Free No Angel by Jay Dobyns

in my way!”
    Timmy looked over his shoulder. Cruze stared at him, his long curly hair blowing around his face. Cruze’s prospect had delivered the beer without interfering.
    Timmy turned to Rudy and said, “Sorry, prez. Won’t happen again.”
    “It better not or you’re gonna have the shortest biker career ever.”
    Timmy turned away, took two steps, and rolled his shoulders. If he had done it facing Rudy, it would’ve been an obvious challenge. He played it off like he was stretching.
    Rudy let it go.
    We stood around and bullshitted. The Red Devils mingled with a couple other OMGs, most noticeably the Spartan Riders. Their center patch was a vertically oriented battle ax bisected by a pair of crossed swords on a blood-red background. Looking at that patch, it hit me for a moment that these guys were, for the most part, just as full of it as we were. It’s a simple formula: If you look tough, then you are tough. The posturing—by us, but especially by these so-called “outlaws”—was unbelievable.
    A big Spartan by the name of Bruno came up to us with a couple of his boys, each carrying a can of beer. Two women came with them. Old, broken-down women. Everyone had been living too hard for too long.
    Bruno had an extremely short buzz cut. His head looked like a giant, lumpy summer gourd. All he wore on his upper body was his cut. He had a jiggly beer gut that parted his vest, and his fat had declared war on his belly button, which had all but disappeared.
    It was immediately apparent that he didn’t like any of us.
    At one point he turned to Carlos and said, “Homes, what the fuck with your cuts? They’re like brand new.”
    Carlos, Pops, Timmy, and I all wore squeaky clean vests. Rudy’s, the genuine article, had been around the block, but ours were fakes and it showed. Carlos thought fast.
    “Fucking cunt. This bitch we had trim our shit—you know, we came here for Rudy from other charters—this cunt was like a three-year-old with a pair of garden shears. She cut our old shit up taking the rockers off, so we had to freshen up.”
    Bruno didn’t buy it. Cruze did. He said, “Damn, man. A man’s cut is like his skin. What’d you do?”
    Carlos ignored Bruno. “What can you do? It is what it is.” He pointed at the IIWII tab on his chest.
    Bruno rubbed his belly like it contained his brain. He suggested, “You could’ve fucked her up.”
    Carlos said sadly, “Yeah, well we would have.’ Cept it was one of our brothers’ moms.” He gunned the rest of his beer and threw the empty into the dirt.
    Cruze put up his hand and said, “It is what it fucking is, I guess.”
    Carlos belched. I said, “Yep. It is what it is.”
    I asked Rudy if we were going to head over to the Angels’ tent. He said, “Oh, yeah,” like it wasn’t a big deal. He asked Cruze to join us. Bruno said he’d hang back.
    We left and drifted down the fairway. It was something. The crowd stared and parted for us like we were royalty.
    Fear tickled over the nape of my neck and down my forearms. This was not like the Flamingo in Laughlin. That had been a venue full of non-bikers and cops. This was a crowded event exclusive to bikers and seriously underrepresented by law enforcement. I was scared and I was excited.
    We were going to meet the Hells Angels.
    Their area was a series of large open-air tents shading them from the sun. There were two large Angel prospects standing guard at the entrance. Cruze walked up and exchanged words with them. Rudy greeted them. They invited us in.
    The Allman Brothers crooned from some far-off speaker. On the left was a T-shirt booth. Two young, large-breasted women worked it. Stretched across their tight shirts was the phrase SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL RED AND WHITE . The Angels’ colors were red and white, and this was one of their more common nicknames. The women wore high-cut jean shorts. Neither of them smiled, and both smoked cigarettes.
    I pulled out a smoke and lit up.
    We passed loitering