Free A Voice from the Field by Neal Griffin Page B

Kane sat alone at the bar of the Roadhouse Score and took a drag on his cigarette, thinking that the gateway to hell probably looked a lot like a strip club at 8:00 A . M . on a Sunday. A few stools away sat the faithful gathering of a half-dozen or so hard-core drunks, hunched over a liquid breakfast served up by head bouncer, Buster Cobb. At this hour, Buster also served as bartender and grill cook. It saved money on overhead and who knows—maybe one of those pickled bastards would miraculously decide to eat an egg or some such shit.
    The men conferred among themselves, bemoaning the sad state of national affairs and the hijacking of the American government by a foreign-born, mixed-race dictator. It was the same rant day after day, but not one of the grizzled sons of bitches could stand up long enough to do anything about it. Kane shook his head at the pathetic state of the rank and a file of the notorious North Aryan Front, also known as the NAF.
    Kane knew he couldn’t be too hard on the boys. They were, after all, a pretty damn good meal ticket for a solider of the Aryan Brotherhood and full-patched member of the Hells Angels who happened to be looking for a new home. When Kane was discharged from Waupun Prison almost three years back, he’d fallen in with the NAF and found it served as a solid base camp for his criminal enterprise. As he was a man who always had an ear to the ground, it had come as no surprise to Kane to learn the NAF was now recognized by the FBI, the Department of Defense, and most civil rights watchdogs as an organized hate group that espoused white Aryan superiority. Looking over the men at the bar, Kane thought, If these guys are a threat to national security the U.S. better not piss off Canada. Or Greenland for that matter. A well-organized Girl Scout troop would kick the shit out of the NAF.
    For the morning, Kane had nixed the Roadhouse Score’s usual country dance music and cranked up the thrasher rock of Metallica, currently spewing out his own personal theme music from Kill ’Em All. The lights were turned up high, exposing the nicotine-yellowed popcorn ceiling and the cheap faux wood–paneled walls. Three silver poles rose up out of the nearby stage, abandoned and empty, of no current interest to anyone. The thick air was drenched with the lingering odor of last night’s five hundred unwashed bodies, mixed with the sickening, sweet smells of beer, cheap wine, hard liquor, and a dozen or so pools of vomit that still needed to be located and hosed down the floor drains. Even with the nighttime veneer of sex appeal stripped away, leaving the joint with the energy of a moonscape, Kane knew the Roadhouse Score still beat the hell out of county jail.
    No doubt about it. Kane had dodged a major bullet. When the lawyer put the offer of disorderly conduct on the table his first thought was, They’re fucking with me. Cop humor or some shit. Right up until yesterday, when the jail doors opened and they let him walk out, Kane had been waiting for the other shoe to drop.
    He gave himself a mental shake. He was out. It was time to get back to business.
    The run-in with the cops and the week in custody had cost him. Without Kane on hand to oversee operations the Roadhouse had done a fraction of its typical $10–15K a night. Not to mention the major deal that remained on the table. Gotta get back in the game.
    The strip club’s door opened and a single figure sauntered in. Kane sat and watched as the newcomer got put through a shakedown by Jessup Tanner, Kane’s right-hand man. Curtis Bell wasn’t just any patron, and even from a distance Kane sensed danger in the man’s cold stare. Even as Bell turned over his cell phone, wallet, and keys, then took a seat on a lap dance couch in a far corner of the club, he kept his gaze fixed on Kane, who finally looked away as if he had grown disinterested.
    Kane had known Curtis Bell long enough to realize the man had