A Gorgeous Mess Page 6

  Every waking moment since, that quickie had been on Ormond’s mind. He had scoured his brain for ways to see Anson again, to find out more about him. Of course he’d jotted down Anson’s license plate when he’d blazed off on his elegant Panhead. His next step was going to be to ask Twinkletoes to run the plates. Then in walked the man himself. Virile, exotic, with ocean-blue eyes in a taut, bronzed face. His worn 501 jeans fit him like a glove, his ass curvy and rounded, begging to be squeezed.

  “Um, right,” Anson said now vaguely, clearing his throat. “I’m going to go down there and get to the bottom of this fucking mess. Put a stop to these assholes riding up on your turf. You’re assuming these Hellfires have something to do with it, that the Diné didn’t just take it into their own minds to pull this heist on their own. I tend to go along with that theory. Diné don’t like to get involved in Anglo business like robbing storefronts, even if they grew up gangbanging like I did. A lot of them want to die like straight-up gangstas, so lately I’ve seen it happen more and more, but it’s always because they’re under the influence of some Anglo or Mexican pressure. Could be a symptom of a war they think they’re waging against Anglos. Whatever the case is, I’ll find the non-Diné influence behind this whole fucking mess.”

  Turk took over. “Normally Lock would go, being the best tracker for thousands of miles around. But he’s off chasing some chomo in Barstow. I’m nominating Ormond Tangier to assist. He knows those Rez guys, and he’s familiar with the Hellfires out of Gila Bend.”

  Everyone whipped their heads around to view Ormond. Rover in particular had a contemptuous snarl on his face. Ormond didn’t know what to fucking say. “Yeah, I’m familiar with Iceman Gustafson and his crew. They used to give us all kinds of grief in Quartzsite about being motorcycle-riding fairies.”

  Dipstick added, “When I was in the Baal’s Minions, they were our mortal enemies. I know a bit about how they roll, too.”

  Ormond was eager to show off his connections. “Iceman is the conduit between the Hellfires and some of the Sinaloan cartels, I believe from Culiacán.” Ormond could properly pronounce the name, too, with just the right Latin flourish.

  Rover butted in. “Anyone who’s anyone has to go through Tony Tormenta in Nogales, and I’ve got that connection in the palm of my hand.”

  Anson said, “No. These guys are clearly moving things upriver from Yuma. That’s why Turk’s most concerned about the Hellfires. He was given the entire river from Yuma to Topock and suddenly it appears these fucktards are riding up on your power base. You’ve got to restake your claim.”

  Rover frowned fiercely. “And some nozzle who isn’t even a patched Zealot is going to come in and take over, when we’ve got perfectly able-bodied men sitting right here?”

  Turk took control. “It comes down to a matter of knowledge, background, skill, Rover. I know you’re perfectly capable of showing those Hellfires a thing or two.”

  Anson added, “We might even need your firepower if it comes down to a showdown.”

  That seemed to placate the sergeant-at-arms. He wasn’t supposed to be questioning his President’s decisions, but Rover had always been a rebel.

  Now Twinkletoes said, “I’m texting you two the GPS coordinates. I must say, looks like it’s close to the ranch of the deceased Stumpy Meadows. Some of you may recall him as being a former brother of Lock’s who got a little too big for his britches.”

  Everyone murmured and nodded. Whatever had gone down at Stumpy’s alfalfa barn last spring, it had changed the whole power structure up and down the Colorado River. Stumpy was dead, Turk and Lock had emerged battered but alive, and a new gay MC had been born in the wreckage of the fallout. So far, no one had challenged their right to run guns and marijuana up and down the river. They had even started relaxing, thinking they had cemented their rep during that shoot-out over the bodies of dead Mexican students. This was their first challenge to arise.

  “All right,” said Turk. “That’s the main item of business. Now I want to talk about that Lions Club crab feed. The Sons want to use our bar and grill for their annual crab…”

  Ormond stopped listening the second Turk mentioned crab. If it didn’t have to do with Anson Dineyazzie, he didn’t want to hear it at the moment. Of course he couldn’t get up from the table. His fingers itched to google “Anson Dineyazzie,” but all their cells had been placed in a bucket at the start of chapel. He wondered if they would wear cuts when they went down to the Rez. Sure, why not? Make our presence known, flaunt our colors. What better way to stake our claim?

