Dine In or Carry Out?

[Robbie C.]

“It’s been a while.” Stan Switek wheeled the convertible into a parking spot and turned to smile at Gina. Almost thought of her as Calabrese, even though it’s Switek now. Still can’t believe it. “I almost feel bad going in.”

“Come on, Stan.” She giggled and touched his hand. “It hasn’t been that long. I’m sure Rudy will be glad to see you.”

“Us, you mean.” Stan shot a meaningful look at her low-cut white dress. “I know I’d be glad to see us with you wearing that dress.”

“Stanley, you’re impossible.” Her smile lit up the car. “Now let’s go get something to eat. I’m starving.”

Fontino’s was one of those places that remained stuck in time…roughly 1960 in this case. A supper club north of Miami catering to retirees who’d come south to escape New Jersey winters and had seen The Godfather six times too many, it served great steaks and passible Italian food in a dining room that was dim even before cigar smoke added its own indoor fog to the mix. Stan had found the place by accident back when he was still with Metro-Dade’s OCB, and it suited him down to the ground. Some nights, especially if he’d had an extra Rum and Coke, he imagined he could see Elvis in one of the booths if he squinted hard enough.

The Task Force had been on semi-official stand down since Martin Castillo and Trudy Joplin got married. Now they were on their honeymoon to some secret location picked by Angie, and Sonny Crockett was in charge. Gina had come over to help when Trudy was shot, and she was staying on until the Castillos got back. It was a quiet time filled with paperwork and the occasional simple case…a far cry from what they’d been handling over the past few months. And it left time for nights like this.

Gina looked around as she shut the car door. “Lot doesn’t look as full as normal, does it?”

“It’s the off season.” Stan shrugged, knowing the snowbirds were still up north hiding from Florida’s summer heat. “That and we’re early.” He looked at his watch. “Dinner rush is usually at seven. You know, after Walter signs off and before Johnny tells ‘em it’s time to go to bed.”

“You’re terrible.” She punched his shoulder and smiled again. “Probably right, but still terrible.”

“Let’s go in.” Taking her arm, Stan headed for the door. Still, what she’d said triggered his cop instincts and he looked around again. Not as many town cars as usual, and what the hell are those hogs doing here? Bikers aren’t into Fontino’s. Still smiling, he pressed his side with his right arm to make sure the Browning was still there. Can’t be too careful. Especially these days.

There was a certain reassuring consistency to Fontino’s. They always had the same Rat Pack reel on endless replay, the same brass-hooded light shining down on the host station, and an actual coat check desk just inside the door. Even the framed prints of Bogie as private eye hadn’t moved an inch. But one look at the eyes of the girl behind the coat check desk and Stan knew something was off.

Rudy’s smile was wide as normal, but even with the dim lights Stan could see something different in his eyes. “Stanley! It’s been too long. And you brought your beautiful wife as well!” He grabbed two massive menus off the host stand, almost knocking a waitress over. “Your usual table?”

“Sure, Rudy.” Stan shot Gina a ‘I have no idea’ look and followed the thickset man. But instead of heading for his usual booth toward the back, Rudy took a sharp left and headed for one of the smaller booths along the far wall. “Hey, Rudy? This isn’t…”

“Please. Have a look at the menu. We’ve added a few things. I’ll send Michelle around with drinks.” He made a show of straightening the tightly wrapped bundles of cutlery at two place settings and then hurried back into the gloom.

“What the hell was that about?” Gina slid her menu to one side and raised her eyebrows. “I know Rudy’s a bit…funny…but that…”

“Even for him is strange. And my usual table’s in the back. Our usual table now.” Stan looked past Gina, trying to see. “Looks like someone’s already sitting there. He could have just said…”

A thin girl with big eyes and a name tag reading ‘Michelle’ appeared with waters, a glass of red wine, and what looked like scotch on the rocks. “Mr. Rudy said to bring this over,” she said, her voice shaking almost as much as her hands. “Have you had a chance to look through the menu?”

“Not yet.” Stan smiled, trying to cut through her fear. “But we don’t need to. Two filets, please. Baked potatoes with salads to start.”

She nodded, but her pen didn’t move an inch on the order pad. “I’ll get that started for you right away.”

Gina shook her head. “She didn’t ask how we wanted the steak done. Or what dressing we wanted.” She took a sip of the wine and winced. “And this is pure cardboard box vintage.”

Stan nodded. Every cop instinct in his body was screaming in his ear, and he was sure Gina was sensing the same thing. “Look. I can’t move without drawing the wrong attention, but everyone would expect a beautiful lady to powder her nose at least once before the salad arrived. See if you can check out the back table on your way. I can’t see squat in this light.”

She smiled and reached across the table to touch his hand. “You just want to see me walk in this dress.”

“Well, yeah. There’s that, too.” He grinned. “You know me too well.”

He smiled, watching as she sauntered toward the ladies’ room. Then he turned his mind to the problem, switching from amorous new husband to veteran cop so quickly he almost didn’t notice. For the Fontino's crowd a town car was a badge of success, and seeing so few in the lot was a clear sign something had changed. Even with the off season there should be more people here. Then there were the Harleys.

Stan didn’t mind bikers. One of his best cover identities was a biker. But he also knew they could be a mixed bag. Some were good, some were overgrown teenagers, and some were just plain bad. He knew the biker look was gaining popularity with aging Baby Boomers, and it was possible some of them had traded their leisure suits and town cars in on Harleys and poser leather rigs. But that wouldn’t explain Rudy’s behavior. Or the fear in the waitress’s eyes.

Leaning back in the booth, Stan took a deep breath. He could pick out a mix of cigars ranging from Swisher Sweets to still-illegal Cubans, frying meat from the kitchen, and the sharp tang of what smelled like pot. Cheap weed, but still weed. It wasn’t something he’d ever smelled in Fontino’s before, and he could feel the cop pieces starting to fall into place. The first time he’d been here he’d been able to play himself as something of a wise guy to run off some two-bit punks who’d tried to start their own protection operation. Maybe someone was trying that trick again.

When Gina returned to the table her smile was forced. “It’s bikers,” she said as she sat down. “I didn’t get a good look at their colors, but they aren’t the old guys playing ‘Easy Rider.’ Pure scooter-riding white trash.” She paused. “Funny thing is they’re behaving themselves. I didn’t get a single whistle when I walked by. Not even from the girls they had with them.”

“Now that is strange. Hell, I damned near whistled myself.” He paused, thinking again. “We can’t cancel our order. It would draw too much attention. But I can always fake a call and say we have to head back into the city. Something’s wrong here, and I want to get a better look at those bikes before we talk to the boss.”

 

The lot lights had kicked on by the time they came out with styrofoam containers of food, each light surrounded by a small horde of insects of every size and stripe known to South Florida. Stan unlocked the car and put the food on the floor in back before turning back to the bikes. Gina was already in the car, and he whispered plate numbers back to her. “Look like custom rides for the most part. Some of the tanks have custom paint as well. But no crew markings. These boys are careful.”

“You know, I think I want to kick those damned things over. I was looking forward to tonight.”

Climbing into the driver’s seat, Stan smiled. “So was I, baby. I really was. Heavy Italian food and one of their massive desserts. Man, you can’t buy naps like that. We’d sleep for days without having to eat a thing.” He started the Caddy, grinning as the big V-8 came to life. “And playing footsie under the table. I always knew there was a reason Rudy kept the lights so low in there.”

Rudy. Just thinking of the manager’s name made Stan’s blood run cold. Rudy was a good guy, if a bit on the odd side. He’d been running the place for years, treating his people right and making sure his customers had a good experience as soon as they came through the door. But he wasn’t the guy to stand up to bikers, or anyone with bad intentions for that matter. Still, whatever it was had to be bad. Rudy hadn’t asked for help.

“Why didn’t he ask for help?”

“You reading my mind now?”

“No. Your forehead. It always wrinkles when you’re thinking about serious stuff.” She was watching the side mirror. Just in case. “Rudy thinks you’re a mob guy, doesn’t he?”

“Something like that. I never said one way or the other after I kicked those goofballs out, and he just assumed I must be a made guy if I could do that.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I was expecting him to say something. Not just hand us our carry out and wish us a good night.”

“Are you really taking this to Sonny?”

“Yeah. Something’s not right out there, and considering where the place is…”

“It would make a heck of a transfer point for a smuggling route.”

“That or even just a place gangs could meet without prying eyes. Those punks do like their neutral ground.”

“Did you want to go in tonight?”

Stan looked at his watch. “Naw. They’ll be gone by now. Or most of ‘em, anyhow. Dave and Randy might still be in the arms room huffing gun oil or whatever it is they do in there, but Crockett and Tubbs will be gone. Mindy, too.” He took a deep breath. “That and our food would be stone cold if we did that. And I just can’t waste Fontino’s.”

