Sometimes You Just Gotta Make Your Own Rules

Language, plus implied violence, physical abuse and substance abuse

“But wouldn’t this be very dangerous if . . .”

“Yes, Chrissy, it could go bad, disastrously bad. But I have to do this.”

“This is really scary, Alex. I’m going to be so worried about you.”

“Well, we just have to hope the plan on paper holds true for the plan in action.”

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

* * *

Born and raised in this city, and yet in all my 43 years I’d never set foot in this part of town. Even law enforcement didn’t want to be here. Understandable. Sitting right on the ocean as it did, cruising right through was not an easy option. But maybe it was really more a case of just giving up on any chance of a permanent cleanup.

Anyway, now I’m here on J Street for the third time this week. I’d rather it had been no times, but I had a job to do, and this is the place that offered the best chance of success.

Because of the way the land sloped down to the shoreline the area had long been dubbed Lowpoint, Eventually that took on a double meaning as the 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 was the only other commerce here. Unless, that is, you counted the panel trucks and car trunks with drugs, guns, grenades, pipe bomb, the occasional rocket launcher, and stolen goods with as much variety as general merchandise stores.

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

And the boys were equally adept at relieving the patrons of their cash and credit cards when they were leaving. 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 in Rolexes, diamond stick pins, sapphire cuff links, and top of the line cell phones, but even better for the perps, these guys were not likely to run to the police.

As you can probably tell, these were not 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 outermost edge.

And pack after pack dressed the part, 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 treacherously, my job had me in search of the baddest I could find.

But first I’d had to find someone else. In fact, that person was the reason I’d be seeking out the darkest corners here.

My first trip to Lowpoint had me inside the Baby Chix Club, looking for that fellow, hoping he’d be there. 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 was usually here.

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 keep up with a conversation about our “mutual indulgence” in fetishes, perversions, and dominance.

This third trip, now, was also one of his usual nights, but 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 perfect gang, and then the hard part – activating both.

I strolled along on the sidewalk, hoping my black jeans, black t-shirt, and black cap would blend in, casting me as just a big dude minding his own business. With a few hours of daylight left on this summer evening, I could wear sunglasses that would conceal the fact I was looking hard for something very specific.

My attention was 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 the backs and large flags on poles flapped in the breeze at either side of the wide open space that likely used to be a store front. I slowed my steps and took out my phone, tapping randomly on the screen while I actually looked through my sunglasses at the rest of the scene.

Front and center, three big burly bikers, tipped back in recliners, a beer in each cup holder, the flag motif continued on 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 game they were into.

And judging by the number of bikes, there were surely more of them nearby, probably behind the door at the back of this open area. In the front here, some tables and chairs, several padlocked cabinets, large fridge, counters with bags of snacks – probably no fears of anyone stealing them – and, dear God, rifles.

Just then a similarly outfitted guy came from the other way and walked in past them with nobody greeting anybody. Holy crap, the side of his face that I could see looked like a large patty of uncooked ground beef.

Hamburger guy stopped at the fridge and grabbed a beer. I could see the inside was filled top to bottom, door too, with cans of suds. When he entered the back room, though, I wasn’t able to see anything through that door.

I put away my phone, extracted my small card case, and gathered my courage, shoving aside the thought of being vastly out-numbered by folks who weren’t exactly giving off welcome wagon vibes. Here goes.

As I approached, no reaction from them, not a word, not a move. Just three laser stares.

Keeping my voice as even as possible, “Who’s in charge here?” Without changing position, the middle guy growled, “And who the fuck are you?”

I flipped open the case. He slowly brought his chair to a sitting position and took in the badge, ID card and AG statement. And that brought him to his feet with an agility that belied his considerable bulk. ”FBI! You got nothin' on us!”

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

“Yeah? Talk!” The belligerence hung in the air like a bad storm cloud.

“Can we sit at one of those tables?”

He eyed me for a few moments, then jerked his head toward the interior, signaling the other two to stay put. We took a seat near the back. He just stared, daring me I think to justify my existence in his space, or maybe even in general.

I decided 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 looked at him, puzzled.

 “Let’s just say he won’t be messing with Bruno’s wife anymore.”

It took a few moments for this to register. And when it did, my revulsion was tempered by the assurance I had very likely come to the right place.

“She was luckier, promised to be a good girl, and just slapped around a bit.”

At first I was sort of surprised he even told me any of this, but on second thought realized he may have grabbed the opportunity to send a message. Message received, and I soldiered on.

