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  It took all of four minutes for that to fly out the window. Just as a song he liked came on the radio there were red and blue lights in his mirrors. Turning down the stereo, he could hear the sirens, too.

  “Fucking bullshit.”

  He downshifted, pulled to the shoulder and rolled to a stop well away from the white line, half on the desert sand next to the freeway.

  With another muttered curse he killed the engine and got his papers from the glove box. Straightening in the seat again, he recognized Sheriff Archie Turnbull waddling his way up to the driver’s door.

  There was a time when getting pulled over by the actual Sheriff would have had him straightening his hair and putting on his most charming grin. And things hadn’t changed just because Sharon Downey was now the exclusive old lady of his brother, either. The new sheriff was not nearly as easy on the eyes, as much fun to flirt with, or half as bright as the previous one. So no, this tub of asshole lube was not going to get getting any of his charm.

  He had the window down by the time the used car salesman was next to him, and looking down at that smug fucking face he wished he could spit on the guy. But looking down would have to do.

  “License and registration.”

  Tiny handed down the small folder with all his papers. Not so subtly, the folder also included the route to Hueneme, along with his port access credentials and CARB Drayage Truck approval. It looked even more legit that he was out on the road that day, and when you were delivering for Sachetti it was pretty damn close to being legal. The guy’s pay offs went high and wide.

  This little shit pawing over the things was too far down to get a single trickle of money like that. Didn’t mean he couldn’t be a hassle.

  “Is everything in order?” Tiny asked wryly, knowing it was fucking was.

  “Can you step out of the truck, please?”

  “On what grounds?”

  Turnbull squinted up at him with one eye. “I have reason to believe you may have a firearm in your vehicle.”

  “I do,” Tiny replied, point blank.

  Turnbull blinked, stone still. It took seconds for him to form his next question. “You have a record.”

  “For a driving offense. I also drive truck on long, quiet stretches of roadway. It’s a Glock 9, Sheriff. Registered. In a lock box, under the back of my seat. Right next to my permit to carry while executing my job. It’s for my own safety, it’s what truck drivers do, Sheriff.” He popped the door and climbed down, planting his safety boots on the gravel and turning to Turnbull. The little shit was only about five eleven, and it was satisfying to see his Adam’s apple bob when Tiny crossed his arms across his chest.

  “I got permission. Went through the whole gauntlet getting approvals from all levels of bureaucratic bullshit. But if it makes your pencil dick feel bigger to keep me from meeting my deadline, go for it.”

  Turnbull’s face got red, so that was one point earned. Second point came from was watching him look from the cab to Tiny to the cab and back to Tiny again. He’s fucking scared of me, Tiny realized. And not just because he had inches and about fifty pounds of brawn on the guy.

  Turnbull was smart enough to know that stepping out of his jurisdiction could fuck him. Red Rebels paid for a lawyer. Not a high-brow, clean lawyer but a bull dog just the same. And with two months as Sheriff under his belt Turnbull had just enough brains to know that he knew nothing about what it took to be sheriff. Case in point: not running his plate, knowing that the carry permit was attached to his license. Fucking stupid show of the cards.

  Fucking touchdown.

  “I give you full permission to search,” Tiny finally said. “Not asking for a warrant. If it makes you feel better knowing which nudie mags keep me warm at night when I have to sleep in the back, you go on and take a peek. I’ll even give you a minute alone, if you need it. Just don’t get jizz on my shit, okay?”

  With a sputtered “Fuck you!” Turnbull shoved the papers at Tiny’s chest, spun on his heel, and kicked gravel all the way back to his cruiser.

  With a grin in place Tiny hefted his frame back behind the wheel. The sheriff pulled a U-turn behind him, nearly creaming a sedan that had been coming the same direction. That car had to hit the brakes. Squealing tires and a horn honk followed, and as Tiny watched Turnbull flipped off the sedan driver before speeding back towards Markham.

  Shaking his head he fired up his engine again. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Pick up and drop went off without a problem,” Tiny reported, keeping his tone even. “That’s the main thing.”