 

Morning found Stan sitting in front of Martin Castillo’s desk with Sonny Crockett on the other side. Sonny shifted uncomfortably. “You know how it feels when you sit in dad’s recliner when he’s not home and you’re afraid you’ll get caught?”

“Yeah. And I know what it feels like to get caught.” Stan laughed, something he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. But Sonny had changed, and he’d changed as well. One of the many good things the Task Force had brought with it.

“Hopefully he’ll be back soon and I can get back to bothering Rico. I think having an office to himself has gone to his head.” Sonny chuckled. “What’s up, Stan?”

“It’s Fontino’s.” He gave Sonny a quick rundown of what they’d seen last night. “Something’s up out there, lieutenant. I’m not sure what, but we ran those plates and some of them came back to known members of a small time white supremacist club that used to buy guns from Earl Lester Holmes. Somehow they managed to avoid the ATF roundup after that fight in the swamp, and it looks like they might be trying to set something up again.”

Sonny nodded, looking down at the desk. “You see anything else? Or is this your gut?”

“Mostly my gut.” Stan slapped his midsection. “Of course there’s lots of that, but it doesn’t tend to lead me wrong.”

“No. No, it does not.” Sonny paused for a moment. “Rico and I are tied up with the AUSA for the rest of the week. Paperwork. Why don’t you take Team Elvis and check it out? We’ll have to keep Mindy here to keep things rolling, but I can spare Gina if you need her.”

“Thanks, boss. I’ll get the team together and brief you on our plan later today.”

“Tomorrow’s better. I’ve got a meeting with the chief deputy this afternoon, and if I have a briefing with your team it’s one meeting with the AUSA I can avoid.” Sonny raised his hand. “He’s not a bad guy, but it means more paperwork and more damned faxes.” He glared at the machine. “One of these days I am gonna shoot that damned thing.”

Back in the conference room, Stan cut around the big table and headed for the office he shared with Lester Franz. The rest of the team called it the Tech Room, and the name fit the workbenches, tools, and random circuit boards dominating almost every inch of available space. He found Lester elbow-deep in what looked like a partly-disassembled video camera. “Hey, Stan,” he said, looking up with a grin. “Trying to figure out why this baby won’t do remote activation any more.” He set down a small screwdriver. “But you’ve got that ‘I’ve got something to tell you’ look under that beard.”

“Looks like I managed to catch us a case.” Stan went through the Fontino’s story again. “Sonny wants us to check it out, and he said we could pull in the rest of Team Elvis.”

“Good deal. I was about to just ‘accidentally’ drop this thing and start from scratch. A break would do me some good. You wanna do this here or out in the big room?”

“Conference room. We’ll need the maps. Sonny said Gina could help out, too. I’ll get her while you round up our two deputies.”

“Roger that. Judging from the gun oil smell coming through the vents I’d say they’re here and not at the range.”

Stan chuckled. Randy Mather and Dave Blair were the other half of Team Elvis; two Deputy US Marshals who’d been Marine Scout-Snipers in Vietnam. The two were from Montana, said no more than was absolutely necessary, and sometimes Dave didn’t even say that much, and were rock solid in any fight you could imagine.

How they’d become Team Elvis was more of a happy accident than a planned thing. The two shooters and the two tech guys were often in supporting roles, putting eyes and ears on targets Sonny and Rico wanted to work and then serving as back-up when things got hairy. Then Randy and Stan had gone undercover as bikers during the Holmes investigation. Stan smiled at the memory. They’d done well, and later Sonny had coined the name Team Elvis for them when they were chasing down Dale Menton…the man who’d had Trudy shot and tried to kill Castillo.

Gina was in the outer office looking over some printouts with Mindy O’Laughlin, the Task Force’s other intelligence specialist. Like Dave and Randy, Mindy was also a Deputy US Marshal. Slender with red hair and bright blue eyes, she also turned heads. Especially the head of one Ricardo Tubbs. Stan grinned. “Detective Switek? You got a minute? The lieutenant ok’d our Fontino’s thing.”

“For you, Sergeant Switek, I have two minutes.” Gina smiled, then blushed when Mindy giggled. “We just got some more information about the goons who own those bikes.”

Dave and Randy were sitting at the far end of the conference table when Stan returned with Gina in tow. Randy nodded a greeting. “Hear you might have some work for us, sarge.”

“Looks like it.” Stan nodded to Dave and sat down, waving Lester to a chair close by. He ran through the story again, going into a bit more detail for Dave and Randy’s benefit. “Sonny gave us the OK to see what’s going on out there,” he finished. “It could be nothing, but the ol’ gut says otherwise.”

“And that’s a damn loud noise.” Randy glanced at Dave, who just grunted. “We goin’ in as bikers again?”

“Naw. I’d love to, but the thing is Rudy thinks I’m some kind of mob guy. So I gotta play Guido this time around.” He winked at Gina. “At least I’ve got good eye candy.”

Dave nodded. “Yeah. Randy looks like hell in a dress an’ I can’t walk in heels.” Then his voice turned serious. “How we gonna run it?”

Stan nodded to Gina, who looked down at her notes. “The tags we ran came back to known members of the Aryan Riders. They’re a small-time bunch of neo-Nazis who had ties to the Holmes organization.” She smiled. “That means they bought guns from the late and not-so-lamented Earl L. Holmes. When they weren’t buying guns from Holmes they were racking up arrests for GTA and speed possession. They’re small enough they slipped through ATF’s nets and have been mostly quiet for the last few months.”

“Until now.” Stan looked at the big wall map. “Fontino’s is north of the city, far enough out it doesn’t see regular patrols but in easy driving, or riding, distance. It’s a perfect way station or meeting point for all kinds of nastiness.”

Lester nodded slowly, and Stan could almost hear his mind working. “Not many phone lines out there, so it’s an easy tap. No good coverage for those new cell phones, either. It’ll be easy to get ears on the place, Stan.”

“Not so much eyes, at least from altitude.” Randy’s voice was firm. “It’s flat as a board out there, an’ we’d have to camo up and watch from the swamps. Utility poles might take a camera or two, though.”

“What about warrants?”

“We’ll have to get some probable cause first. Which means Gina and I get to go back out there an’ sniff around.” Stan looked around the table. “I know you ain’t much for undercover work, Dave, but how’d you feel about being my muscle? You DO own a suit, right?”

“Yeah. Somewhere. An’ mob gunmen don’t talk much, right?”

“Nope. Just grunt and look menacing if anyone gets too close.” Stan looked around the table one last time. “I gotta brief Sonny on this tomorrow, so work up anything you need before then and make sure I have it first thing. Team Elvis is gonna get this done.”

 

The dishes had been cleared and they were sitting on the apartment balcony enjoying the cooling evening air before Gina mentioned the case again. “So Sonny really let you run with it?”

“Yeah. Said he trusted my gut. Even said we could bring Mindy in if we need her.”

Leaning over, she kissed his cheek. “I’m so happy for you, Stan.”

He felt his cheeks getting warm. “Yeah. Never would have expected that back when we were still with OCB. That Crockett would have laughed at me and told me to take a Tums if my gut was acting up.”

“What do you think they’re doing out there?”

Stan started to answer, then paused and looked out over the blowing city lights. “I don’t know. I really don’t. The Aryan Riders are small time mostly. At least that’s what the files say. But with Holmes gone there’s a vacuum…space for someone to fill. And ol’ Earl was something of a break on those boys. He’d cut off their guns if they got too messy. That’s gone now.” He looked over at Gina. “You’re the thinker in the family, baby. What do you think they’re doing?”

“Just what you said…filling a hole. ATF actually managed to shut down some of the larger gangs, or at least push them up north to lick their wounds. Like you said, the Riders are small time. Or were small time. One thing the files didn’t say was who’s running them now.”

“Yeah.” Stan wrinkled his forehead. “Last guy they mentioned was some moron calling himself Iron Fist. Guess he figured he was the Iron Sheik’s badass cousin. Real name was Tommy Jenkins. But ol’ Tommy got himself busted in a stolen Mustang back in February and is a long-term guest up at Radford. Tommy’s line was stealing and chopping cars, so when he was boss that’s what they did. Now? Who knows.”

Gina took a sip from her glass of red wine. “They dabbled in speed before that. Sometimes pot, but speed’s easier to move on bikes.” She giggled. “And that pot we caught a whiff of was so bad I don’t think they could give it away.”

“Either way it’s bad news for Fontino’s.” Twisting the cap off a Budweiser, Stan took a long drink and sighed. “Damned job’s easier when you don’t know the guy being leaned on.”

