Big Chief replaces his riding helmet with his cowboy hat and gives me a wary look.
Inhaling, I lead the way, pulling open the double glass doors. An old Latino woman sits behind the counter, her eyes closed. Stepping up to her, I flick the carousel holding laundry soap samples hoping the noise might wake her.
She doesn’t even blink. Is she alive?
Big Chief waves his hand in front of her face.
She turns her head, her eyes still closed.
“You fuck-a off.” She seethes with yellow teeth, her lips thin and dark-colored. She wasn’t asleep, she’s just wrinkled as fuck.
I laugh, and Big Chief shakes his head.
“Where the fuck is Harry?” he asks, not amused with her antics.
Raising her right arm, the fat underneath it jiggling reminds me of a rooster’s neck, she presses a black button.
Leaning on the counter, I look about the place. Dryers and washers stacked up along each wall. Only one woman stands near the back folding laundry, a little boy sitting on a dryer in red and white underwear kicks his feet as he licks a sucker and stares at us.
A white scratched up door left of the counter opens, and a squatty man with wide shoulders steps out, a blue bandana wrapped around his forehead pushing his brows down over his eyes. His white shirt is three sizes too big coming down to his knees, his jeans baggy. Stereotypical man in a gang, if he walked in my neighborhood he’d be arrested just for looking suspect. I swear, Harry pulls his men to the side and give them a tutorial on how to dress like an idiot. You’re supposed to go unnoticed, not stand out, dumb fucks.
“Come.” He grunts, waving us through the door with a hand full of fake gold rings.
Following the guy in the back we pass racks of clothes wrapped in plastic, but what really catches my attention is the dozens of five-gallon buckets with lids on them. Dry laundry soap maybe? That’s a lot if so.
He kicks open the door displaying the back of the laundry mat. A clean desk with Harry sitting behind it sits farther in the back, a small black leather couch, a table to the left with a bunch of men huddled over, and on the other side of the room are four long wooden tables with women standing in their underwear and bras, masks over their faces as they shove powder into bags and toss them into five-gallon buckets.
So maybe it’s not soap then. It’s drugs.
“Saint!” Harry stands from behind the desk. His dark face has aged, his beard speckled with white. His hair pulled into corn-rows so tight his forehead doesn’t even wrinkle when he talks.
Shuffling out from behind the desk, he dusts off his dark blue jeans and straightens his dress jacket that fits over his gray shirt. His tennis shoes bright red and standing out boldly.
Folding my hands in front of me, I don’t say a word, I lick my lips tasting the cocaine in the air and wait for him to tell what he wants so I can get to what I really came for. Piper.
Strutting up with a confident smirk, he sizes Big Chief up with humiliation gleaming in his eyes.
“Who the fuck brought Garth Brooks?” He laughs, the guys at the small table close by chuckling with him.
“You said you had a job for me, what is it?” I cut to the chase.
His smile fades, sliding his hands into his jeans, he looks to the half-naked women working silently at the tables.
He presses his palms together, his fingertips of both hands pressing into his chin. “I need some product pushed quickly and if anyone can do it, it’s you.” He points at me with his clasped hands.
“Why can’t you just have your men do it?” I look to the table of guys playing poker.
“Oh, they’ve been hustling, believe that. But, you want something from me, so in return you do something for free.” He reminds me of street code.
But I know there’s a catch, there has to be with him.
“Just tell us what to sell, and we will be on our way,” Big Chief says, sliding his fingers over the rim of his hat.
Harry scoffs, walking past us and back into the actual laundromat. We follow him, annoyed at this point.
“I need all of these gone, and quick.” He gestures to the two dozen gallon buckets stacked up against the walls. No doubt filled with cocaine.
“Who the fuck is going to buy that much drugs?” I grunt. We’re an MC, not the fucking cartel.
“Not my problem if you wanna find your girl.” He chuckles.
“Excuse me?” My shoulders lift with anger, my feet moving on their own accord. I’m not some fucking kid without a clue anymore, I will straight up put a bullet in his head and do what I please on this side of the state, I swear to God. I’m here out of respect, for the rules of living the outlaw way, but if I can do anything right, it’s break the fucking rules.
“Easy, brother.” Big Chief steps in between us, pushing me a few steps back. “We will sell it, and get you your money,” Chief tells him.
I scoff, turning around and flexing my fingers. I need to cool off, for Piper if anything. It’s been months since I’ve seen her and I’m this close to finding her. I can’t fuck this up.
“We will move two of the buckets,” I offer. Any more and we will be in the same predicament he’s in. He took on too much, not enough buyers in this area.
“Six, I want six of them moved,” he clips, his brown seedy eyes searing right through me. He knows why I’m here, looking for Piper, and for that, I’m guaranteed to be weak and succumb to whatever he wants.
Gnashing my teeth with anger, I feel the pulse in my neck throb like a ticking time bomb. Why does love make you weak?
Big Chief takes a step toward me, leaning in close.
“We can’t move these with our bikes, bro,” he points out. Back in the day when Harry had mass product moving around, he would distribute it with a cargo van, going corner to corner to give each pusher just enough to sell for the day.
I look to Harry. “You still got a cargo van?”
“Of course.” He shrugs his left shoulder.
“We’re going to need it,” I tell him with an angry tone. I can’t help my anger toward him. I know it’s not his fault what happened to Tasha and the baby when I was a kid, but when I see him, it reminds me of the person I once was, and how proud of me he was. Maybe God wouldn’t be testing mine and Piper’s affection if Harry told me I was too young and stupid to work for him and sent me back home.
“Ripper!” Harry yells behind him and a tall guy wearing a wife-beater and dark jeans struts up to us. His golden skin colored with tattoos of ghosts and skeletons. He’s tall, really tall, and lanky.
“’Sup?” He nods at Harry then looks to us. His eyes too big for his face, and lips reminding me of a vagina.
“Load the van with eight of these buckets,” Harry instructs.
“Six, motherfucker!” I correct him. I should just fucking shoot him right here.
Holding his hands up, he chuckles, amused with himself for trying to pull one over on us.
“Alright, alright!” Lowering his hands he gestures toward the gallon buckets.
“Put six in.”
“You got it, boss.” Ripper slips past him grabbing a bucket, then another. Hugging one with each arm.
Big Chief and I follow him into where the desk and women handling the drugs are, and to a white cargo van parked right in front of a garage door I hadn’t seen when we were in here before, probably because I was so wound up from nerves. Big Chief opens the double doors to the back, and Big Chief and I wait at the back while he loads it.