Free No Angel by Jay Dobyns Page A

Angels and their stares. They knew Cruze and the Red Devils, but had never heard of the Solos. They asked out loud, “Who the fuck are these orange motherfuckers?” We didn’t say anything. I tried to look casual, but my insides were knotted up.
    We approached the two ranking members at the rear of the last tent.
    Cruze said, “Boss.”
    The larger one, who weighed upwards of 250 pounds and had a rosy complexion and white hair, bellowed, “Cruze. What’s up?”
    “Got some guys want to meet you.”
    The smaller one stepped forward. He had a squeaky, impatient voice. His eyes were hollow and distracted. He whined quickly, “Hey. You’re Rudy, right?”
    Rudy stepped forward and extended his hand. “Yeah. You must be Dennis.”
    “Yep,” answered Dennis. He jerked his head to the larger one. “This is Turtle.”
    “Good to meet you.” Rudy waved at us. “These are my Solo Angeles.” He pronounced our name Ahn-HELL- ess .
    Dennis’s head was almost completely encased in a swarm of ratty off-blond hair. His beard went to his chest, his ears were covered. His quick voice and worn eyes said it all: meth-head tweaker.
    I placed them both from the files we had on convicted Angels. Dennis’s last name was Denbesten, and he was a drug felon recently out of prison. Turtle’s name was Warren Kuntz, and he was a convicted sex offender. Dennis was an Arizona Nomad and close to Smitty.
    Dennis squeaked, “Turtle and I are glad to have you. Bad Bob told us you might drop in.” His weary eyes paused on each of us.
    Turtle offered hot dogs and beer. Dennis insisted the Angels feed us. “You’re here as guests of Bad Bob,” he said, waving to a prospect standing nearby. He said this in a kinder, gentler tone. I liked Dennis from the start. It was as if, after we’d walked into the cafeteria naked, Dennis had walked up and put his varsity jacket around our shoulders.
    A prospect appeared at Turtle’s side, awaiting orders.
    Rudy said, “This is my VP, Bird, my sergeant at arms, Carlos, and this is Timmy and that’s Pops, our prospects.”
    “We know,” said Dennis. “We’ve heard of all of you.” He smiled.
    Rudy barked at Timmy, “I’ll take that hot dog, prospect. Mustard and kraut. You got kraut?”
    Turtle smiled. “Yep.”
    “Good. Kraut. Don’t forget.”
    Turtle told his prospect to go get beers for everyone. He left.
    Timmy turned to follow, and I grabbed his arm. “I’ll take mine with equal amounts of mustard and ketchup. Mustard down one side, ketchup down the other. Get it right.”
    “Right,” answered Timmy.
    Carlos said, “Onions if they got ’em. Otherwise, plain.”
    Timmy said, “Right,” and turned again.
    Pops didn’t say anything. As a prospect he didn’t have the clout to place an order.
    Timmy stalked away angrily. I asked where the john was, and they pointed to some Porta Pottis beyond the blackened, halved oil drum that served as a grill. I caught up with Timmy before he got to the grill, grabbed him, and turned him around. No one else was in earshot.
    “What the fuck, dude?” I jabbed my finger at the ground.
    “Fuck that guy.”
    “Shut up and suck it up. What are you, a rookie? You’re a fucking fighter ace. We all know you can kick Rudy’s ass, but if you do it now, the show’s over before it started. Choke this bullshit down and wear your big-boy pants today. Dude, you’re Serpico and Baretta in one. You’re a fucking master. Come on. Play your role.”
    He straightened up. “All right, all right. But fuck you, for the record. I ain’t a step-and-fetch for you, Rudy, or anyone else.”
    I raised my eyebrows and we parted. I knew it took a lot to piss off Timmy, and if we pushed him far enough he’d have no problem whipping any of our asses.
    Back at the tent, Dennis asked me what that was about, and I said I was standing up for my P and for my club, that a prospect couldn’t act angry when he was ordered to do something he didn’t want to do.
    Dennis