“It is. We deal with that in victim services every day. You get close to those girls, even when you know you’re not supposed to, and when something happens to them…” Her voice trailed off and she drained her glass in one long gulp.

Reaching out, Stan took her hand in his and squeezed. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re tougher than me, that’s for sure.” Just thinking of the girls brought back memories of his father coming home drunk, yelling at everyone in sight after a night driving his cab. He knew what a lot of them had gone through before they hit the streets. Or at least how it had started. “Can I get you some more wine?”

“Why don’t we go inside? There’s gotta be an old Elvis film on somewhere. Isn’t that why we pay for those channels?” She smiled and got to her feet, her long legs highlighted by the rising moon. “It always makes me happy when you start singing Elvis.”

“Thank you, pretty lady. Thank you very much.” He curled his lip into the trademark sneer, holding it as long as he could before her laughter brought out his own. “And if the King ain’t on I’ll just feed one of them tapes into that machine thingie.” He kept smiling, even though a memory stabbed him in the heart. Larry Zito had bought him some of those Elvis videos.

 

“We went out there last night an’ had a look around.” Randy Mather leaned back in his chair at the end of the long table, shooting Dave Blair a significant look. “There’s a power pole close to the place that will take a camera easy and covers the front door and most of the lot. It’s a better angle than the phone pole across the lot.”

Stan nodded, adding a note to the legal pad in front of him. “See any more bikes?”

“Just a couple. Mindy’s running the plates now. Didn’t look to be as many as when you were there.”

Dave nodded. “We didn’t go inside. Just reconned outside. Got the numbers off some other cars, too.”

“Town cars?”

“Naw. A Mustang and two Corvettes. Not the ride you use to take the missus out for drinks and dinner.” Dave grinned. “Seen those supper clubs back home plenty of times.”

“Good.” Stan looked over at Gina. “Let me know when Mindy hears back on the plates and I’ll finish this up for the lieutenant to look over.” He turned to Lester. “We’ll have to send you and Randy out in a power company truck to hang any cameras. Rudy knows me, and I want to keep Dave in reserve as my mob muscle.”

Lester nodded, making his own notes. “I’ll keep Randy in the truck in case we need a biker on hand, too. Patch might come in handy.”

“Good thinking, partner.” Stan added another line to the pad. “Might be worth seeing what those boys do if another biker wandered through.” He grinned at Randy. “And yeah, you could shoot one or two if you had to make a point.”

“Sign me up.” Then Randy turned to look at the map again. “I made a couple of calls to someone I know with ATF. They may not be after these boys, but they do know their range. This Fontino’s place is outside their normal stomping grounds.”

“Gina, what do we have on biker territories? If they’re cutting in on someone we need to know who.” Stan mentally kicked himself. I shoulda thought of that! One of my damned covers is a biker!

“Don’t sweat it, sarge. It was the ATF guy who mentioned turf to me.” Randy chuckled. “I didn’t think of it, either. I was askin’ him how many of these assholes are fully patched. Blooded members,” he explained to Gina.

“And what did he say?” Damned glad he had my back just now. “Or do they know?”

“Not really. He guessed no more than twenty, but he also said that number was old. Could be more or, more likely, less. Guess they had some kinda beef with some Hell’s Angels up in the Panhandle and came up short on the deal.”

“And that would explain why they’re back here.” Stan looked at his notes and sighed. “Looks like we all got some homework. I’ll brief the lieutenant, and we can go over the new intel once the plan’s approved. Right now it’s basic recon and intel gathering. We get solid info, he’ll apply for a warrant and we’ll go after their phones. And if we can find their clubhouse, we can turn it into Heartbreak Hotel.”

Lester laughed. “Turn left on Lonely Street, right? I’ve got a bunch of taps ready to go the second that warrant comes down.”

 

“So when do you go in as a mob guy?”

Stan turned away from the big wall map and looked at Sonny Crockett. “As soon as Lester’s got the camera in place and Randy’s had a chance to look around. We might slide him in first if there aren’t many of the Aryan Riders there, but if it’s a full house like when Gina and I went, I’ll go in as Guido with my lady and my muscle.”

Sonny nodded. “I talked to Chief Deputy Washington. He said we can have Brick’s warrant team if we need backup. You get a chance, you might want to read the big guy in on the operation.”

“You got it, boss.” Stan struggled to hide his excitement. They’d worked with the high-risk warrant team before, and there was no one he’d rather have watching his back for an operation like this. “Trouble with bikers is you never know which way they’re gonna cut. They might run, or they might come at you with both barrels.”

“What about the turf question?”

Stan shot a glance at his notes. “Looks like Fontino’s wasn’t in anyone’s turf. Not exactly, anyhow. It was more on the edge of about three…none of them connected to the Riders. The biggest gang, the Brotherhood of Sinners, got blown all to hell when we took down Holmes. The leaders are in Federal prison. Next in line was a local chapter of the Bandidos, and they went down hard not long after Holmes. ATF’s big prize out of that mess, and again the head honchos are now guests of the Federal Government on the extended stay plan. And the last crew was Holmes himself. It was right on the edge of the turf his swamp rats controlled, and we know what happened to them.”

“So these bozos saw an opening.”

Stan nodded. “What I don’t know is what they plan to do with it.”

“Find out, Stan. It’s a good plan. Keep me in the loop and we’ll pull a tap warrant as soon as you’ve got probable cause. Find their clubhouse and that gets a hell of a lot easier.”

“Roger that, boss. I’ll keep Randy on it, and maybe a loose tail on their bikes as well. It’s not good surveillance country out there, though.”

Sonny nodded. “Too open and flat. I agree. Get what you can, but don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“You think we could shake an air unit out of the state police? One of those prop jobs they use to gun speeders from the air, maybe. A helicopter would attract too much attention out there.”

“Good thinking, Stan. I’ll make a couple of calls. Might be something we can shake out of the Coast Guard, too. They owe us a couple of favors.”

Back in the Tech Room, Stan found Lester putting the finishing touches on one of the cameras he planned to use on the power pole. “I heard you bring up that plane, Stan,” he said as he looked up from the guts of the video camera. “Good thinking.”

“Eye in the sky and all that.” Stan chuckled. “But I still don’t think we should use a helicopter. Not enough of ‘em out that way and they just scream cop or media.”

“Yeah. But once this baby’s up we’ll have the lot covered. I just added a couple of controllers and gears so I can change its direction once it’s mounted. That way we can track which way they go when they leave.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “Got some trackers ready, too, in case we want to keep better tabs on the bikes.”

“What’s the range on those babies? We got ‘em better than half a mile now?”

“Closer to a mile, I’d say. Battery life is short as hell, but it lets us hang back and keep tabs on people.”

Stan nodded. “Have a couple on hand. We might need ‘em if we can’t get a visual on their clubhouse. Or whatever shack or rusted-out single wide they’re calling a clubhouse. Wouldn’t surprise me if it was a tent out in the swamps they shared with a couple of gators.”

“Naw. Swamp water’s too hard on those bikes.” Lester turned back to his work. “They’d want a place where they can work on the scooters, Stan. That and shoot their hardware a bit.”

“Good thinking. Ya might wanna pass that on to Dave or Randy so they can go through the maps and find some likely spots. And maybe an overflight or two out of the air assets if we get ‘em.”

Normally it was easy for Stan to lose himself in his workbench. Sitting with a new circuit board or troublesome radio and puzzling out just why the damned thing wasn’t working. But it wasn’t working its usual magic today. He finally gave up after he almost welded his finger to a board and wandered back out to the conference room and the big maps. The one of Greater Miami was covered with coded circles and notes marking overwatch zones Randy and Dave had scouted, along with active wiretaps and possible locations for others. He ignored it and turned to the bigger regional map, green with swampland and blue with the coastline. There weren’t as many notes or circles on that map, and he stood and stared at it, letting the colors sink into his brain.

He’d worked undercover a few times as a biker, so he knew what they needed. Space to work on the bikes like Lester had said. Easy access to liquor stores or a bar or two. Open space to fire off their guns. And maybe a shed or shop where they could cook their speed if that was their thing. They didn’t stay in one place long enough to grow pot, even though they moved a fair amount. And even if they moved from place to place, the basic needs didn’t change.

He picked out Fontino’s on the map and marked it with a green pin. “As close to Italian as we can get,” he muttered, stepping back and letting his gaze slide over the surrounding terrain. There were a few dirt roads leading to nowhere in particular off the paved county roads connecting to the bigger highway system, and his eyes traced those. Harleys didn’t like gravel much, but a short haul wasn’t out of the question. And those roads led to the kind of privacy they’d want and need.

