There was a script for this kind of thing. Damron read from it with a preacher’s timing.
“The club has always settled its own debts,” he said, pacing the syllables. “We will not let this slide. We will not go begging to the law. We will do what’s right, the way we always have. And we’ll do it together.”
I recorded the words, every sentence a little tighter than the last. I made a show of keeping my handwriting straight, of not looking up at the men who watched my hands like they were watching a firing squad load rounds. My body wanted to shake, but I made it wait.
Damron went down the line, calling for the vote by rank and seniority. Each man stood, spoke his name, then his answer—“Aye” or “No,” though nobodyever said “No.” It was a blood ritual, an old one. The act of standing, of putting your own boots on the line, made it count more than just a voice in the dark.
“Medina,” Damron said, looking at me dead-on.
I stood, though my knees hated it, and spoke clearly, “Aye.”
The sound echoed, then faded, then landed on the page.
It was unanimous, as always. The club would go to war.
The rest of the meeting was logistics—who would handle which corners, who’d keep an eye on the local deputies, how to squeeze the Sultans until there was nothing left but panic and skin. Nitro and Augustine mapped out runs on the whiteboard, using colored markers for routes, black for the names of anyone who’d flipped or disappeared. Someone brought out a list of Sultans’ plates, hand-typed, stained with grease. Someone else made a joke about the one time a Sultan cried when you broke his hand, and the laughter was so sharp and sudden it made the air in the room flip from deadly to electric.
I kept writing, cataloguing every threat, every promise, every shift in the way the men leaned forward or sucked their teeth or cracked their knuckles when Damron’s gaze passed over them. I watched the way Augustine’s hands moved when he talked about the next planned run, the way Nitro didn’t bother to hide his hate for the other club,the way even the newest prospects sat like they were on trial.
When it was over, Damron slammed his gavel—a literal one, made from the head of a piston, welded to an axe handle. The sound was final and ceremonial and just a little bit stupid, but nobody laughed.
The room broke into fragments, small groups forming at the edges, men slipping out to the garage for a smoke or a quick line of whatever made them feel brave. The bar at the back filled up, and someone fired up the jukebox, letting Johnny Cash compete with the undertone of bad ideas. The meeting table emptied, save for the stains, the minute book, and me.
I stayed in my chair, copying the last of the notes into the log, making sure the vote was recorded for anyone who might bother to look after the world stopped spinning. I could hear the sound of pool balls cracking in the next room, the slam of a door against the brick, the distant echo of Nitro yelling at a prospect to quit touching his bike. It all faded in and out, muffled by the thickness in my skull.
I was halfway through my second summary when Damron’s shadow cut across the table. He waited until I looked up, then nodded at the corner booth.
“Need a word, Secretary.”
I followed him, trying not to limp. The booth was a private relic, upholstered in cracked red vinyl and tucked away behind a half-wall of glass block. It smelled like decades of spilled whiskey and secrets, which I guess was the point.
Damron slid in first, folding his arms on the table. He gestured for me to do the same.
“You been scarce,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Not like you.”
I shrugged, picking at the corner of the minute book. “Lot going on.”
He watched me, eyes hooded but sharp. “We all got shit. But it’s not like you to miss three Friday nights in a row, even with your Ma gone.”
He didn’t say it as an accusation, but I could feel the edge. I stared at the clock above the bar, the sweep of the red second hand lagging just enough to be unsettling.
“Been helping out at the Humane Society,” I said. “Somebody’s gotta feed the mutts.”
His eyebrow ticked. “That a new thing?”
I shook my head. “Ma liked it. I keep it up for her, I guess.”
He nodded, as if he’d heard an excuse but wasn’t sure if it was the one he wanted. “You’re a good son,” he said, then leaned in, lowering his voice to a growl. “But I hear other things.”
I waited, careful not to show anything.
“Rumor is you got friendly with the girl who runs the place,” he continued. “Emily something. Is that true?”
My jaw wanted to grind, but I held still. “She’s just someone I know. Nobody’s business but mine.”
Damron’s mouth twitched—smile, maybe, maybe not. “You think I care who you fuck? This isn’t a church. Hell, if she gets you to crack a smile now and then, good for her.” He paused, and his hand moved to the table, tapping out a rhythm that matched nothing in the jukebox or the room. “But I want you to remember something, Medina.”
I let him go on.
