Sometimes You Just Gotta Make Your Own Rules

{Language, implied sexual violence}

“Alex, I'm so worried about this. You could be the one who ends up getting hurt.”

“Yes, I know, but I have to do this. We just have to hope the plan on paper holds true for the plan in action.”

I'm glad she can't see how hard I'm gripping the phone.

“Believe me, I’ll be hoping that with all my heart until this mission is over.”

"Just take care of yourself, Chrissy, so you can come home tomorrow."

* * *

Born and raised in this city, and yet in all my 26 years I’d never set foot in this part of town. Even law enforcement didn’t want to be here. Understandable. A tough crowd rules this enclave, terrorizing all who venture in and a lone cop would be no exception.

Anyway, now I’m here on J Street for the third time this week. I’d rather it had been no times, but this is the place where I expect to locate both the problem and the solution.

Because of the way the land sloped down to the ocean, the area had long been dubbed Lowpoint, Eventually that took on a double meaning as the street scene changed and remained the one I’m in the midst of right now. Girly clubs, peep shows, dive bars, porn theaters, adult book emporiums.

A single coffee shop that apparently has never seen a health inspector is the only other commerce here. Unless, that is, you count the panel trucks and car trunks with drugs, guns, grenades, pipe bombs, the occasional rocket launcher, and stolen goods with as much variety as general merchandise stores.

And biker gangs are in the thick of it, ready to sell locals and travelers anything they want when they arrive. Drugs were especially popular, delivering the courage to stride into these various establishments.

And the boys are equally adept at relieving the patrons of their cash and credit cards when they leave. Easy marks, having now added alcohol to the mix. And given that many, more than one might expect, were from the monied class, not only was the haul often rich as well in Rolexes, diamond stick pins, sapphire cuff links, and top of the line cell phones, but even better for the perps, these marks were not likely to run to the police.

Clearly this was far removed from the law-abiding, weekend riding, charity-supporting motorcycle clubs. But more than even most outlaw units, the J street crowd pushed bad behavior to the extreme, the violent outermost edge.

And pretty easy to recognize. Usually black pants, white t-shirts, waist length leather jackets displaying three-part emblems, lots of studs and rivets, all leading down to lethally heavy boots. And then for decoration, tats all over their personal real estate, sharp jewelry, wallet chains, possibly bandanas. And what was most unnerving, I’m in search of the baddest I can find.

But first I’d had to connect with someone else. In fact, that person was the reason I’m now seeking out the darkest corners here.

***

My first trip to Lowpoint took me inside the Baby Chix Club, looking for that person, hoping he’d be here. I knew he was average height, on the pudgy side, brown hair, and most notable, a red chain tat all around his neck. Luck had struck and I’d managed to sit close enough to him for a casual chat, learning in the process what nights he usually stopped by.

I’d gone back to the club a couple of nights later, one of his usual times. On this second trip we’d talked a lot more and I’d had to call on every skill from high school acting class and as well totally suppress my gag reflex to listen to him talking about looking for young conquests here, flashing a roll of bills, saying he can pay for it but often doesn’t have to.

During this third trip I’d only briefly entered the club just to make sure he was there, and ducked out without him seeing me. So, half of the puzzle in place, in case tonight’s the night. Now, onto finding the other half, the roughest gang, and then the hard part – activating both at the same time.

***

So now I’m strolling along on the sidewalk, hoping my black jeans, black sweatshirt, and black cap are blending in, casting me as just part of the scene. With another hour of daylight left on this chilly autumn evening, I keep on my sunglasses to conceal the fact I’m scoping the hangouts.

My attention is drawn to a dirt yard with a tangle of bigass Harleys, and from my hurried research just days ago most looked like customs. No helmets hanging on them. Small American flags rode on their backs, and larger flags on poles flapped in the breeze at either side of the wide open space that likely used to be a store front. I slow my steps and take out my phone, tapping randomly on the screen, meanwhile checking out the human element.

Front and center, three big burly bikers, tipped back in recliners, a beer in each cup holder, the flag motif extending to their patched-up jacket arms. They were in rivet-laden black and together displayed enough bling to open a high end jewelry store, suggesting a good deal of success at whatever unholy games they’re into.

And judging by the number of bikes, there are surely more of them here, probably through the door at the back. In the open room behind the recliner hulks, some tables and chairs, several padlocked cabinets, large fridge, counters with bags of snacks and, dear God, rifles in the open and in easy reach – probably no fears of anyone stealing any of it though.

Just then a similarly outfitted guy comes in and walks past them with nobody greeting anybody. Holy crap, the side of his face looks like a large patty of uncooked ground beef.

Hamburger guy stops at the fridge and grabs a beer. I see the inside is filled top to bottom, door too, with cans of suds. He disappears through that door.

I put away my phone, extract my small card case, gather my courage, and approach these guys who aren’t exactly giving off welcome wagon vibes. No reaction from them, not a word, not a move. Just three laser stares.

With my voice as even as possible, “Who’s in charge here?” Without changing position, the middle guy growls, “And who the fuck wants to know?”

I flip open the case. He slowly brings his chair to a sitting position and takes in the badge, ID card, and AG statement. And that catapults him to his feet with an agility that belies his considerable bulk. ”FBI! You got nothin’ on us!”

“Shhhhh,” holding up my hand and looking over my shoulders. “No, I don’t,” I say, “but I do have something you need to know, and something to offer.”