“I can’t see ‘em being on the Miami side. Too much traffic and too many cops.” Stan scratched his chin through his trimmed beard, picking out one or two grow operations on the map. “And they might run into the pot heads. No recent gunfights, so that’s another sign.”

“Keep talkin’ to yourself and someone might send you home.” Ricardo Tubbs’ voice danced through his brain as the unit’s other lieutenant sauntered into the conference room. As usual his Gucci suit was pressed, his leather shoes shined, and his eyes glittering with barely-concealed humor. It was hard to get mad at Rico, even when he was an asshole.

“Just working through a case, Rico. Hell, you know my lips move when I read. Just like your partner’s do.”

Rico laughed. “Mine, too, Stan. I just grin so no one notices. My natural charm conceals damned near everything.” He stepped closer and looked at the map. “This about that Fontino’s thing?”

“Sonny tell you? Yeah, it’s that. Just tryin’ to get a feel for where the Aryan Riders might be parkin’ their scooters.”

“And you already ruled out this area?” Rico waved his hand to take in the eastern sector. “Good thinkin’. Those grow operations are Dominican or sometimes Jamaican, and the Riders would have been in at least one gunfight if they were over there. And Metro-Dade ain’t said a thing.”

“Yep.” Stan nodded. “I’m thinkin’ they have a hideout somewhere over here.” Stepping to the map, he stuck a red pin near the end of one of the dirt roads. “Looks like there might have been some kinda shop or trailer dump or something out there. And you got a gas station and liquor store over here…close enough for them to restock even if they’re drunk off their asses but not close enough for anyone there to see or hear what’s goin’ on.” He grinned. “I’ll have Gina see what kind of property records exist out that way.”

“Solid.” Rico clapped him on the shoulder. “Even though it’s snake-infested swampland I’d love to run out there with you. Anything’s better than another sit-down with the AUSA. They’re still all spun up about that Menton thing.”

Stan winced at the mention of the rogue ex-CIA agent’s name. “Yeah, I bet they are. Can’t look good for them, him gettin’ released and all.”

“Keep us in the loop, big guy. Sounds like Team Elvis has this one locked down.”

Stan nodded, faking confidence he didn’t quite feel. “I sure as hell hope so,” he muttered as soon as Rico sauntered out of hearing distance. “I sure as hell hope so.”

 

The sun was giving its last dying red gasp over the skyline when Stan got most of Team Elvis together again. Lester was out with the Roach Coach running surveillance, but Randy, Dave, and Gina were all sitting around the table. Taking a deep drink of what had to be his fifteenth cup of coffee, Stan turned and gave them his best Elvis grin. “Tell me what we got.”

Randy looked at Dave, who just nodded. “I think you were right about that location, sarge. I didn’t get close, but there’s been bikes movin’ on that road pretty regular. Those Harleys leave tracks an’ oil spots. Looks like they might have a pickup or two as well.” He looked down at a notebook. “Lester says about five bikers were in an’ out of Fontino’s all day, an’ when I rolled by as Patch I got the stink-eye from a couple of ‘em in the cocktail lounge. One of those Vettes was there, too.”

Gina looked at her own notes. “According to county records there used to be an auto body shop out there. Turned out to be a front for a car theft ring back in the ‘70s, and it got busted and shut down. There’s no record of it being used since. The last survey showed a three bay garage, an office, and two rusted-out single wides out there. Sheriff’s office says it’s too far out for squatters and Narcotices says it’s not a good location for grow operation.” She flipped a page. “I’m running the Corvette plates now. It’s not one of the ones that was there before. I did hear back on those, though. The Mustang is registered to a retired banker who’s likely in the midst of his mid-life crisis. Same for one of the Corvettes. But the other was registered to a guy named Timothy Hargrove, who has prior arrests for meth possession and a pending case for intent to distribute.”

Dave cleared his throat. “I was out with Lester. We can get the taps in place easy once we get the warrant. Picked out three spots I can cover the parking lot and road approaches from, an’ based on map recon I think I can get into an overwatch position close to that old shop. See what’s goin’ on there.”

Stan nodded, a big grin blooming on his face no matter how hard he tried to look serious. “Great work, everyone. I’d really like to get a better look at that shop compound. Dave, you and Randy up for some night work?”

“Expected as much. I already called Debbie and shifted our date.”

Randy elbowed his partner. “I can run solo if you still need the shore leave.”

“Not with bikers crawlin’ around. We gotta work in pairs. Especially if they’re cookin’ out there.”

“Dave’s right.” Stan rested his palms on the table, the smile draining from his face. “These boys might look goofy as hell, but bikers are damned dangerous. They like speed and automatic weapons, an’ you never know what the hell you’re rollin’ up on when you deal with one.” He turned to look at the map again, knowing he couldn’t visualize it as well as the two former Marines could. “Go in, have a look, and then get out. Home before two, please. Gina, radio Lester and let him know that, too. We’re gonna go pay a call at Fontino’s tomorrow afternoon, and I want the team rested.”

Once Dave and Randy vanished into the armory and their world of gun oil and polished brass, Gina stood up and walked to the head of the table. “Tomorrow afternoon? Isn’t that rushing things?”

He shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe I’ve been around Sonny too long. But we don’t know how long they’ve been out there getting their claws into Fontino’s. They seem pretty comfortable, so I’m guessing it’s not a new thing. I want to get them on our timetable instead of chasing theirs.”

She smiled and touched his shoulder. “That does sound like Crockett talking. But in a good way. I went though 911 logs and crime reports, too. There’s no indication of when the Riders turned up in that area.”

“That means they’re laying low. And that ain’t good with bikers. Means they’re planning something big, or are already in the process of making it happen.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I wish I knew. That shop they took over’s big enough to run a cooking operation, and the road’s just good enough for them to get in supplies. That would explain the trucks. And that would explain Timmy’s Vette being at Fontino’s. They might also have stumbled onto one of Holmes’ old arms connections. I don’t think ATF got ‘em all, no matter what they say.”

“But why Fontino’s?”

“Heartbreak Hotel, Gina.” Stan felt like smacking himself for not thinking of it earlier. “We were close, but we didn’t have all the pieces. They need someplace to front their merch. And what better spot than a club out in the sticks? I’d bet my last pair of blue suede shoes they’re trying to force Rudy to sell out so they can take over the place for real.” He turned to face her. “So long as they keep it kinda clean it won’t draw any law enforcement attention. And I’d bet even the Riders could manage that…so long as they have someplace else to cut loose.”

“So what do we do?”

“Push ‘em out in the open and then round ‘em up. Same thing we were gonna do. But this makes it easier to figure. They don’t just want Fontino’s, they need it. We block that, and they’ll come runnin’ like groupies to Graceland.”

Gina laughed. “Now that’s an image I did not need. Remember that last time, when those women in the floral sundresses thought they saw Elvis in the upstairs bathroom?”

“Hey! I wasn’t wearing a sundress, thank you.” Stan chuckled. “And it was the downstairs bathroom. Just off the kitchen. I told them he was upstairs so I’d have a clean shot. How was I supposed to know it was a security guard who needed a haircut?”

“Because he was blonde, Stan.”

“Miracles happen at Graceland, Gina. And if the King’s trying to avoid the mob in sundresses, he might just dye those locks blonde.”

She laughed again and slapped his upper arm. “You’re impossible. And I’m gonna go check the records on that body shop again to make sure I didn’t miss something.”

 

They were back around the conference table early the next afternoon. Stan sized up the team, thinking Dave and Randy looked pretty well-rested for men who’d spent the better part of the night creeping through swampland. Shouldn’t surprise me, though. It’s what they do. Dave looked uncomfortable in a suit borrowed from the marshal’s service property room, rolling his shoulders and tugging at the shirt cuffs and jacket sleeves.

Randy looked at his partner and laughed. “Just pretend it’s your damned dress blues.”

“Didn’t like wearin’ that monkey suit, either.” Dave allowed the room a small grin. “Though I gotta say the ladies did love that uniform.”

Gina smiled. “It looks good on you, Dave. Almost as good as Stanley here.”

Stan chuckled. They were both wearing tailored pinstripe suits, looking all the world like mobsters sent down by central casting. Which, of course, was the point. “It won’t be for long, Dave, and then you can go back to your jeans and bearskins or whatever.”

“Fuck you very much.” Dave finally laughed with the others. “I just feel like one of those goons we used to see in the Butte steakhouses. The ones who sat in the back booths and smoked cigars.”

Randy nodded. “Mob guys. Look the same everywhere.”

Stan sat down, taking control of the meeting with his voice. “So, what did you turn up last night? Aside from bug bites and gator shit.”

