Free Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle by Jerry Langton Page B

what he saw in a few hokey cowboy movies and a hazy memory of something he heard in history class about maize and long-houses, Ned didn’t know much about Native Americans. So, when they drove onto the Indian reservation, he intently studied everything. Ondasheeken looked like all the other little towns he had seen in the county. There were the usual clapboard houses and trailers made into permanent residences. There were clotheslines, above-ground gas tanks, muscle cars, and big angry dogs tied to stakes. But the kids playing by the side of the road were often bronze colored, and many of them had very long, always black hair. The businesses had long, Japanese-y names with lots of consonants. And every sign had an eagle or a turtle or some other dumb animal on it.
    André turned onto a dirt road with a few mailboxes on it. He reached one shaped like a largemouth bass with the name “Wilson” on it and turned.
    As they approached a fairly large low-slung ranch style, Ned could see that there was a small group of men out front. Most had long black hair (some in ponytails) and all wore some combination of jeans, wife-beaters, and/or plaid shirts. Their skin tones ranged from copper to milky. They were clearly having a good time smoking and drinking. There was a fire with meat cooking over it. And every single one of them (including a boy who appeared to be about ten) was carrying a gun.
    One of them—a big guy, maybe six-foot-four, and all muscle—saw André’s pickup and let out a piercing shriek. When he was done, he grinned broadly.
    André lowered his window, and grabbed the man’s left hand in a grip that looked like they were arm wrestling. The big man walked alongside the truck as André slowly guided it into what he determined was an appropriate parking spot on the grass.
    â€œHow you doin’, man?” the big guy said, obviously happy to see André.
    â€œI am screwed, blued, and tattooed, chief,” André answered.
    â€œI told you not to call me that,” the big guy answered. “That word means something to these guys.” He motioned at the men behind him, many of whom also seemed very happy to see André.
    â€œFine, fine, fine,” said André. Then he paused. “Chief.”
    The big guy laughed. The rest of his crew gathered around. Ned found them menacing despite their smiles, but André clearly had their respect.
    â€œYes, yes, yes, gentlemen, Santa Claus has arrived,” André said as he came out of his pickup. He dug out and threw clear plastic bags full of weed to the big guy. Then he threw one full of white pills. And then two full of small translucent shards, which Ned (correctly) assumed were methamphetamine.
    The big guy looked into the cab of the pickup—where Ned and Leo were still buckled into their seats—and said, “Boo!” He laughed when they both flinched. He turned to André and asked, “Who’s the ballast?”
    â€œOh, these are friends of mine; good friends of mine in great need,” he said. “They need some . . . uh . . . cantaloupes.”
    The big guy smiled broadly. “That’s good,” he said. “I just got a load of fresh ‘cantaloupes.’ Come inside.”
    André followed the big guy inside, and Ned and Leo came after. Ned overheard him ask André why he never wore his colors anymore but couldn’t make out André’s response.
    Inside, the house looked very much like any of their own, but with more animal body parts used as decoration. There was a tiny old lady on the couch who stared off into space and tore cardboard into increasingly smaller pieces. An ancient and obviously arthritic dog of undetectable lineage cuddled up against her.
    The big guy, whose name was Willie Wilson, sat with his three guests at a Formica and stainless steel dining room table. A heavy-set young woman—possibly stoned—walked out of one of the bedrooms