as steady as they once had, he had one functioning eye, and he ran out of breath easily thanks to years of smoking, eating shitty food, and just, in general, being old. But he also was a sage unlike anyone in the club, and though he wasn’t much of a speaker, when Red Raven spoke, unlike Butch, we all fucking listened.