“They have two trucks out there.” Randy pulled out a sketch map he’d made of the compound and passed around copies. “Old Fords from the look of ‘em. Half-ton, so they’re making small deliveries. When we were watching they had them in the old bays under cover, but with optics we could see ‘em well enough.”

“We counted ten hostiles.” Dave took up the report. “They look to be usin’ the old office as kind of a bunk room, and they’re runnin’ off at least two generators. We could hear ‘em about half a klick out. No real security aside from the Riders an’ their hardware, though. We didn’t see any kind of guard routine.”

Randy nodded. “They feel safe out there. Like NVA we saw in base camps sometimes. Fat an’ lazy.”

“Any clue as to what they’re doing?”

“I think you’re right about a meth operation, boss. One of the bays was closed off an’ no one seemed to go near it much. Those labs don’t take up much space. Looked to be some chemical containers near one of the doors, but we couldn’t get close enough to see for sure.”

Dave nodded. “Only the one road in an’ out. We did a circle an’ didn’t find any back doors. Only place they could go is into the woods, and those boys ain’t gonna do that.”

Stan looked at the sketch map as the two deputies talked, fitting in what they said with the lines on the paper. “Do you think they were all there?”

“Naw. Bound to be a few in town with their old ladies or passed out with some stripper.” Dave shrugged, the motion constrained by his suit coat. “Damn thing. Anyhow, I’d add a few onto that number just because…bikers.”

Stan looked across the table at Lester. “Turn up anything new with the camera?”

“I think Dave’s right, sarge.” Lester’s thin face seemed larger with his beard. “From watching Fontino’s I think there’s about fifteen of those apes all told. Maybe a couple more looking to earn their colors.” He grinned. “I might not be able to see their faces with that camera, but the bikes show plain as day. And you know how they customize their rides.”

Gina chimed in. “I heard back from Metro on that other Corvette. It’s registered to another guy with speed connections. Small busts like before, so we might have two guys looking to up their games.”

Stan was about to comment when the door between the conference room and the outer office opened and Mindy came in. Her blue eyes were bright, and she’d pulled her red hair back to accent the freckles on her cheekbones. “This just came in, Stan,” she said, handing him a sheet of fax paper. “The air unit reported in.”

“Thanks, Mindy.” Stan took the paper and read the blurry letters. “Looks like you were right on the money. The state police pilot says he counted about fifteen people down there this morning and the same number of bikes.” He chuckled. “And he says they had three accidents in as many hours. ‘Drunk bike rodeo’ is how he wrote it up.” Setting the paper down, he looked over at Randy. “Like you said, they feel safe out there.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Simple. Lester, you’re in the Roach Coach. Take Randy with you and leave as soon as we’re done here. Radio once you’re in place. Gina, you, me and Dave are gonna play The Godfather. I figure we’ll get there about four, so before the main rush but while the bikers are still there.” He looked over at Lester for confirmation. “Gives you two about an hour to get in position. They camp out at all hours, right?”

“From what we saw, yeah. Show up as soon as the place opens and don’t leave until just before close. At least two at all times. Likely letting people know they’re open for business, since we’ve got at least two speed freaks making calls already.”

“Good. We’ll be wired for sound, or Gina’s purse will be at least. If anything goes south you’re our backup.”

“I know just the place. We’ll be five minutes out at most.”

Stan nodded. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. And they weren’t going in to bust anything. It was just a scouting expedition. “Let’s make it happen.”

 

The big Caddy turned into Fontino’s parking lot just after four. Dave got out wearing wraparound sunglasses and opened the back door, turning his head and watching the corners like the Mafia bodyguard he was pretending to be. Stan got out, his own sunglasses shading his eyes from the afternoon sun, and made a show of helping Gina out of the back seat. He’d seen The Godfather enough times to know the moves people expected from a made guy, and he’d been in law enforcement long enough to know how much of it was crap. Still, ya gotta play the role. He offered her his arm, taking note of the four bikes parked in the shade near the entryway, and then nodded to Dave.

Even with the air conditioner going full blast Rudy was sweating enough for three men. “Stanley! I hate to tell you…”

“The boss don’t care for bad news.” Dave’s voice was a perfect Guido growl, and Stan had to fight back a smile. “He an’ his lady want their regular table. See?”

“But I…”

Dave peered toward the back. “Hey! You assholes gotta move it. The boss wants his table.”

There had been four bikes, but Stan only saw three men wearing Aryan Riders colors. They looked at each other, then at Dave, and then at each other again. “You talkin’ to us?” The biggest one started to get up.

“I sure as hell ain’t talkin’ to myself.” Dave rolled his shoulders, making himself look bigger than he was. “Boss wants his table, boss gets his table.”

Stan raised his hand. “Easy, Mikey. I don’t think these boys is up on local customs.” He turned back to the bikers. “I’m doin’ you a favor just now, since you obviously don’t know what you’re doin’. Fontino’s is under my protection, see? Rudy here does his part, and I do mine.” He narrowed his eyes. “You and you were here last time and ruined my night.” He nodded toward Gina. “My lady don’t like the smell of gasoline an’ bike grease.”

“Now just who the hell…”

“Antonelli’s the name. Maybe you heard it before.”

One of the smaller bikers let his jaw hang slack for a moment, and then grabbed at the arm of the bigger one. They whispered for a moment, one talking a mile a minute and the other just listening. Then the smaller one raised his voice. “Sorry for the trouble, Mr. Antonelli. We gotta check on some things. Enjoy your night.”

As they filed past, the bigger one tried to throw a shoulder into Dave. The deputy marshal grinned and caught him right in the solar plexus with a quick chop. “This ain’t day care, pal.” Then he turned to the others. “Disrespect the family again and you’ll see what happens.”

Rudy cleared the booth in record times and sent a whirlwind of drinks to the table. Once he was gone, Dave looked across at Stan. “So much for low profile.”

“Naw. It was just how those morons expect the Mafia to act.”

“And that name…”

“Belongs with a made crew from up around Newark. They branched down here a few years back. Didn’t work out too well for them, but I figured the one with prison tats would have at least heard the name and understand what it meant.”

Gina nodded and made a show of studying her makeup in a silver compact she produced from her purse. “I feel like one of those gun molls in the old mob movies, Stan. Can I shoot one of them if they come back?”

“Don’t see why not.” He cleared his throat as he spotted Rudy making his way to them through the gloom. “And I bet we don’t pay for dinner, either. But this way we know which way they run when they’re scared.”

Dave nodded. “There’s one still in here somewhere.”

“Yeah. Four bikes and only three assholes. I saw that too.” When Rudy was close enough Stan switched into what he liked to think of as his Mafia Elvis mode. “Sorry about that, Rudy. But they don’t seem welcome, an’ I don’t like seeing my friends being jammed up.”

“Believe me, Stanley, they are anything but welcome.” Rudy stood there wringing his hands like a dishrag. “They showed up about three weeks ago and just stayed. At first I thought they were looking for a place to drink, but then they started chasing off some of my customers. Then last week one of them asked how much I wanted for the place.” He looked around. “As if I could sell it.”

“Why didn’t you call? Never mind. I understand. But you’re under family protection now. We just want to see the place prosper. And if that means taking out the trash…my people have always been good at waste management.” Grinning, he looked over at Gina. “Now what say we order dinner? I’m starved.”

 

Lester’s voice was thinner than normal as it echoed through the radio speaker. “You were right, Stan. They made a beeline right for the old auto body shop as soon as they left Fontino’s.” He and Randy were still in position with the Roach Coach while the rest of Team Elvis had returned to the office to change and plan the next move.

“When did the last bike leave?”

“Not long after you did. The air unit picked him up about a mile from the shop, and he headed right home, too.” There was a pause and a crackle of static. “We’re holding here unless you need us.”

“Naw. But you might want to set up some taps.” Stan looked down at the paper that had been waiting on his desk when they got back. “The warrant came through. Fontino’s and the land line running out to that body shop.” He paused. “There is a line out there, right?”

Randy’s laugh almost overloaded the speaker. “Yeah, there is. We’ll get right on it. Got the perfect place for both picked out already.”

“Good. Set up repeaters an’ then you can come back to the ranch. We need to plan the next move.”

Dave came out of the arms room, his suit exchanged for a loose shirt and jeans. “Now that I don’t feel like I’m goin’ to court you got anything for me?”

“Yeah. Call Pete and see if the warrant team’s gonna be on standby tomorrow. You know, Brick’s guys.”

“We gonna hit ‘em then, sarge?”

Stan looked at the map and then down at the warrant. “I don’t know. Wish I did. We don’t have enough on ‘em yet to really swoop in and kick ass, but that could change in the next couple of hours.” He looked at the second report Tubbs had left for him. “The Coast Guard’s gonna have a bird over the area with night vision, so they can keep track of those morons once it gets dark.”