  Jayce was having none of his Zen bullshit, however. “Turnbull just happens to pull you over though?”

  “He knows how we make bank, at least some of it,” Fritter pointed out. “He’s not that dumb.”

  “As long as our routes don’t take us through Markham County, and Markham township in particular, we’ll be fine.” Tiny said it, and meant it. So much easier to blend in bigger crowds. “There’s a lot of trucks on every other road out there. It’s Markham that has next to no trucks on those freeways. And the closer we are to Markham, the more Turnbull will stick his nose in.”

  “Still boggles the mind that they elected him,” Tank said in his slow way. “I know Sharon was fucking Fritter but—”

  “She should get a medal for that,” Tiny cut in, absorbing the shot in the arm Fritter gave him with a grin as everyone in their circle chuckled.

  “But the delivery was fine?”

  Tiny nodded at Jayce. “Yeah. Their guys loaded and unloaded, we literally sat there and watched like fucking occupational safety officers.”

  “You talk to anyone?”

  “I talked to the guys at the port. We always end up with the same boat, same group. Sachetti has this shit down to an art.”

  Jayce nodded, appeased for the moment. “Good. If you feel good about this—”

  “It’s good, Jayce. Sachetti is totally using us the way he said he would. He’s running a business here. Nothing more.”

  “Good. Thanks, man.” The Prez clapped a hand on his shoulder then jerked his head towards the clubhouse. “Let’s head inside for a beer, yeah?”

  Tiny was on beer number four and on the way to a decent buzz when Wendy appeared at his arm, stroking his bicep and leaning into him so her breasts pressed against his arm. He felt an initial reaction, the kind she expected of course, until she spoke. “Tiny, someone’s on the phone for you.”

  Frowning, he set his beer bottle down on the shelves that ran along the walls that annexed the pool table. “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know. He said it was urgent.”

  Tiny followed her swinging hips through the room to the restaurant-style kitchen behind the bar. She left him alone for the call however, returning to her bartender duties. When the swinging door closed he grabbed the old school receiver that was resting on the counter.

  “Yeah?”

  “Harlon Gray?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  There was a pause. “This is Sheriff Dean Wexler, Montrose County, Colorado. You have a minute to speak?”

  Even without the intro Tiny would have guessed this was a cop. The tone was there, reminded him of Sharon when she got official-sounding. “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Your father is Harlon Gray as well?”

  The voice faded off and Tiny knew. The pit his stomach had been hovering on eventually yawned wide enough to let his gut drop into it, and his body grew cold all over. “Yeah?”

  The Sheriff was talking, but none of it registered. his knees trembled, so he hooked a stool with his foot and pulled it over to park his ass on, running a hand over his face. “That son of a bitch,” he muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff. You were saying?”

  “You currently had power of attorney over your mother, is that right?”

  Tiny swallowed. Shit, he’d signed a lot of papers when he’d visited his father. Was that
one of them? “Yeah, I do.”

  “I understand she’s in no condition to do this. So I’m sorry, but a member of the family is going to have to confirm identity of the body.”

  He’d missed part of the story while he’d been zoning out. His father hadn’t been in his house? How the hell did they not know who he was?

  “Sheriff, my head is reeling here. I might have blanked for a moment. Can you...can you just repeat for me what happened?”

  There was a pause, and when the Sheriff spoke again it was the slightest bit gentler. “We found a body we believe to be your father’s in a wooded area south of Cleary. At this point we’re ruling it to be a suicide. I need someone to confirm the identity, and this is the number we found for you at your father’s home.”

  “You were at the house?”

  “When the staff at your mother’s home reported him missing we went by. The doors were unlocked, the back one was wide open. Garage door was up, car gone. The car was discovered late yesterday, and we found a body earlier this morning.”

  “Jesus. Yeah, I’m leaving here right now. I’ll be there ... shit. I’ll get there as soon as I can, flying or driving. Whichever is fastest.”

  “I’m at the Sheriff’s office in Montrose. When you get to Cleary call me, and I’ll meet you at our Cleary detachment.”