  Ormond stared unashamed at the figure of his admiration. And Anson clearly was aware he was being admired. His eyes kept flickering over to Ormond, then back to whoever was blabbing about the Lions at the moment. He looked annoyed, that much was obvious. He was clearly blindsided that the guy he was stuck working with was the guy who had given him a mind-blowing hummer the night before. And now all Ormond could think about was that hummer. And how he wanted to do it again.

  The endless meeting was finally adjourned. Most men raced to the bucket to grab their phones and exit. Ormond swiftly moved to Anson’s side of the table where he was conferring with Turk and Rover.

  Rover was saying, “As the sergeant-at-arms I want to be kept in the loop on these things.”

  Even greater annoyance now flashed across Anson’s handsome face. “I report to Turk and no one else. I’m not a member of your fucking club.”

  “That brings something to mind,” Ormond cut in, “about our colors. I think we should give Anson here a spare cut. He needs to be flying our colors. You can loan him Nebs Blaisdell’s cut.” Nebs had decided at the last minute not to patch into the Bent Zealots. He didn’t think he could tolerate all the scrutiny that being an out member of an outlaw motorcycle club would bring. He wasn’t strong enough to cut it, he said, but Turk had told him he was welcome any time he changed his mind. He’d gone back to his car repair shop.

  “Good idea,” Turk said brightly. “You guys look about the same size. You willing to fly our colors, Anson?”

  Anson didn’t look so sure about that, either. “A…a gay MC? I’m not so sure about that…”

  Turk clapped a hand to Anson’s brawny shoulder. “I know you’re not gay. No one’ll care, believe you me. I don’t even know how much common knowledge it is that we’re an out MC. It’s not like we’ve got a logo of some flaming rainbow or Lady Gaga with a feather boa.” Turk left the room, presumably to get Nebs’ cut.

  Ormond turned around to show Anson his colors. “Besides, we’re not all gay. Twinkletoes isn’t. He just works well with us. Look, it’s actually pretty cool.” Turk and Lock had come up with a cartoony, growling caveman holding a giant club, and Ormond had drawn it. This meant they were all in at the ground level, starting from scratch, Cro Magnons reinventing the wheel. A ring of fire around the fellow signified that they were protected by their righteousness.

  Anson was smiling. “A caveman? Like Fred Flintstone? All right. I can deal with that. As long as a ton of other bikers don’t get in my way, if you know what I mean. I don’t feature being ridden off the road and tarred and feathered when I’m trying to track down some bad guys, you recognize?”

  “I recognize,” Ormond said solemnly.

  Rover sputtered with disgust. “So now a guy who’s never even been in Lake Havasu suddenly gets to fly our colors, without even having prospected.”

  Anson narrowed his eyes. “Listen, buddy. I’ll fight it out with you if I have to. I’m doing a job for your club, and when it’s done I’ll hand your cut right back to Turk. This is business, man. That’s all it is.”

  Rover’s lower lip jutted out. “Seems like a fucking unfair way to do business.”

  Turk came back, handed Anson the cut, and took Ormond aside. “Listen, Ormond. This is going to be your acid test. I’m putting my trust in you. I know you’ve never shot a guy but I have every faith that you would do so to protect your club.”

  “I would,” Ormond vow
ed solemnly. They’d been through all of this in the early days of the club. Each man had to be willing to kill to protect his club. That was probably the deal breaker for Nebs Blaisdell.

  His hand on Ormond’s shoulder, Turk bent to capture Ormond’s sober gaze. “This can make your bones, Ormond. Who knows? You might even get a cool road name.”

  Ormond had to chuckle. “I always wanted to be Yosemite Sam, but I don’t guess that’s going to happen.” Your brothers had to choose your road name. That was how they sometimes wound up with mortifying ones. Thymus Moog probably didn’t really relish being called Thymus Gland. But the member had no choice.

  “You’ll work well with Anson. He’s a great man. I knew him as a kind of older half-brother growing up.”

  “He’s a mercenary in Afghanistan? Is there anything I should know? Like, don’t whistle the theme song from The Andy Griffith Show? The last thing I want to do is piss him off.”

  Turk thought. “You might want to steer clear of the meth subject. His pregnant teen daughter is having an issue with it, so just stick to pot and you’ll do fine.”

