“Where was he from?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who was the woman?”

“Man,” Spam said, “long time ago. All I remember is when they strung his ass up for those little girls, ain’t nobody could believe it. Hardest part to think about was like you said, the dude who did that to those girls had a car and could talk, to threaten them. Echo didn’t have jack shit. Wouldn’t hurt no one. Just walked the highways with that bag on him, wandering around, looking for some day work.”

“What kind of bag did he carry?”

“Army bag,” Spam said. “Man had been in Vietnam and got out with his brains scrambled. Always carried that bag with him, wearing them Army boots.”

“Man,” Boom said.

Quinn’s cell started to ring and he stepped out into the gravel lot to answer. It was Lillie.

“Well,” she said. “Sonny Stevens does know his shit. Those fuckheads are here now, going through all my shit, my bedroom, my shed, and even into Rose’s room. I don’t like this, Quinn. I don’t like what they’re doing. I don’t like what they’re implying.”

“What do you think they’re looking for?”

“They’re taking all my guns,” she said. “They’re going to try and nail me for Dixon and Esau Davis and make their bullshit stick.”

“Where’s Rose?”

“Right here on the porch,” she said. “I’m waiting for them to be gone.”

“I’m in the Ditch with Boom,” Quinn said. “Hang on. Headed your way.”

The Born Losers called it a church meeting, and although they talked about not believing in a damn thing, they took the church meeting pretty serious. There was an old card table placed under a swinging light and the core members would sit at that table: Chains as president, Big Doug as sergeant at arms, a skinny dude name Deke was the club treasurer. There was an enforcer named Gangrene who also worked at J.T.’s body shop in town, taking care of most of their bikes. Jason had heard he’d killed a couple men in a brawl outside Little Rock, but he seemed like a decent enough guy. Gangrene had taken the Harley to his shop to straighten out the frame and get the dents out of the gas tank. He was married, had two kids, and owned his own trailer.

Chains knocked on the table with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, it being the gavel, telling everyone who was milling about, playing darts, pinball, and pool, to shut the fuck up and open their ears.

Jason had been playing darts and he stopped. It was midday but dark and hot inside the clubhouse. It was nearly a hundred degrees outside and the fans inside weren’t doing squat.

“I’m sorry to say that scumbag Outlaw didn’t die,” Chains said. “Now they want a truce. We stay out of Tennessee and they stay out of Mississippi. It’s that clear.”

The men nodded. Somewhere, a “Hell, yeah.”

“They ain’t scared of us,” Chains said. “They’re scared of fucking Johnny Law, who has a hard-on for their skag business and the whores they’re running out of those trucker joints on Lamar and at the airport. They don’t need the pressure and the shit. I say we deal.”

“For now,” Big Doug said.

“Yep,” Chains said. “For now.”

Deke, skinny-faced, with a long, flat nose that looked like a penis, and droopy, sad eyes, nodded. “Money’s tight,” he said. “We got two hundred bucks and some change left. Can’t afford a war.”

“Me and Gangrene making a run down to New Orleans,” Chains said. “We’ll be back in four days. Don’t worry about money.”

“But we’re through with the Outlaws?” Big Doug said. “One of those motherfuckers kicked me in the balls. Hell, they tried to kill Jason.”

“If they’d killed your pal, that ain’t on us,” Chains said. “He’s not riding with our colors. He gets hurt and that’s on you, brother man.”

Big Doug leaned back into the folding chair and folded his big fat arms over his chest. He wore a black Molly Hatchet tee with the sleeves cut off. “Fuck me.”

Jason met eyes with Chains LeDoux, noticing the way the man had just trimmed his black beard, his hair still down past his shoulders. He wore no shirt and skintight jeans with combat boots, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. His eyes, those fucking gray eyes, just lingered on him. “You got a fucking problem, dude?”

Jason held the look, chalked up the pool cue, and said, “No problem.”

A couple fat boys at the bar exchanged a look, the big-titted black woman with the Afro lying prone in the velvet painting looking down at them. A man in the background of the painting peeked out from behind a curtain as the woman beamed in the spotlight.

They all heard the cars at the same time, tires on gravel. One of the boys went for the door and yelled back inside that it was the fuzz.

“God damn, son of a bitch,” Chains said.

Jason leaned over the table and broke apart the balls. Two solids went in. He stepped back and checked out the next shot as the club members walked to the door and filed outside. Jason took another shot, missed, looked up, and saw his partner, redheaded Hank Stillwell—Pig Pen—had left, too.

Jason shrugged and took a sip of beer, leaving the bottle at the edge of the table, and filed on outside.

Two patrol cars with Tibbehah County sheriff’s insignias sat parked at crooked angles outside the clubhouse. A hot, dry wind blew off Choctaw Lake, the lake dry and low as hell, as the sheriff came forward from his vehicle and asked, “Which of you boys they call Chains?”

Chains stepped forward. “I’m Chains.”

Big Doug stepped forward. “I’m Chains.”

And Deke rubbed his long, rubbery nose, stepped forward, and opened his mouth. “I’m fucking Kirk Douglas.”

“Y’all are true comedians,” said Hamp Beckett, who Jason had met on one prior occasion. Beckett, a Korean War vet and the longtime sheriff, had not been impressed with his Hollywood stories.

Beckett looked over Chains and the boys to Jason, hanging by the clubhouse door, and now looked even less impressed. He just shook his head and spit some Skoal out on the ground.

“I seen the pictures, and you seen the pictures, where the lawman comes out to harass the bikers,” Beckett said. “Me and you fellas playing a goddamn game like Wile E. Coyote and that fucking bird. But I don’t care about your long hair or your scooters or whatever y’all do out here on the lake. This is your place, and as long as nobody gets hurt, it’s not my trouble.”

Big Doug took a step back. Little Deke twitched for a moment, turned his head, and then did the same. Chains stood alone, with his tight jeans and combat boots and loose cigarette in his fingers.

“I got a call yesterday from the police chief up in Olive Branch,” Beckett said. “He knows y’all boys got into a rumble with some more scooter lovers up there. He ain’t issuing any warrants because I don’t think his jail is big enough to hold each and every one of you. But he wanted me to deliver a message. Go get your barbecue in Byhalia, stay out of his town. Is that too much to ask?”

Chains flicked the cigarette. He nodded with understanding and walked up to Sheriff Beckett, whispering in his ear, patting him on the back, and handing him the last couple hundred dollars in the club fund. The sheriff beamed and laughed, not saying a word, sticking the wad of cash into his uniform trousers and walking back to the patrol car.