Page 83 of Money Shot

VINCE

July 21st,2015

The Sergeant-at-Arm’s Ol’ Lady had a brother who had been in prison for some time, and according to Axton’s Ol’ Lady, who was a paralegal for a local attorney, he was wrongfully convicted of a crime. The legal firm she worked for requested a new trial, received one, and a mandatory meeting had been declared to attend the trial. It was the opinion of the club that a strong presence at the trial would provide support not only to the man who was being dragged through the court, but to the patched member of the club and his Ol’ Lady.

I didn’t dispute the benefits of attending the trial, but I had a man in another state who had skipped bail, and needed to travel with a bail bondsman to attempt to extradite him. After discussing my work requirements with Axton, I was given permission to work in lieu of going to the trial.

So, while all of the other members of the MC attended the trial, I rode shotgun in a truck to Omaha, Nebraska.

“So the other day, I had this kid that skipped out on bail, and I got a tip on where he was. Kid was 19 years old, and it was a conspiracy to distribute cocaine charge. Kid was facing five years, but since he skipped out, was probably looking at six or so. Anyway, so I go to this house and knock on the door, and this little fucker answers,” he said.

He was about my height, had a shaved head and was covered in tattoos, but weighed an easy fifty pounds more than me, all of which was muscle. He owned his own bail bonding company, and had hired me over the years to assist him with difficult clients. Through the course of doing business, we developed a good business-client relationship, he being the walking intimidation, and me being his physically persuasive partner. It was a good cop bad cop routine we played, and played well.

“And?” I asked.

“Well, his eyes get all big, and he looks at me and says, ‘Biggs, I was meaning to give you a call.’ Now I fucking know better, and I tell this little fucker we can do this the easy way or the hard way and I ask him to pick.” He paused, lit a cigarette, and offered me one.

I shook my head and pulled my pack out of my cut.

After we each lit a cigarette and exchanged glances, he continued.

“So, he says the easy way and asks me to wait a second. Says he wants to grab something. I tell this little fucker if he tries to run, I’ll shoot his little ass with a Taser, and he agrees. Now this house is a little one bedroom crack house, and it’s nasty as fuck and smells like death. But this little fucker just steps aside, opens a drawer on an end table beside this piss stained sofa, and pulls out a wad of cash.” He paused and puffed on his cigarette.

“How much?” I asked.

“Hundred grand. In hundreds. Motherfucker says ‘Here, just act like we never saw each other.’ I took a look at the money, took a look at him, and I shake my head. ‘What you gonna get if you take me in?’ he asks me. ‘Damned sight less than that,’ I tell him. Finally I tell this little prick to turn around and let me cuff him or I’m gonna shoot him in the neck with the Taser, and he lets me take him in. But you know what?” he asked.

I took a drag off the cigarette, inhaled the smoke, and tossed the butt out the window of the truck. After I exhaled the smoke, I turned toward him and responded.

“What?” I asked.

He took another long drag from the cigarette and blew the smoke around the cab of the truck. “I thought about taking the money. I mean, I think I never would have really took it, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t think about it. Weird, if you ask me,” he said.

I shook my head. “Good, evil. Right, wrong. It’s just temptation, it happens. Acting on it is what matters.”

“You think?” he asked as he flicked the ashes from his cigarette out the window.

I nodded my head. “Everyone is tempted.”

“I told my pop a lie once when I was a kid, and I tell you what I felt like a damned shit head for about six months. Finally came clean and told him the truth. Fucker beat my ass to a pulp. Not for chewing the tobacco, but for lying to him,” he said.

I laughed and shook my head at the thought. “That’s not temptation, that’s just telling a fucking lie.”

He exhaled another cloud of smoke and flipped the cigarette butt out the window. “I know the fucking difference,” he said.

“Well, I never told my pop a lie, he’d a skinned me alive if I did,” I said.

“Not even a little one?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

The thought of telling anyone a lie, especially my father, was incomprehensible. My father was a man of tremendous moral value, and taught me to be the same. Living as a man of my word, being honorable, and always making decisions I felt he would have made himself allowed me to live a life that I was sure would make him proud if he were here to witness himself.

“Knowing you, you’re probably right. You’re a weird fucker, you know it?” he asked.

I turned to face him, narrowed my eyes, and glared. “What the fuck you mean by that?”

“Well, for one, you don’t carry a phone. Who the fuck doesn’t have a phone? You, that’s who. I don’t know one more dude that ain’t got a phone. And when you go on your debt collecting deals, you always act like Samuel L. Jackson in that fucking movie,” he paused and pulled a cigarette from his pack.