“But to do that we’d all need to vote onthatdamn vote,” Zane reminded him.
Zeke glanced over at Rage, who’d been too damn quiet. If anyone would have his back on this, it would be him. “What d’you think?”
The sergeant at arms sucked on his teeth and tipped his head to the side as he regarded Zeke. “Sounds fuckin’ stupid to me, Prez.”
Damn.
“Gonna guess your plan involves hittin’ up some homes in upper crust neighborhoods or jackin’ some tractor trailers and stealin’ the cargo. Gettin’ busted for that shit might decimate the club. Fencin’ it at our own pawn shop would be even more stupid. Would make us a damn target for the feds.”
Zeke scratched the back of his neck. “Then someone better come up with some other fuckin’ ideas. If we wanna support our club, our families, and our lifestyle, we need more goddamn scratch.”
“Agreed,” could be heard from everyone but Zane.
“Nobody disagrees with that, but remember Dad fought for this damn club to go legit and to keep everyone outta prison. He did shit to protect the members and their families for good reason. We got good, solid businesses right now bringin’ in scratch without any heat at our backs. The fuck if we wanna destroy everything he fought for.”
“Ain’t his club anymore.”
“Bullshit, brother. Still wears the colors, still got ‘em inked onto his back. He just ain’t prez anymore.”
“Exactly,” Zeke grumbled.
Zane wasn’t done making his opinion known yet. “Don’t mean he don’t got a stake in this club. And why would you wanna invite the pigs to mess with us? Right now, we got peace.”
“Gotta agree with that, Prez,” Cruz said. “Shit like that will only bring unwanted attention. Not only from the pigs, but other clubs, especially if our numbers drop ‘cause everyone’s away at Club Fed.”
“And like Chill said, you’re gonna need a membership vote to open a new club business. The OGs would shoot down any illegal ones.”
Wheels might be right, but some of the OGs mightremember when they weren’t legit. When the club straddled that legal line. Back then, some members weren’t happy that the club cleaned up its reputation.
The founders, one being his great-grandfather, would’ve hated it. They picked the name Dirty Angels for a damn good reason.
“Then every fuckin’ one of you better come with at least one suggestion before the next time we’re sittin’ here.” He jabbed his finger into the table top. “That ain’t a suggestion, that’s an order.”
He caught a few groans and muttered curses.
“Respect my authoritah!” Wheels quoted in his best impression of South Park’s Eric Cartman and slammed his hand on the table. He then sat back and laughed his fucking ass off.
“Alegitbusiness,” Zane added.
“Long as it makes good scratch,” Zeke said. “No point in stretchin’ our brotherhood thin if a business don’t make shit.” They needed to move on. He had a bottle of whiskey waiting for him. “Okay, give me the lowdown on the upcomin’ Walker Foundation fundraiser.” Since his club was involved, he needed to know what was going on.
“You goin’, Prez?” Chaos asked.
“Yeah.” He glanced over at Cruz. “Got the prospects helpin’ out, right?” They fucking better be.
“Yeah. My sister appreciates the help. ‘Specially since it’s free labor.”
“Make J.J. help out, too.”
One side of Cruz’s mouth hooked up. “You mean Jagoff?”
Chuckles rounded the long table.
Zeke glanced over at Rage. “Blood Fury comin’ down?”
“Why the fuck you lookin’ at me? Last I checked, mypatch says I’m the goddamn sergeant at arms, not your personal bitch.”
“Dunno, man, sure look like a bitch,” came from Wheels.
