Still, I had to wonder what that stuff about Brian at the end was.
Axle
Wednesday Morning
Icouldn’t believe I didn’t even know that Butch’s real name was Brian.
And I couldn’t believe that that was probably the least of my concerns.
I was starting to believe Butch was the rat in our club. If he was going to the east side of town after he had gone to the vet—which was yet another thing none of us knew, that Butch had a pet of some sort—that was Fallen Saints territory. That was not Black Reaper territory.
It was just building upon what I had already suspected. The quietest one was always the one who was the guilty party.
The only other competition for Butch was Red Raven, but let’s face it, Red Raven was also so close to death at his age and barely able to ride a motorcycle that he had nothing to gain by betraying us. What, would he sell us out for a few thousand dollars that would sit in his untouched IRA account once he died?
No, Butch was the one with the most to gain by turning against us. He was the one who had the most benefits coming his way. He was the fucking rat.
As soon as the date had ended, I texted Lane and Patriot, asking if they were at the shop. When neither said no, I decided to table the conversation until the next day. Nothing ever happened on Tuesday nights, and I would have preferred for the two of them to be rested when the news broke. Besides, confronting Butch, if we were right, was going to be a violent endeavor. I didn’t want to end my night, as good as it was, on that note.
But the instant that Patriot walked through the front garage to our shop the next morning, Lane pulled him aside and met me for church.
“Alright, Axle,” Lane said. “You’re the one that wanted this meeting, you got it. Floor’s yours. Am I right in assuming that this is the spy?”
“Yes,” I said. “Do you know Butch’s real name?”
The two young men looked at each other.
“It’s... Butch, right?” Patriot said. “Even if it’s not that—”
“It’s not, it’s Brian,” I said. “Lane, did you know that?”
He shook his head.
“Did you know that Butch has a pet?”
“Axle,” Lane interrupted. “I know that it may seem odd that we don’t know much about Butch, but if you’re finding out that these details were kept secret from us, that’s not the kind of thing that’s going to turn me into a believer. I know for a fact everyone in this club has secrets, and I know for a fact I don’t know what some of those secrets are. If they are secrets that don’t hurt the club, I don’t give a shit. Obviously, if they do, I do.”
“I know,” I grunted. “But this is your sergeant-in-arms. This is the man you trust with the grunt work. And we’ve got a one in three chance of being right.”
I knew it wasn’t enough, though. What I was accusing Butch of could not be undone, and just realizing his name was a different B-word and that he had a life outside of the Black Reapers wasn’t nearly enough for a permanent action. Just as I was eager to try and make things work with Rose, I was eager to purge the rat from our group.
“I’m not going to bring an accusation against him, not at this point,” Lane said. “I nearly made the mistake of accusing you, Axle, before I had full evidence, and if not for the work of this cat right here, one of us would be dead.”
Patriot didn’t laugh. He knew there was no joke to what Lane had said.
“However, you do make a good point that it’s going to be one of the three that we haven’t investigated yet, and I suppose this is as good a chance as any for us to start testing this assumption,” Lane said. “I’ll start feeding Butch information for some low-key runs. Maybe we’ll do some cash runs for the Hovas or something.”
“Just nothing to put the club in danger,” I said, but as soon as I said that, I knew it was wishful thinking. By definition, feeding information would compromise someone in the club.
“Well, I make no promises,” Lane said. “We’ll figure something out. Patriot, any thoughts?”
“Nah, man,” he said. “Well, wait.”
He took a second to gather his thoughts.
“I know no one’s said anything, but man, I think people are starting to notice all of these little side sessions. It’s one thing when it’s you and me because we’re close friends, we’re supposed to hang out like we are. When it’s the three of us, though? Or when we get bigger, and it’s more of us, and we exclude one or two people? At some point, the rat’s going to know that we’re getting on his trail, and at that point... ”
Patriot just shook his head. It was the same as mobilizing in plain daylight for the enemy. At some point, your target would have so much time to prepare for your action that what would have been productive would suddenly become counterproductive. Patriot was absolutely right on that count—we were wasting too much time and not making enough things happen.