  “Check.” Ormond tossed his head in Anson’s direction. “I hope Rover lets us do our job. He seems determined to interfere.”

  “You guys just do your job and let me handle Rover.” Louder, Turk said, “Rover, I’ve got a job for you. I need you to ride to Topock and vet this new supplier of Russian ladies. No need to make a deal, just get a feel for the guy.”

  Rover took the bait, leaving Ormond free to follow Anson out of chapel like a desperate pup. “We should head down there immediately,” Ormond called out.

  Anson blazed like a gunfighter to the Happy Hour’s front door. “All right. We’ll ride to those coordinates and do some snooping around.”

  Ormond caught up with the mercenary outside on Surprise Street, the main street of the Rough and Ready 1950s hamlet. Herbal Legends was a few blocks down, along with Ormond’s studio, a couple of nail salons, a bookstore, another bar, all the necessaries for a happy, sunny, breezy life. The hired gun was striding so rapidly, Ormond had to grab him by the bicep.

  Anson spun about with such precision, before Ormond knew it, two of his fingers were tight in Anson’s grip. Fire blazed in those frightening eyes, and Anson seethed. “Do not ever touch me without my permission.”

  Ormond gulped. An apology whispered from his mouth. He realized he could be dealing with some sort of PTSD issues as well. He’d seen that plenty in his carousing with men in uniform.

  Anson viciously threw away Ormond’s hand. Ormond did not expect the next words that came streaming caustically from that shapely, luscious mouth. “Listen. I’ll let you suck me again, but on my own terms. I’m not out, and I’m not about to be out in public with another gay man, so there will be no hand-holding, no smooching, and nothing sappy. I’m not going to be known up and down the Colorado River as the gayest merc in the business. As far as even our buddy Turk knows, I’m straight as a Roman road. You recognize?”

  “I recognize.” Ormond was just glad Anson had addressed the elephant in the room. His mouth watered at the thought of sliding that tender meat down his throat again. “I’ll play by your rules, Sir.”

  Anson looked confused at how he should feel at being called “Sir.” His face softened. “You’re a world class dick smoker. Got to hand that to you. But let’s keep our eye on the prize here. Let’s go get these motherfuckers.”

  Anson started off again, Ormond trailing. They turned into the side parking lot where most Bent Zealots parked their scoots. “I’ve got a starting point,” said Ormond. “Leroy Sinquah, Colorado River Rez cop. He can tell us in a hot minute if anything strange is going on around those GPS coordinates.”

  Anson’s smile now seemed genuine. He stood with his brain bucket in hand, looking mighty tasty in Nebs Blaisdell’s cut. With the bandanna tied around his long hair and his Old Western short beard and mustache, he did look set for a showdown at a corral. “Good man. You could come in pretty handy with your fetish for blue dick. How happy is this Rez cop with your handiwork?”

  Ormond was proud. He knew he probably shouldn’t be so eager to let this stunning man know what a cum slut he’d been for so long now. He already knew he wanted to pursue Anson on more than a hookup level. One night stands were not Ormond’s middle name. He knew that all these years he’d been searching for something more substantial, something he could sink his teeth into—so to speak. Anson would be putty in his hands before this was over.

  But hell, he was proud of his talent. “Let’s say he’s never kicked me out of bed for eating crackers.”

  He loved Anson’s crooked grin. “Oh, it’s bed now? Good show. Text him or however you get ahold of him, and tell him we want to meet.”

  And that was how the most beautiful partnership in the world was started. With a mind-blowing piston job and a murdering, wary, bitter partner. Ormond couldn’t have been happier. He had a mission to carry out.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ANSON

  I let Ormond Tangier take the lead.

  The Rez cop was his contact, so we sat at some shithole coffee shop in the border town of Parker yammering with Leroy Sinquah. It was one of those coffee shops that sells two sorts of coffee—regular and decaf—and the Native American favorite, a glazed donut stuffed with shiny, gelatinous jam. I had black coffee.

  I was sussing up Ormond. I didn’t particularly appreciate being assigned a badge slut of a makeup artist for a partner. He would really need to prove his bones if he wanted to boss up in my mind. He rode a nice respectable Harley, and Turk Blackburn wouldn’t have hand-picked him for his crew if he didn’t trust him, but he was really going to have to level up if he wanted to work with me on an equal footing. So I sat back and watched him interact with the pot-bellied, craggy, older cop.