  “That’s where he is?”

  “Yes.”

  The man rattled off his number while Tiny jotted it down. He was nodding the whole while, even after the Sheriff finished, until he realized the guy on the phone couldn`t see it. “Thank you, Sheriff. I’ll call as soon as I’m there.”

  When he placed the receiver back on the wall phone’s cradle, he noted the tremor in his hand.

  At this point, we’re ruling it to be a suicide.

  There was no doubt in Tiny’s mind. His dad knew the treatments, the toll they took, so he said no. And he knew the pain of the disease killing him slowly every day, and he said no to that, too.

  Shit. You didn’t get life insurance for a suicide.

  Ah, but he likely cashed all that in beforehand. Waited for the payments, not nearly as much as they would be if nature ran its course, and that cash was probably sitting in the bank, taking care of the bills for the home. Selling the house would help with that. As far as Tiny knew, the house was still listed. And taking care of that would bring him home, too. To take care of the house, his mom, and for the funeral.

  “Well played, you asshole,” Tiny muttered, not meaning the insult.

  The swinging door was flung wide and Neenie stumbled through backwards, giggling maniacally, not seeing him. Knuckles was right behind, laughing as he caught her around the waist with one arm, the other taking a tug on her long, midnight black hair. “Whipped cream in the can only,” the guy growled, taking what looked like a hard bite at the side of her neck. “The last time that cherry syrup ended up all over the fucking place. I was washing it out of my pubes for three days.”

  She laughed again, but Tiny had heard about all he could handle. He rose, clearing his throat, and Neenie gave a little shriek because he’s startled her. Knuckles was smiling, catching Tiny’s eye. His smartass mouth was about to share some other likely disgusting tidbit but it fell from his lips as sure as his grin and the light in his eyes. “Shit man, what’s wrong?”

  Apparently he was giving off discontent like a lighthouse. “Nothing. Just got a call from home.”

  “Your mom?”

  “Dad,” Tiny corrected, hearing his voice catch. Shit. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought. “I think...I think he capped himself.”

  Knuckles let go of the girl, actually set her to the side, and approached, hand out. “Dude, what do you need right now?”

  Tiny took that hand and let Knuckles reel him in for a side-shoulder hug. “I need to get to Cleary to ID him. Right now.”

  “Okay. Let’s get Spaz to check on flights, see if anything’s leaving Bakersfield tonight. Montrose, right?”

  “That’s the nearest airport, yeah.”

  “He can book you a rental there, too. If there’s nothing flying out tonight we drive.”

  Tiny frowned. “We?”

  Knuckles smiled. “You’re not driving out there alone. And I have a burning need to see where Harlon Gray was hatched.”

  “Burning need? That’s the clap.”

  “VD, actually. Not that I’d know of course.”

  Tiny actually chuckled, then caught himself. “Asshole.”

  “Just trying to get you back, dude. Let’s go find Spaz. Neenie, can you find another beer for the big guy?”

  “Sure.”

  When they were alone, Knuckles was all business. “Close to your mom?”

  “I used to be. That last visit was the first one in a long time, though. She didn’t recognize me once.”

  “You’re an only child?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Aunts? Uncles? Cousins?”

  He shook his head. “Dad was an only child, too. Mom’s brother was killed in the Pacific.”

  “Then I’m definitely going with you.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” He tried to make it an argument but to him, it was too soft and almost pitiful.

  “I know I don’t. Neenie’s bringing another beer, I’ll go tell Jayce what’s doing.”

  As the weird bastard left the kitchen Tiny felt a small measure of relief. He wouldn’t be alone. As odd as it was for a guy that had usually done whatever he could to be his own company, that wasn’t what he wanted. Not now.

  The dark-haired sweetbutt with an apparently taste for sexual sundaes brought him a new cold bottle of Budweiser before leaving him to his thoughts for a moment. He nodded his thanks then sunk back to the stool just as the door opened again.