Gina looked worried. “You think they’ll go after Fontino’s?”

“Not yet.” Stan sounded more confident than he felt. “They’re gonna be confused now. The boss man will be runnin’ around trying to figure out how he missed that Fontino’s has connections with a made guy. Then he’ll have to snort some of his product to work up the courage to do something about it.”

Dave snorted. “Sounds about right. But what if we’re wrong?”

“That’s what the bird and the taps are for. If the natives get too restless we’ll take ‘em down and hope there’s something there to make it worthwhile.”

“Roger that.” Dave nodded and got to his feet. “I’m gonna go clean my .45. Can’t do that enough in this damned humidity.”

Once they were alone, Gina reached out and touched Stan’s hand. “Do you really think they’ll wait?”

“Yeah. I mean I hope they do. Mindy got some more info on the Riders. Their new head guy is some goof who calls himself Wolfman…probably because his mother named him Eugene. Eugene Duncan to be precise. Ol’ Eugene has a pretty rap sheet…ranging from distribution of dangerous drugs to theft and even an indecent exposure to round things off. But nothing this big. Most of the Riders are like that…small timers with big time dreams.”

“Like the shorter one who recognized the name Antonelli.”

“Exactly. And he almost pissed himself right there. There’s enough of ‘em they might get collectively brave, but I don’t think most of ‘em would have the guts to go near a made man.”

“Except maybe the one Dave slugged.”

“Except maybe him.” Stan shook his head. “I wish I had a better ID on him. But I don’t think he started as an Aryan Rider. You notice his jacket? There were darker spots where other patches had been. Older patches.”

Gina pushed back from the table. “I’ll have Mindy cross-reference known Riders with other gangs. See if we can get something. He’s gonna be hard to miss just based on his size.”

“Thanks.” Once she left, Stan sank back in his chair with a low sigh. What had felt like a good plan yesterday seemed to be coming apart at the seams today. Maybe we pushed those goofballs too far. Last thing I want is for Rudy to get hurt in all this. He rubbed his eyes with blunt fingers. Shit…

“You look like you need a drink.” Sonny Crockett’s voice stabbed into his thoughts. “I’ve got some Black Jack in the office. My office, not Marty’s.”

It felt strange, sitting there with Sonny looking out the window at the setting sun. Stan wasn’t sure what to say or think, so he took another sip of bourbon, feeling the whiskey warm its way down his throat. “I had it all worked out,” he said, the words sliding out as easy as the bourbon slid down. “And then…”

“It goes to shit. Or you think it goes to shit.” Sonny sipped his own drink, not looking at Stan. “I been there many nights, Stan. More now that Pete’s got me running the show. It used to eat me up. What did I do wrong? What didn’t I take into consideration? All that stuff.”

“How did you…”

“I don’t know that I ever did. But eventually Castillo sat me down and told me you can’t account for everything. Plans involved people, and people will do whatever the hell they want no matter what you plan. And you can count on ‘em to come up with some damned fool idea you never thought of that sends your plan right off the rails. It’s easier now, but before…”

Stan nodded, knowing Sonny was talking about the part of himself they called Burnett. “So, Sonny…be straight with me. What did I miss?”

“Not a damned thing, Stan. Not one thing. You had to push those idiots to get them to show their hand. Otherwise we’d be sitting in the swamps for weeks fighting trench foot and swatting bugs with nothing to show for it. They can wait as long as they want. You put pressure on them…pressure they didn’t expect.”

“Then why do I feel so bad about it?”

“Because it could come back on Fontino’s. Hell, you wouldn’t be human if that didn’t concern you. But you got them covered with cameras. And I think you read the Aryan Riders right. It’ll take them at least a day to pull their heads out of their asses, sober up, and decide what to do. With Brick and his team on standby I think you’re set.”

“Man, I don’t know how you and Marty do it. This leading stuff sucks.”

“You’re good at it, Stan. Don’t ever tell yourself different. Dave and Randy wouldn’t stick by you if you weren’t. You gotta know that.” He paused, draining his glass and then pouring them each another generous shot. “It doesn’t come easy..”

“You make it look that way.”

“Only after I made a ton of mistakes. Larry wasn’t the first.” Sonny paused. “He damned sure wasn’t the first, but he’s the one I regret the most. Back then all I cared about was the arrest. The bust. And to hell with anything that got in the way. I was a slow learner. You’re not.”

All Stan could do was nod. He’d never seen Crockett this way before. This open about his own shortcomings.

“Hell, I musta spent too much time with the AUSA. Sitting here getting all deep and stuff.” Sonny’s chuckle was forced. “I stand by what I said, though. It’s a good plan, Stan. As good as it can be considering the situation. Bikers are random as hell. It’s in their nature. You’ve got people watching, you kicked ‘em enough to sting, and you got a plan if they do something crazy. That’s a good as it gets with those morons.”

Stan took another drink, feeling the Jack Daniel’s working its magic on his tense mind. “Hey, Sonny? Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, big guy. Now get out there and give ‘em hell.”

Gina and Mindy were waiting by the big table. Mindy smiled at Stan and waved a sheet of paper. “I think we got the big one. I bounced the most recent Riders intel off the marshal’s database and came up with Derek ‘Frank’ Jacobs. It says the Frank is short for Frankstein because he’s, well…”

“Big and ugly.” Stan grinned. “Not exactly original, are they?”

“No. And he did come to the Riders late in the game. Intel indicates he used to ride with a small chapter of the Bandidos before he jumped. Or got forced out. Either way he got out just before ATF rolled them up.”

“Woflman and Frankenstein. All we need’s the mummy and we got a bad late night movie. What’s ol’ Frankie’s rap sheet like?”

“About what you’d expect from a rising Bandido. A couple of bar fights, a small coke bust, weapons violations. Never enough for major time, but it adds up pretty quick when you print it out.”

“Sounds like he’s a badder dude than ol’ Eugene. That must make for some fun bull sessions in the ol’ clubhouse.” Stan stared at the printout for a minute. “Thanks, ladies. Great work.” Maybe it was the bourbon, but he felt some of his old mojo coming back. “And now…” He put on his best late night horror movie voice. “We wait. We wait for the creatures that go bump in the night.” Then something tickled the base of his brain. “Mindy, do any of the Riders have meth or speed busts? Not sales or distribution, but production. They gotta have a cook somewhere if that’s what they’re really up to.”

“I’ll go check.” She paused. “I think one of them might. An older guy who goes by Chopper.” She giggled. “These guys are so original with their nicknames. He’s about fifty and had a rap sheet that included some speed cooking charges back in the old days.”

“Let me know. If they do, that means we might be able to persuade Pete to work his magic and get us another warrant. If we’re really lucky he’s on parole or something an’ we can get a general arrest warrant for him because he’s associating with known or convicted felons.”

“Old Frankie meets that standard.” She looked at the paper. “He’s got a felony assault conviction from ’81.”

“I’ll call Pete, then. See if he can work some AUSA magic.” Stan got to his feet and headed for the tech room and his phone. “Great work, ladies.”

Pete, who looked like George Jefferson but sounded like an old-school Cracker sheriff from the backwoods of Louisiana, was all for the plan. “You’ll have that damned warrant on the fax before morning. Good work. Switek. I’ll tell Brick an’ his boys to stand by. You’ll need ‘em, especially if there’s a former Bandido runnin’ with these fools.” His cackling laugh echoed down the phone line. “Give ‘em hell, big guy.”

Sonny was still in the office he shared with Rico, and Stan stuck his head through the door. “Just wanted to fill you in, lieutenant. We’re gettin’ an arrest warrant for at least one of the Riders on a parole violation. Chief Deputy Washington is gonna fax it over an’ have the warrant team on standby. I figure I’ll leave Lester and Randy in position for a bit longer an’ then roll them back. We can monitor from here, and if that plane has night vision…”

“It does. We can thank the Coast Guard later.” Sonny was still sitting and looking out the window. “Team Elvis has this, Stan. Good work. I’ll make sure Castillo knows when he gets back.”

 

“…and we have an arrest warrant for the guy they call Chopper. He’s got a record as a speed cook, and with the stuff we’ve seen out there he’s likely up to his old tricks. That and consorting with felons, which his PO and the court both say is a no-no.” Stan looked around the table, wrapping up the briefing. Lester and Randy were both fighting back yawns, but they were ready to go. Dave looked rested enough, and Gina was all smiles in her jeans and safari shirt. “Brick and his team are heading out now and will hold five minutes from the shop. Far enough out they won’t get spotted,” he added with a grin. “That Coast Guard plane got some great images last night.”