  Ormond did have a way of getting information out of people. Almost immediately the cop volunteered, “I have seen a white-haired Anglo in a flashy Camaro coming in and out of the Rez. I can’t figure out where he’s going, and since Highway 1 runs all the way through the Rez, for all I know he’s going to Quartzsite. I’ve got his plate number if you want it.”

  “That would be helpful.” Ormond’s rich, exotic Spanish accent also had a way of lulling men unsuspecting into his honeyed trap. I could see where this basically straight arrow Hopi, who probably lived the strictest lifestyle on the Rez, would suddenly want his dick sucked by Ormond Tangier. He’d probably never erupted between such shapely, exotic lips.

  The guy had style, substance, flair. He also had the looks of a Hollywood actor in the heyday of Technicolor glamor—a Cary Grant, a Rock Hudson. But instead of tying a sweater around his shoulders and running around with a tennis racket, somewhere along the line Ormond had become twisted, bent. He had decided to decorate his perfectly flawless chest, his well-developed, meaty pecs with tattoos of dripping aliens and gore-spewing zombies. In other words, he wasn’t vain, and this intrigued me. How had such a gorgeous, luscious Spaniard gotten to be so free of self-love?

  Leroy Sinquah was saying, “If any Anglos are setting up shop in my hood, I want to know, Ormond. I know since the death of Stumpy Meadows, illegal trafficking has dropped off to almost nothing on the Rez. I’m not saying whether that’s good or bad.”

  I knew what he was trying to say, obliquely. The abuse of Stumpy Meadows had at least paid some of Leroy’s residents a subsistence wage. The Rez had a network of docks up and down the Colorado River where Stumpy and his men had run Mexican heroin and meth. It was an ideal setup because feds and Anglos were extremely hesitant to venture onto the Rez. The Zealots hadn’t gotten into that trade, so who had stepped in to fill the void? Maybe it was better if the Zealots ran it, than some pricks of the rival Hellfires. Drugs were drugs, and someone was going to do them.

  We stood and shook Leroy’s hand. Ormond said smoothly, “We’ll keep you in the loop, Leroy.”

  The two other men lingered behind me as we exited the coffee shop. I heard Leroy say to
Ormond,

  “Your partner is a live wire. He’s a nasty customer. He better be lucky he doesn’t have a badge or you’d eat him for lunch.”

  “Oh, I can handle him,” Ormond assured him.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Leroy was clapping Ormond on the shoulder.

  “Come by my office any time, Ormond. We can go have lunch, too.”

  They thought they were being so sly with their double entendres. But it was obvious the square family man couldn’t wait to have the Spaniard inhale his oyster again.

  It turned me on, actually. My partner was a well-known, talented dick licker who knew how to persuade even the least bi-curious of men. On the other hand, it sort of riled me, if the truth is known. I barely knew the guy, and already I felt somewhat possessive of him. I wanted to whack him upside the head and tell him to get some self-respect. I wanted to tell him he didn’t need to open wide for every chunky in order to feel desirable. That he was desirable enough without all of that. He wasn’t going to get his father’s approval, anyway, by blowing a bunch of authority figures. His father was probably a hopeless asshole, just like mine probably was. That was probably why no Bare Boner would tell me a thing about him. Why else had I only met the guy once in my life?

  But who was I to say that? I wanted to spurt a load down Ormond’s throat again, too. His name rang in the streets for a reason. His tongue could bring down empires.

  “All right,” I said, about to slap on my brain bucket. Ormond was texting Twinkletoes the Camaro plate number so he could run it. “You think Leroy’s description sounds like this Iceman Gustafson asshole?”

  “Without a doubt. You’ll notice how I didn’t give him any of our intel, though, about the coordinates near Stumpy’s ranch. I’d like to get there before Leroy does.”

  I admired his strategy. “Right. We need to flex our muscle on our own turf, not let some Rez cop do it for us. These guys are going to keep riding up on us if they think we need some Rez cop to do our dirty work.” I realized I had just said “us.” Since when had I considered myself a Bent Zealot? When I’d put on that other guy’s cut?