  “Ah, hell—” was all he got out before Jayce was pulling him up for a back-pounding hugging, Tank stepping in for the second one. His throat was closing but as Tank let him go he took a big pull on his beer before speaking. It helped. “I think I’ll need a few days, Jayce.”

  “Whatever you need, man.”

  “I know the Circus opens tomorrow—”

  “Forget about that,” Tank interrupted. “Nomads are going be here, we’ll have enough men to keep everything covered.”

  “Knuckles wants to come too, but I don’t know—”

  “Fuck that,” Jayce and Knuckles said in unison, then looked at each other.

  “We’re already a man down—” he began but Jayce was already cutting him off before he really started.

  “You’re not doing all this shit alone. What’s more, you’re letting us know about the funeral so we can all be there for you.”

  And there went his throat, like a crushed beer can. “That’s too much. It’s farther than you think—”

  “Fuck you,” Tank spat out. Everyone was intent on telling him what to do. If they weren’t careful he was going to get pissed off.

  “He killed himself, guys,” Tiny all but shouted. That quieted everyone down. “His cancer was advanced and I’m thinking it was torture to keep going. So he killed himself somewhere other than home, so I have to identify him before they can sign a death certificate and start the ball rolling on final preparations. This isn’t going to be a full church funeral. It’ll likely be me and mom graveside, that’s it. No one goes to the funeral of a suicide.”

  The silence hung and he wished he’d just kept his mouth shut. He didn’t spout off on personal shit, but he was starting to feel itchy from all this concern.

  “We do,” Knuckles spoke up softly. “We go to that funeral. We pay respect to you and your mom. Because that’s what we do.”

  “You said your old man was a good man. Hard worker. Getting sick is the shits, man. No one should have to go out like that. He made his own way. I don’t give a fuck what your hometown thinks about suicide.”

  Tiny’s eyes prickled at Tank’s halted speech, agreeing with every word with every fiber of his being. And when Tiny started to feel deat
h knocking on his door, he knew that waiting it out was not going to happen. He’d run his bobber right into a truck doing seventy before he wasted one day lying on his ass hoping for the miracle of “getting better.”

  “Go pack,” Jayce instructed. “Spaz will get you on a flight if there is one.”

  “We should take the bikes,” Knuckles said, eyes lighting up.

  Tiny laughed. “It’s November and we’re going to Colorado.”

  “Oh.”

  “If we’re driving I’m still leaving tonight,” Tiny informed the assembled men. “I can’t put off the ID. It’s making my skin crawl knowing that the old man is chilling in a drawer somewhere.”

  “Extra reason to take Knuckles. You take turns driving if you have to.”

  “You can even pick the music. Which shows how much I care ‘cause your taste in music is the shits.”

  Fuck, he had to appreciate that bastard’s sense of humor. Maybe a co-captain was a good idea.

  -oOo-

  The next flight out of Bakersfield to anywhere in Colorado was to Denver at nine the next morning. A connecting flight meant he wouldn’t be home until around noon the next day.

  Driving it was.

  Knuckles had offered to drive first, but Tiny had given him a glare. His truck was new, and while he would consider handing it over if he was fighting to stay awake, no one was driving the thing except him.

  He never got tired driving. It was part of job, and before finding himself in the club, he’d taken every long haul route offered. Cross-country jaunts hadn’t fazed him. He’d only slept when legally obligated to, could eat twice a day and be just fine, and his bladder was reinforced steel. One piss break every five hours was the most he needed.

  The RAM wasn’t as comfortable as his rig, though. He liked the bounce of the rig seat, the padding was made to be planted in for hours at a time, and the cab felt like a cock pit. Everything was in easy reach. Even the wheel sat in the most ergonomically satisfying way. Driving this truck was a bit less luxurious, but there was still no way Knuckles was taking over.

  Knuckles kept up a steady stream of chatter and ribbing, which was a relief. If the guy had decided to Doctor Phil him all the way to Cleary Tiny was going to gag, bind, and throw him in the back. No, somehow Knuckles always knew the best way to deal with emotional situations. He knew Tiny would want “normal” for the drive, so that’s what he was giving him.