Neon Nights Chapter 21

The White House Bar sat deep in the Nine Mile Forest on the outskirts of town. The mile-long tunnel of trees leading to it was hypnotizing to drive through, with tall oaks reaching out to connect with their comrades across the road and create a canopy that refracted the sun's light in myriad directions.

If it were a dirt road, it would have been easy to imagine that you were about to embark on an epic quest to slay a dragon.

The forest waged a daily battle to reclaim the land, and there were always regular crews from the town cutting back the overgrowth from the road. One day though, nature would win the war and reclaim what had been taken from it. The parking lot was packed with motorcycles when Marc pulled up. The majority glistened in the sunlight, with chrome so spotless you could see your reflection long before you got close to it. Others looked fresh from the dirt track, where after the race the pit crew who cleaned the bikes said, "to hell with it" and went home. There wasn't a single four-wheeled conveyance save for an expensive-looking golf cart with knobby tires, glistening metal rims, and what looked like a sizable sound system and light package parked by the off-site storage area.

The owner of The White House was a biker named Damian "Devil" Knox. He'd inherited the bar and cottages from his grandfather when he had gotten too old to run it. His father had been in prison for as long as he could remember, so he wasn't in contention to take over the family business. The building looked like an old saloon from the early 1900s because that was precisely what it was. White paint covered the structure, and swastikas and Confederate flags dotted the property. There were beer company signs and a few vinyl banners promoting "Lookers and Hookers" every Friday night. Devil and Billy had grown up together and reunited after getting out of prison to reopen the bar. It had become the de-facto headquarters for White Wave, and Devil held the role of master of ceremonies for the gang.

His girlfriend, Amy "Angel" Smith, was the head bartender and somehow managed to keep the crowd of criminals, sadists, and sociopaths under control. She wasn’t so much the preacher's daughter gone rogue as the preacher’s daughter who was born rogue … and stayed that way. In Sunday school, the ladies of polite upbringing wrestled with the idea that such a sweet-looking little girl could be so deeply under Satan’s spell. Prayers, interventions with the family, and the laying and smacking of hands couldn’t shake the mischief from the girl. She was wild as the wind and had a sleeve tattoo on her right arm featuring an erotic take on the sirens of the Odyssey. Piercing green eyes gave her the appearance of a witch who could con men into trading their money and self-respect in the belief that they had a shot at a single night with such a woman.

You could flirt with her, but if anyone crossed the line into disrespecting her, Devil was more than happy to drag the offending party outside for a refresher course on what was and wasn't allowed.

Marc parked close to the road and backed into a clearing by a patch of trees. A dozen guys in sleeveless leather vests sporting a vast collection of patches and stains stood drinking beers and looking directly through him as he approached.

"I'm looking for Billy," Marc said. No response.

"It's a pretty small place inside. I think it's not going to be tough to find him. Thanks for all your help."

The glares continued, though no one opened their mouth.

At the front door, he stopped and read the sign, scrawled in black Sharpie:

If you ain’t riding the wave of white, you ain't right, and if we don't know you, you'd better scurry your ass out of sight.

Cheers, this wasn't.

Marc walked through the door, and a wall of smoke and the stench of beer, bourbon, and barbecue slammed into his senses. The opening riff of Pantera's "Walk" blared through the speakers causing screams to ring out across the forty or so people scattered through the dimly lit room playing pool, gambling, and generally not doing anything constructive with their time.

He scanned the room looking for Billy and spotted him holding court in the far corner of the bar around a card table. The other five

bikers at the table were laughing too hard at his jokes and slamming their hands on the table to make the boss feel validated every time he did so much as sneeze. As Marc walked through the bar, bikers took note, stopping what they were doing, and trying to process the man who was clearly insane.

If you were to take Billy Adams out of this bar and throw a polo and a pair of golf pants on him, he could easily be mistaken for a corn- fed, flag-waving patriot from Des Moines who sold insurance and went to church every Sunday. His flattop was rigid and sculpted enough that even the Marines would have applauded. Take this man, though, put him in a white leather vest with the Devil riding a wave on a black-and-red striped surfboard, and put him in charge of fifty or so derelicts with no future, and you had one of the most ruthless and psychotic motorcycle gang leaders on the East Coast.

Billy looked him up and down and stood up, grinning at him, his well-cared-for teeth another oddity in a room where it didn't look like dental insurance came with the membership.

"Detective McKinley, well, this is a surprise! Everyone give it up for the only man to put ME behind bars!"

The room did nothing.

"Y'all going deaf? I said, GIVE IT UP!!"

A series of forced clapping and some outright brazen boos were the only sounds that could be heard.

"I guess there ain't nothing that can change man's contempt for his oppressor, Detective. I'm sorry we can't be more hospitable."

"I appreciate the effort, Billy. It's been a long time." "That it has, Detective."

The crowd seemed to realize that Billy was capable of taking care of himself, and the music started back up.

"You got a minute where you and I can talk in private?" Marc asked. "For you, Detective, anything. You're my boss, right?"

"I think your parole officer is your boss, Billy." Billy took a sip of his beer.

"Yeah … you right about that. He probably won't like me drinking this beer or doing this shot, huh?"

He belted down the Jägermeister next to his beer. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Damn, that's right nice of you. Why couldn’t you keep my secret the last time when you got me sent up?”

"Seriously?" Marc said. "The secret where you guys were selling people. Like, actually selling people. I can't believe they didn't give you 1000 years for it. Or how about the girl you murdered and left by the water, remember her?"