“OK, so here’s the situation. There’s a guy here in Lowpoint, a terrorist, that’s part of a large international cabal whose sole goal is to create significant chaos in America by pitting certain groups and the law against each other. What they envision is full out rebellion from folks like you and subsequent crackdowns on you by the authorities from local cops on up to the U.S government.

"This guy’s initiating the biker gang part of that plan. He’ll hang around here, pick up whatever he can about the gangs, eventually infiltrating one of them, and pass along anything unlawful to Homeland Security. To you folks he’ll pose as an experienced biker – says he’s studied it up, down, and sideways – and to HS he’ll be seen as an anonymous informer.

“Says Homeland may not pay attention at first, but as the tips increase, and check out, the government will begin taking a closer look at you, imposing limits to your freedoms, restrictions on your rights. And once he’s gained some credibility he’ll start fabricating stories to further build the case against you. This is just the terrorist organization’s first target, and if successful others cities could follow.”

“Where is this son of a bitch! I’ll see that it never even gets started!”

“Too late, last Saturday he just happened to overhear something and already sent it along. Wouldn’t tell me what it was, but said it was big.”

“Wait, how the hell do you know so much about him!” I thought I could literally see the mistrust jump into his eyes. I forced myself to hold his gaze.

“Well we had intel on him, of course, and once that was passed along to me I was able to find him and cultivate an acquaintance, though of course he doesn’t know I’m FBI. Our information showed he would often be at the Baby Chix club, because it turns out he’s also a total perv.”

“Why are you telling me all this, dude. Won’t your folks be getting on his ass?”

“Well what he’s doing right now isn’t really criminal. If it ever got to the point of feeding in false information, sending HS on wild goose chases, we could move on him. By then, though, it would have already have escalated. I don’t have to tell you what could be happening in the streets as tensions flare up between law enforcement and bikers. That’s why we want to curb it now.”

“Uh huh, uh huh. So OK, what, you wanna have us take care of it?”

“Nothing official of course, but the Bureau has given me free rein to handle this as I see fit. So, taking full advantage of that leeway, I could offer a little casual assistance in getting him here, and if the beating of his life follows, well that’s up to you. And it could be thirsty work, so perhaps to make sure your fridge stays well stocked we could make a donation, say twenty-five hundred.”

“OK, you got my attention. How is this gonna work?”

“So here’s my plan. I want to tell him that for five hundred bucks you can set him up with an underage girl, a real one as opposed to what the Club promises, who will do whatever he wants. Of course, the underage girl will actually be you guys. I know he’s there tonight, but I also know what other nights he’s there, so if you just tell . . .”

“Get the bastard, we’re ready to go right now.”

“One more thing, for this to be effective he has to know why he’s getting beaten so he calls off his assignment. That means early on, in case he’d lose consciousness later, you need to say to him, ‘This is for what you did last Saturday, and if you ever do it again, this is exactly what will happen 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 then let me know when it’s over so I can see the results and pay you. And I’m guessing I don’t have to tell you that my colleagues know exactly where I am tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re not going to bounty you, but we want to see the money in advance. Like right now.”

I reached in my pocket, fanned out the bills, put them back. I had no worries about having to surrender the cash without the job being done. This guy had enough fire in his eyes to burn down Lowpoint.

And I headed over to the girly club.

Oh it was too easy. He almost ran ahead of me across the street, where he was quickly relieved of the five hundred and ushered into the back room. They closed their door, but not before I saw a large plastic sheet on the floor. I closed my door.

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

* * *

“Hi sweetheart.”

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

“One hundred percent.”

“And it’s done?”

“It’s done.”

“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 fakes.”

"And they never asked why a terrorist would reveal all that stuff to you?"

"Nope. And you know if they had I'd have said he was falling down drunk."

“So, do you feel bad at all about lying to them?”

“Maybe a little. But 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.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not. But, look, we have no reason to feel bad about deceiving them. Heck, for them it was three thousand dollars for less than ten minutes of work that they probably enjoyed no matter what the reason. And, you know, we just weren’t getting help elsewhere.”

“We sure weren't. Thank you, thank you, you were so smart, so brave.”

“None of this could have happened if you hadn’t 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 maybe this can help.”

“I think it can. Was he even able to walk away under his own power?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“What do you mean?"

“It, uh, went a little too far and he won’t be walking anywhere or . . . breathing for that matter. Don’t worry, fortunately or unfortunately, the guys let me know they’ll have no problem disposing of the problem without a trace.”

“Ohhh.”

“I know this wasn’t the plan, but it does mean for sure he’ll never rape anyone ever again. I hope you’re OK with how it turned out.”

Silence.

“Chrissy?”

A sigh, a sob, before she replied.

“My avenging angel, mission accomplished.”

- end -