“Our tap picked up a bit, too.” Lester yawned into the back of his hand. “I went through the highlights before you kids got here. One of them, I’m guessing it was Wolfman, was setting up what sounded like small deals last night around midnight. If I had to guess, I’d say it was speed based on size and cost. And I think one of the guys on the other end of one of those calls was our Vette owner Timmy.”

“Outstanding.”

“Hang on, Stan. Got one other tidbit, too. One of ‘em, I’d say from the voice it was the one you saw at Fontino’s, made a call just before two. Trace shows it’s a number of a payphone in Lauderdale outside one of the town’s less-reputable strip clubs. When a guy answered, he asked if the guy knew anything about the Antonellis being active around Miami.”

Stan felt his gut sink. “What did he say?”

“That he’d look into it. He said they had been, but he hadn’t heard much in the last year or two.” Lester flipped a page in his notebook. “Guy never called back.”

“That means we gotta move fast. Imagery shows they were partying until the wee small hours. Even had some girls out, so there will be friendlies mixed in with the bad guys. Randy, if you’ve got Brick’s frequency let him know, ok?”

“Roger that. On it now.”

“Thanks. Ok, boys and girls, let’s get to work. Check your radios and make sure you’ve got clear channels to the Roach Coach. She’s gonna be our mobile command post again.”

Dropping by the arms room to pick out an MP-5 to go with his Browning, Stan stood for a moment just smelling the gun oil and other solvents tinting the air with their tangy reminders. Like nothing else it helped him focus on what was coming, to sort it out and let it settle within himself. Sonny might get high on the action, or at least he might have once, but Stan Switek had to coax himself into it.

“Don’t take that one. The trigger’s a bit off.” Randy had appeared from somewhere and gestured toward the weapon rack. “Been meanin’ to work on it but ain’t made the time yet. Go with the one on the end.” He paused. “Gina already grabbed a shotgun.”

“Thanks.” Reaching out, Stan picked up the small black sub-machine gun and slung it over his shoulder. Remembering the hours of reaction drills he’d run with a similar weapon under the watchful eyes of Dave and Randy after they closed out Menton and his men. “How many mags?”

“No more than four extra. If you need more than that, we’ve screwed up.” Randy chuckled. “Had a hell of a time talkin’ Dave outa bringin’ his M-14, too. Finally got him to settle for a shorty M-16.”

The image of Dave and his rifle brought a smile to Stan’s face as he buckled on his web gear and stuffed extra magazines for the MP-5 and his pistol into pouches. “Wouldn’t be room in the Roach Coach for the long gun with all of us, too.”

“That’s what I told the big lug.”

“Who you callin’ a big lug, you big lug?” Dave let out a low laugh. “Guess you didn’t tell sarge you was gonna bring a ’14, too, did you?”

“Can’t say’s it came up, no.”

“Ain’t worried. Brick’s team has a good shooter. We’ll have overwatch if we need it.”

Stan nodded. “Let’s get downstairs and get this show on the road.”

Lester sat hunched over the main console in the back of the Roach Coach, headphones on and lips moving as he ran through the comm checks for both Team Elvis and Brick’s high-risk warrant team. Randy and Dave were in jump seats further back, and Gina was waiting in the passenger seat. “Lester said something about having chili for dinner last night,” she said with a smile as Stan climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Well that was awful nice of him.” Turning, he looked into the back compartment and raised his voice. “Everyone remember to pee? This bus ain’t stopping until we get there.”

Coming out of the underground garage, Stan eased the van into traffic, grinning at the looks the large metal roach on the roof got from passing cars. Bet they’d piss themselves if they knew the antennas actually had antennas in ‘em. And a camera, too. It was a hell of a step up from the Bug Van of their OCB days. He could hear Lester in the back muttering into the headset mic close to his lips and allowed himself another smile. Lester, too, had come a long way since OPB. Hell, we all have.

“Brick says his team’s in position.” Lester fed them information as Stan steered the van though the mid-day traffic. “It looks like we might be losing our eye in the sky, too. Pilot said they just got a standby recall order from the Coast Guard station. And there are no other aircraft available.”

“It was nice while it lasted. Kinda like Elvis’ last tour. Thank ‘em for me and see how long they think they can remain on station.”

There was a pause. “They aren’t sure. Could be another hour, could be two minutes. Sounds like there’s a developing situation that might involve a go-fast boat or two out by the Keys.”

“Got it.” Stan looked over at Gina. “Guess we get to do this the old-fashioned way.” Then he shifted slightly. “Lester, let Brick know. We might need him to move up a bit early depending on what the bird says.”

“Roger that.”

It was mostly quiet after that, each member of Team Elvis lost in their own thoughts. Even Gina caught the mood and spent the drive looking mostly out the window or sometimes reaching over and touching Stan’s leg as if seeking reassurance she belonged there. Each time she did, he smiled at her. Of course you belong here he thought. But it’s not the same thing as OCB. She’s with us but not of us. It was a strange feeling, and one he wasn’t sure he understood. But it was there as plain as if it was splashed in bright red neon across the side of the van.

They were almost to the Fontino’s turnoff when Lester spoke up again. “Bird just called, sarge. They’ve been recalled. But they said they see three bikes gettin’ ready to leave the compound. The spotter thinks they’re heading for Fontonio’s since they didn’t take the road that leads to that gas station. They say no one else is moving down there.” There was another pause. “No activity on the taps, so it might just be them opening for business.”

Stan nodded, but he was getting that feeling in his stomach again. The same one he got when he knew his father was coming home drunk again even before the cab turned the last corner onto their street. “I don’t like it. We need to keep the van on the air, though. Randy, you’ll take over for me. Dave, you, Gina and I are gonna pay a little visit to Fontino’s and see if we can head those apes off at the pass. You think Brick’s team can take the compound without all of us?”

“Yeah. An’ I won’t tell him you asked that question.” Randy chuckled. “Be better if we didn’t divide the team, but I get why you’re doin’ it, sarge. Can’t say I’d do different.”

“Roger that.” The van echoed with a metallic sound as Dave worked the charging handle on his carbine. “I hope one of ‘em’s that big ape I slugged the other day.”

Gina looked over as Stan swung the van off the main road and onto the access road leading to the supper club. “Are you sure? The plan…”

“Sometimes the plan’s gotta change.” He saw the concern in her eyes and softened his voice. “Yeah, I know. But I can’t let them wreck Fontino’s. I told Rudy we’d help, and I don’t plan to break my word. Most of the guys at that clubhouse are gonna be hung over, stoned, or trying to party with the girls.” He shot a glance in the rear view mirror, feeling a bit of warmth as Randy nodded. “They’re mostly small time. One look at Brick’s team will have most of ‘em wetting their leathers.”

“It ain’t perfect, Gina.” Randy’s voice was as steady as his gaze. “But they ain’t all perfect. It’s a good plan to deal with somethin’ that came up and needs dealin’ with.”

Stan slowed when they rolled onto the asphalt parking lot. “No bikes, so we beat ‘em here.” He jumped out, hefting his MP-5 and left the door open for Randy. “Comms are good.” He pushed the earpiece in a little bit tighter to cover his balling nerves. “We’ll say in touch.”

Lester’s voice echoed in his ear. “So will we, sarge. Brick just reported three bikes passing his position, so you got a few minutes to set up.”

“Roger that.” Stan turned to Randy. “It’s your call when the warrant team goes in. I’d say send ‘em as soon as you’re in a position you like, but it’s up to you.”

Randy nodded. “We can’t get close without passin’ their bikes. I’m thinkin’ we roll back a bit and set up here. Hit these assholes an’ then move up with Brick.”

Damn it! I should have thought of that. “Good idea.” He keyed his mic. “Lester, tell Brick to get eyes on the compound and hold for us. If the natives start getting restless, he can move in. It’s his call.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, sarge. I didn’t think of it, either. We didn’t expect them to be comin’ this way.”

“We should have. Lesson for next time.” Stan stepped away from the door. “Get the Roach Coach out of sight. We’ll set up and wait. Move up on my signal or if you think we need help.”

“Roger that.” Randy slapped Stan on the shoulder before climbing into the van.

It didn’t take long for them to find shade on the far side of the building, under cover but still able to see the lot. Not that they needed to…Lester still had the camera on and could do play-by-play. Working the loading handle of his sub-machine gun, Stan checked the Browning on his hip and let his mind run through the drills he’d practiced on the range with the two former Marines. Anything to keep from worrying about the plan.

He felt, then heard, the rumble of blown Harley exhausts a heartbeat or two before Lester made his announcement. “Incoming. Three bogies. Turning into the lot…now.”