"I got a good attorney, and that ain't how I remember it going. I think those women wanted to find work, and we were just helping them get gainfully employed. Far as that last thing goes, I've never hurt a fly."

Billy grinned and took a long pull from the sand-colored filter of his cigarette, the exhale well measured with the cool of a seasoned smoker.

Marc let it pass as he felt the anger moving up through his throat. He had to stay cool here and couldn't show any aggression. The bullshit banter had to keep up.

Billy flicked a long ash from the cigarette.

"You arresting me again Detective? If so, I'm not sure I want to go outside with you."

"You aren't required to; it's just me asking man to man. I can do all that nonsense about warrants and armies of police, but I wanted to give you a fair shake and make it a conversation to start."

"Fair. I'll give it to you, Detective; you got a set of balls on you." Billy pushed the seat back and walked towards the front door.

Marc followed him out into the sunshine, and they stood on the front deck of the bar.

The bikers in the parking lot stood braced for war and looked at Billy for a nod of approval.

"Do I look like I need a fucking babysitter?!" he shouted at the men.

Within seconds the group had scattered around to the back of the building.

"Time's ticking, Detective."

"You guys running a rainbow-colored pill called Prism?"

"Damn, you don't make out, fondle, nothing. Just get to the good stuff. I like it. Would've put you as a cuddle type."

Marc said nothing and studied Billy's reaction. He gave away nothing.

"We look like the type of people that spend much time with rainbows?"

"No, but you don't have to love the product you sell."

Billy jumped up to sit on the railing and took another drag, flicking the fingernail-length piece of ash onto the fern below.

"Have you been over to the festival at all this week?" "Festival?" Billy asked.

"Yeah, festival. You mean you haven't noticed the 50,000 kids headed to the fairgrounds to get all jacked up on pills and rub against each other? Seems like a—what's the phrase—market opportunity."

"You think my guys are going over there to dance the night away with glow sticks or something?"

"I saw Clyde there. Maybe he's into something you don't know about," Marc snickered.

Billy shook his head.

"Nah, I know my boy. Clyde is Clyde. Ain't never been nothing else."

"Okay, let me try a different one," Marc said. "Do you know a guy named Jason Trailer who works over at the festival?"

"No, Detective. I haven't met a man by that name. He sounds like a real piece of trash," Billy said, barreling into laughter.

"Mr. true blue Clyde knows him. That's how I'm standing here talking to you today. Also, you should know Trailer was murdered this morning in his motel room."

Billy rubbed at the manicured goatee on his face. "Okay, another dead piece of trash. Next."

"He was the guy who runs the operations at that show. He seems like the perfect guy to get hooked up with if you need to move something. I don't see you as a corporate sponsor setting up a membership booth."

"True," Billy said with a laugh. "In case you haven't noticed, we don't exactly embrace the kids of the world today, Detective. All that feel-good bullshit. If given a chance, I'd burn all those little modern- day hippies to the ground."

"Doesn't mean you can't make money on them, right? Never stopped you guys before. It's not a requirement to like your customers. I don't see them writing a review on Yelp."

"You want to know some funny shit?" "Sure," Marc said.

"Someone wrote a review on Yelp for the bar." Marc took pause at this.

"Come on."

"I'm dead serious. Said the sign on the door was unwelcoming and that it should be reported to the police," Billy said, starting to laugh again. "It's the truth; you can look it up."

Marc could see some self-righteous Yelper not taking in the bigger picture and writing something like that online.

"How about a Jameson?"

"Love me some Jameson, but don't know no one called that."

"He's a dealer who was pushing this pill. His dad happens to be a senator."

Billy shook his head like he couldn't believe such a ridiculous statement could be made.

"Do I look politically connected to you, Detective? That look like the circle I run with?"

"He's dead too," Marc said. "Okay, soooooo?"

"Did you kill him?"

"You serious?" Billy said, a look of well-practiced shock across his face.

"Would I have asked it otherwise?"

Billy stubbed out the cigarette butt and pulled out the pack of reds from his pocket. He proffered one to Marc, who shook his head back.

"Suit yourself," Billy said, placing the cigarette between his lips like he had been doing it since childbirth.

"Did you kill him?" Marc repeated.

Billy laughed, smoke escaping his mouth in a cough.

"Oh shit, I wanted that smoke so bad; I done forgot your question." Marc said nothing, letting the question hang.

"Him who? I forgot who we were talking about." "Jameson White."

"No, I believe I would remember killing someone." "Would you?"

"That's cold, Detective. You think I'm a monster or something?" Marc ignored him.

"Since you and I have such a past together, I'll let you in on something," Marc said.

"Oh shit, you about to drop the truth bomb, huh?!" Billy rubbed his hands together in anticipation, the cigarette seeming to float on his lips, held in place so gently by each lip that Marc wasn't sure how it didn't fall to the ground.

"We have kids dropping like flies from this stuff. Some of it is laced with something, and more kids are going to follow, I have no doubt."

"I'm sorry to hear about those kids, I truly am, but I can't fix what they get up into. That's their choice."

"You're helping them make those choices deadly."

Billy paced back and forth now, and a curl started to form at the top of his lip.

"I told you we wasn’t making no pills!"

Marc pressed him harder, anger from the past, present, and future jockeying for a preferential position in his brain.

"I'm coming to burn you guys to the ground when I can prove this. You won't get a short stint and some bullshit parole this time."

Billy grinned.

"We'll see, won't we, Detective?" "I'll see it, Billy. You won't."