“Yeah? Talk!” Threat hangs in the air like a Midwest tornado cloud.

“Can we sit at one of those tables?”

He eyes me for a few moments, then jerks his head toward the interior, signaling the other two to stay put. We sit and he just stares, daring me I think to justify my existence in his space, or maybe even in general.

I decide to start more conversationally, but yes also to satisfy my curiosity. “Before I get to the point, can you tell me what’s up with the guy with the effed up face?”

“Raggy? Happened on a road trip.”

“Was there an accident?”

“No.”

“Did he fall off the bike?”

“No.”

“So he was just on the bike and . . .”

“More like, uh, behind the bike.”

I just look at him, puzzled.

“Let’s just say he won’t be messing with Bruno’s wife no more.”

It registers. Gulp. But my revulsion is tempered by the assurance I had very likely come to the right place.

“She was luckier, just slapped around a bit. Promised to be a good little wife from now on.”

I’m sort of surprised he’s even telling me any of this, but then realize he may be grabbing the opportunity to send a message. Message received, and I soldier on.

“OK, so here’s the situation. There’s a guy that’s arrived here in Lowpoint who’s an activist for a rogue terrorist group. His job is to create chaos in the streets by infiltrating the toughest biker gangs, maybe two or three at a time, and then playing one off the other, secretly passing along information, true or false, that’s likely to stir things up, lead to confrontations.

“Just this past Saturday he told his handler that you guys will be among the first. And as I’m sure you know, gang warfare puts all of you higher on the government’s radar. Meaning, taking a closer look to see how they might limit your freedoms, restrict your rights, even find reasons to throw you in jail.”

“Why that son of a bitch, I’ll . . . wait, how the hell do you know so much about him? And why the fuck are you telling me all this!”

I think I can literally see the mistrust jump back into his eyes. I force myself to hold his gaze.

“Well we had intel on him, of course, including his loyal patronage at Baby Chix Club where I made a point of meeting him. And the fact that he’s a total perv is how we can solve this.”

“We who? Won’t your folks be getting on his ass?”

“What he’s doing right now isn’t really criminal. The FBI can’t move on him without evidence of actual wrongdoing. But I have free rein to deal with it in whatever way, and I mean in any way at all, that insures it never even gets started in this town. And that’s why I’m telling you all this.

“So . . . if you're really saying you want us to take care of this - Hell, yes! Get his sorry butt over here and we’ll happily teach him all about Lowpoint manners. And, wow, dude, badass! Breaking the Man’s rules!” And he goes knuckles up for a fist bump. Oww.

“OK, here’s how we’re going to play it. I’ll tell him that you have a beautiful teenage girl here and for $1,000 he can spend an hour with her, doing anything he wants. You keep the grand, kind of a contribution to the beer fund.”.

"Deal"

“Of course, ha, the underage girl will actually be you guys. I know he’s there tonight, but I also know his other nights, so if you just tell . . .”

“Get that piece of shit, we’re ready to go right now. We’ll tape him up, tie him up, have some fun with him, but the poor bastard may not be among the ones enjoying themselves. Although he was expecting to have sex, and in that regard he won’t be disappointed.”

Uh, OK. I take a breath and soldier on.

“Now, one more thing. For this to be effective, he has to know why he’s in this world of hurt so he calls off his assignment. So before he might lose consciousness, you need to say to him, ‘We know all about last Saturday, and if that happens again, this happens again.’ Now, how many rooms are back there?”

“Two.”

“OK, I want to be in one, while you take care of business in the other.” And with that I head over to the girly club.

***

Oh this was too easy. He’s almost running ahead of me across the street. He’s waving the bills, and now quickly relieved of them. They are all but shoving him in the back room, but before the door closes I see a large plastic sheet on the floor. I close my door too.

And it’s on. Loudly, even through the tape. If I didn’t have such contempt for this guy, I could almost feel sorry for him. But in reality, I’m cheering every blow.

* * *

“Hi sweetheart.”

“Oh Alex, thank God you’re safe. You are OK, right?”

“One hundred percent.”

“And it’s done?”

“Mission accomplished.”

“They really bought that the guy was a terrorist? And that you were FBI?”

“Hook, line and sinker. We’ll have to take Marty to dinner for the great job he did on the fake creds. Also, just by chance I had a glimpse of this gang’s outlook on women, and believe me our real story certainly wouldn’t have been a motivator.”

“It didn’t help with anyone else either.”

“That’s for sure. But fortunately you had the presence of mind, despite what you were going through, to remember both what the creep looked like and the name of the club where he said you’d be a star. I know nothing will ever erase the nightmare of last Saturday, but at least we’ve have had our revenge”

Was he even able to walk away under his own power?”

“Well, not exactly. It, uh, went a little too far and he won’t be walking anywhere or . . . breathing for that matter. But, um, the guys let me know they can make the problem disappear without a trace. I didn’t ask, just left”

“Oh, Alex, it wasn’t our plan, but that does mean he can never rape anyone ever again.”

“And there's more. But let's wait till you're home from the hospital tomorrow, and while we relax over a nice glass of wine I'll tell you about the unexpected karma. It may seem like an odd thing to celebrate and we may have to pretend to feel a bit guilty."

"Alex, what . . ."

"Tomorrow my love but believe me, we will be clinking glasses."

- end -