A distinctive sound filled his ears, and Stan looked over to see Gina racking a shell into her shotgun. Off on the other side Dave just held his carbine like it was part of his arm and waited. It wasn’t even possible to tell if he was breathing he was so still. Stan focused, trying to draw from the Marine’s calm and pass some on to Gina at the same time. The roar of the bikes got closer, changed pitch, and then stopped as the riders cut the engines. A light breeze carried voices their way, and Stan was sure he could pick out the nasal tones of the smaller biker with prison tats.

As they got closer, he could make out actual words. “…I’m tellin’ ya, Frankie, he didn’t say squat. Just that he’d heard the Wops were down here and had gone quiet. He was gonna look into it…”

“I don’t know why you trust that greaser anyhow. He ain’t one of us.”

“You know how it is, brother.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like sittin’ here waitin’ for those city punks and their fancy cars to come by. As soon as Chopper gets that next batch cooked, there’s gonna be some changes.”

Dave looked over, and Stan raised a finger. Wait.

“How you figure? Wolfman ain’t gonna…”

“That’s what I mean, asshole. There’s gonna be changes. Startin’ with this place. I don’t know why Wolfman didn’t just kick the crap out of the fat slob who…”

Now. “Because he knows you don’t mess with us.” Stan stepped into the open, the MP-5 leveled at where he’d heard Frank’s voice. “I told you this place was under our protection. Guess you are as dumb as you look.”

“Who the hell…”

Dave took two steps forward and took Frank down with a single blow from the metal collapsable stock of his carbine. The cracks quickly followed by a thud as the body hit the asphalt. “Anyone else got any questions?” His voice was pleasant, but the carbine wasn’t. Gina’s shotgun didn’t leave much room for talk, either.

“Keep ‘em covered.” Stan nodded to Gina, then pulled zip-ties from his belt. “Dave, help me secure these assholes. Wrists and ankles. We’ll pick ‘em up later.”

“Wait! You ain’t gonna leave us out here!”

“Yeah, we are. Only choice you get is if you’re awake or out cold like your idiot pal there.” Stan shot Dave a look and grinned. “Only take a second to arrange it…”

Tires crunched on gravel as the Roach Coach rolled into the lot. “Damn it. I missed all the fun.” Randy rolled down the driver’s side window and shook his head.

“Well, way I see it you or Dave can stay and watch these apes.”

Gina cleared her throat. “I’ll do it. Last thing I want to do is cheat these two out of a good firefight.” She smiled at Stan. “Besides, they get any ideas old reliable here will cut them in half.” She patted the shotgun and winked when the smaller biker let out a whimper.

“You sure?” When she nodded, Stan turned toward the building. “I’m gonna let Rudy know there’s some trash in the lot he doesn’t need to woory about cleaning up.” When he was a few steps away, he triggered the radio. “Lester, ol’ pal…”

“I already radioed Brick. He’s got a chase car with a deputy he’s rolling this way now.”

“You’re on top of things.” Reaching the door, Stan knocked on the glass. “Rudy! You got a minute?”

 

The Roach Coach lurched over the dirt road, Stan keeping the speed down so they didn’t raise too much dust. Rudy had been stunned by what he’d seen, even more so when the black car rolled up and a muscled man packing a semi-auto shotgun got out. But there hadn’t been time for talk. Brick’s observer said the clubhouse was starting to wake up.

When they were as close as they dared, Stan swung the van off the road and shut it off, the ticking of the engine loud in the still air. The radio crackled to life. “We’re about a hundred meters inside the treeline.” Brick’s voice was deep, resonating in the earpiece. “Better get here quick. Things are starting to happen over there.”

As if on cue the roar of a Harley boomed out, faltered, then roared again as someone fed gas to the badly-tuned engine. Stan looked at Randy and Dave. “You heard the man. Let’s move.”

The high-risk warrant team had arranged itself in a loose arc far enough back from the edge of the stunted trees to avoid being spotted. Brick and Tiny, the two massive deputies who ran the team, were waiting at the center of the arc. “Welcome to the party,” Tiny said, exchanging fist slaps with Randy and Dave. “Wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

Stan nodded, feeling the sweat running down the hollow of his back and dripping from his hairline into his eyebrows. “They’re fine. I damned near didn’t make it, though.”

Brick chuckled. “You did fine, sarge.” Then his voice went all business. “With those three you snatched up there’s only ten or so left out there.” He waved in the general direction of the old auto shop. “My spotter reports there are four girls, all in the old office. The bikers are scattered around the place. Four in the office, maybe five. The target’s got a work area set up a bit away from the rest, an’ no one else goes near it. The rest are mostly in the old repair bays or passed out in the yard. Kinda like Tiny’s family reunion’s.”

“Least I got family. Not like that pack of wolves that raised you.” Tiny gave a short, low laugh.

“You already got a plan.” Stan wasn’t asking a question. “Cool. Just let us know where you need us.”

Brick nodded. “We’ll go in like we are now. Sweep in and box ‘em so they can’t get away. You, Dave, and Randy can get the primary target. His shack’s to the right of the office as we’re lookin’ at it and about the same distance from the trees as the garage. You won’t be crossin’ our lines of fire. Just latch on to the right end of the arc.”

“We’ll open with flash bangs. Scare the shit outa them boys an’ then move in.” The speaker was another team member, not as big as Brick or Tiny but with a quick, nasty look in his eyes. Stan was glad he was on their side. “If they’re smart they won’t resist.”

The team moved up carefully, making almost no noise in the dense undergrowth. The sounds from the old body shop were becoming louder and more regular as more bikes were started and men started shouting for and at each other. Now and then a high shriek of laughter let them know the girls were still there. Brick had sent his sniper team in first, and they radioed constant updates as the team moved into final assault position.

Just before they moved to the final spot, Brick looked over at Stan and inclined his head. “Naw.” Stan’s whisper carried just far enough. “Your team, your call. I’m just along for the ride.” Nodding his thanks, Brick turned back to his team.

As Stan watched, the big deputy raised his left hand and three men pulled flash bangs from their belts, slipped their fingers through the pins, and waited. The hand dropped, and three armed grenades arced through the humid swamp air. The throws were expert, sending the grenades bouncing near knots of men staring at bikes or chugging the first beers of the morning. There were one or two yelps, and then the grenades went off.

Through the crash of the explosions, Brick’s voice roared out better than any bullhorn. “US Marshals! Get your hands up!”

But Stan was already moving, rising into a crouch as soon as the grenades left the throwers’ hands. Legs pumping, lungs about to burst, he sprinted through the dust raised by the detonations, aiming for the small outbuilding Brick had described. He was almost there when the door crashed open and a skinny blonde barely wearing cut-offs ran through the opening screaming. Behind her came an older biker with straggly graying hair, no shirt, and what looked like a Smith & Wesson revolver in his left hand.

“Freeze! US Marshals! Drop the weapon!” With some effort Stan came to a stop, the worlds gasped out from lungs still fighting for air. But the MP-5 was steady in his hands. “I said drop it!”

Chopper had a wild look in his eyes, one that likely came from sampling his own product. He made a grab for the girl, who screamed again and started running faster. “Screw you, pig! I ain’t goin’ back!”

“Last chance!” Stan was conscious of shots popping off to his left, but his entire being was focused on Chopper and the big revolver he was starting to bring to shoulder level. “Drop the damned gun!”

“I’ll drop you first!” The revolver came level with his shoulder and Chopper started to squeeze the trigger when Stan fired, putting five rounds in his chest.

The older biker folded like a wet newspaper, sprawling on the hard earth with a thud. Following his training, Stan tracked the body with the MP-5, only lowering it when he saw no movement. The big revolver lay just touching the man’s fingers.

Brick’s team was good. Damned good. They had the area secured by the time Stan came back out of the small building. Seeing Randy, he nodded, knowing his face was still a bit pale. “He was cooking, all right. Got some goodies packaged for sale, too. What about Eugene?”

“Tiny’s sitting on him over there. An I mean really sitting on him. Idiot tried to run.”

Pushing the image of Chopper’s surprised face to the back of his mind, Stan walked to the front of the bays and looked around at men groaning on the ground, struggled against their handcuffs, and a few like Chopper lying in pools of their own blood. Clearing his throat, he pulled a small card out of his shirt pocket. “Ok, girls. Listen up. You have the right to remain silent…”

[MrsCastillo]

Great story! Love to see Stan take the lead and Sonny grow so much! I love these stories because so much time and detail is put into characters that lacked screen time and backstories in the series 

[Robbie C.]

I'm glad you enjoy them. I do enjoy writing Stan quite a bit, actually. And of course Dave and Randy are always fun.

[Kladdagh]

Another Masterpiece @Robbie C. 

[Robbie C.]

As always, glad you enjoyed it, my friend!