“Stay cool, dude. Do you know anyone who has the card? I can pay you thirty cents on the dollar so you’d be able to get some cash.”
“I guess I could steal one.” Jigger looked around. From the perplexed expression on his face, Steel knew that he didn’t know what to do with this turn of events.
“You know, I’ll give this to you for the amount I told you. But so you know, the EBT cards are gold.”
“EBT?” Jigger crossed his arms.
“Food stamp benefits. Anyway, you got the cards, you can get cash, drugs, alcohol, even a pretty good-looking hooker.” The tall man sniggered.
“Okay. I’ll remember that. Where’s my stuff?”
The lanky teen pulled out a cellophane packet. “Mexican Mud. The best shit you’ll get in the county.” He handed it to Jigger. “It was good doing business with you. Call me if you need me.” As the dealer turned around, the waiting brothers stepped out from the shadows. Panic spread across the young man’s face. He looked at Jigger. “What the fuck is this? You a cop?”
“You’re gonna wish we were,” Muerto said as he seized the guy’s arm. The dealer struggled and pulled in a vain attempt to break free. “You keep fighting me, it’s gonna get worse.”
“Gag the fucker and bring him to the cell.” Steel turned away and held his hand out to Jigger. “Give me the shit. I wanna see what’s got a fucking hold on my daughter.” He stared at the cellophane packet holding the small black rock that looked like a piece of coal. This shit was what seduced Chenoa and almost killed her. He shook his head and shoved it in his pocket. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
The cell was a place in the clubhouse to bring people who needed to be persuaded to tell the Night Rebels information, or needed to be taught respect, or simply needed to be eliminated. It was in the far left corner of the basement and had a reinforced steel door, soundproof walls, no windows, and various tools for implementing the club’s desired effects. Knives of various sizes lined the back wall; metal bats, pliers, and wrenches hung from hooks on the side wall; and gallon jugs of chemicals, cleaning products, and disinfectants were neatly lined up on a large steel table. Steel beams suspended from the ceiling had pulleys and hooks in them. Metal folding chairs were stacked against the front wall. A curled-up hose and concrete floors made for an easy cleanup.
By the time the Night Rebels arrived back at the clubhouse, they had bound and gagged the sniveling dealer. Dragging him down the stairs by his shirt, the young man groaned and grunted until he was thrown on the cold floor in the cell. As Steel stared at him, the man’s eyes grew wild with fear. Steel gestured for Diablo to sit the dealer on a chair. Diablo unfolded the metal chair, pulled the man up by his shirt, and slammed him down. The young guy bowed his head.
“Ungag him,” Steel said, and Diablo complied.
“I didn’t do anything. Please. I swear. It’s just a crappy fuckin’ job. I don’t even get paid that much.”
Steel went over to him as he was babbling and backhanded him across the face. Blood spurted from the man’s nose. “Shut the fuck up! You fucking sold smack in our territory, and you’re trying to tell us you didn’t do anything? You’re a piece of shit.”
The man’s eyes widened as blood dripped down his chin onto his white T-shirt. “I didn’t know it was your territory. They didn’t tell me. I’m sorry. I don’t even know who you are. I’ll go to another area and sell. You can have your territory back.”
“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up,” Steel said. “The whole county is our territory, and we don’t allow that shit you’re selling on our turf.” The young man looked confused. “Who gives you the shit to sell?”
“I get it from a distributor. He goes by the name ‘Candyman.’ I’ve never met him. It’s usually mailed to me, or I pick it up at different locations. I have to pay the money first. I pay it through the Internet using bitcoins. Can I have a tissue?”
Diablo went close to the man and yelled, “No you fuckin’ can’t!” He boxed his ears and the dealer cried out.
“Where does Candyman get the Mexican Mud?” Steel leaned against the metal table.
“I don’t know. I’m just a small-time hood. I deal to support my own habit.” He hung his head down.
“Why the fuck did you want the food stamp cards?”
“Candyman said they bring good money ’cause we buy them cheap and resell them at a marked-up price. I preferred cash, but sometimes people don’t have it, especially the ones who live on the reservation.”
Crimson filled the space between Steel and the young man. He kicked over the chair, throwing the man on the ground. The dealer moaned and looked up at Steel’s blazing eyes.This fucking dirtbag probably sold smack to Chenoa. I wanna kill him.The young man started to open his mouth but then closed it and kept his gaze locked with Steel’s. “You deal at the rez?” Steel asked through gritted teeth.
“Sometimes,” the man answered tentatively. “Mostly just on the streets.”
“How old are you?”
“Just turned eighteen last week.”
“Happy fucking belated birthday,” Muerto said as he kicked him in the stomach. The man groaned and curled over.
Steel watched the young man who was bleeding, bruised, and squirming in pain.This fucker isn’t the ringleader. He’s a goddamn addict who’s supporting his fucking habit, but he knows more than he’s saying.“What’s your name?”
“Jason,” he said as he winced. “I think my ribs are broken.”
“Why the fuck do you think we care about that?” Muerto said as he gave the man another kick. Diablo, Goldie, Crow, and Steel laughed. Muerto spun around. “This fucker’s been too pampered. We need to toughen him up a bit.”
