Good Girl Bad Boys

By R.L. Nicholson

Plot Summary
Good Girl Bad Boys
by
R.L. Nicholson

Patty Hurst met the SLA... Patsy White met the Devils Riders.

With millions in trust funds and a family with a fortune in oil and political power, Patsy trades her Dallas debutante world for an outlaw life with the Oakland chapter of Devils Riders MC. Seen through a career lawman’s eyes, Sheriff Tyler Garrett, her story covers a twenty-year period including her marriages to two Patched Bikers, first to the president of the club, Anton Sears; then to the man that law enforcement calls ‘the Julia Childs of Methamphetamine (Crank) cooking’, Shane Seager.

Good Girl Bad Boys begins with Patsy’s past betrayals coming back to haunt her. Three years after setting up, then testifying against her husband Shane in California, Patsy believes enough time and distance have made her and her son safe from his extremely dangerous influence. But as fate dictates, one summer morning Patsy naively opens the door of her Dallas home to a flower deliveryman. As she admires the arrangement, the deliveryman produces a gun but before he pulls the trigger he says, “This is from Shane.”
Years before this moment...US Attorney Sandra Peters’ obsession with these Outlaws who have outfoxed her for years, leads to her reliance on Tyler. She needs him because he is the only person Patsy trusts enough to reveal her husband’s past involvement in money laundering, Meth manufacturing and distribution.

Tyler has known Patsy since she was a little girl. Early in Tyler’s career, he was the Dallas cop who found nine-year-old Patsy next to the victim of a murder-suicide - her mother. But because of his early acceptance of patronage from Patsy’s uncle, Senator J.D. Braxton; Tyler’s life inextricably weaves in and out of this family’s troubles for decades to come. In order to protect the family he must wade through Patsy’s half truths and rely upon trusted friends to cover his back. But along the way, he finds himself crossing the line in the attempt to save Patsy from herself and the criminals she betrays.

Patsy’s desire to save her son from the Outlaw culture ultimately outweighs her love of drugs, motorcycles, cars, and machine guns. But in the end, two questions are begged - Is Patsy still alive? And, ‘Why do good girls go for bad boys’?

Good Girl Bad Boys © copyright 2013
R.L. Nicholson

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.L. Nicholson
• Release date: Dec 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311035080

Book preview

Prologue

As the white delivery van made its way through the luxurious canopy of live oak trees that lined the street in the fashionable Dallas neighborhood of Preston Hollow, the driver mentally reviewed the escape route for the last time. She was convinced that it was a good plan; but to look at her, any outward signs of confidence were masked by a face that only reflected the toxic miles she had traveled. Despite being an unseasonably cool summer morning, her passenger was sweating profusely as he pulled his long greasy hair back into a ponytail. Reaching their destination, the driver turned right into the home’s brick paved circular driveway and stopped under the redwood portico.

The driver looked at her passenger and didn’t like what she saw. She had expected him to be nervous but he was twitching and she worried he looked like a sweating pig. But it was too late for them to back out now, so she handed him a rag and commanded him to wipe his face.

Pretending to look at a clipboard she asked the amped up passenger, "Are you ready to do this?

He responded, You’re goddamn right I am.

I told you not to do another bump, she vehemently said, you fuck this up and were both dead meat; got it?

He just snarled at her and got out of the van. He then opened the sliding side door and took out a large arrangement of blue hydrangeas, crème roses, and white lilies. As he turned to walk up the path to the door, he remembered he had forgotten the fake delivery ticket. He shifted the large arrangement to the crook of his right arm and picked the ticket up from the floor of the van with his left hand. It was then that he caught sight of the woman driver glaring at him.

Get it together, she said in a low voice, You remember what to say right?

He just grunted and started again for the front door. He rang the door bell and through the flowers, that partially concealed his face, he peered through the glass and Mahogany doors into the entryway of the million dollar home.

Muttering under his breath he said, Goddamnit I could take my time and have some serious fun with this rich bitch if I hadn’t fucked up and needed my old lady to do the driving. Snapping out of his fantasy he mumbled, Quit deamin’ you stupid shit that’s not going to happen, so get it together.

Instantly he wondered why he had called himself a stupid shit. He guessed it was because so many people had called him that over the years that it was nothing more than habit.

Just then he saw a fortyish woman coming towards him from the back of the house. He thought, Damn, she kinda looks like that hot babe Elvira the Mistress of Darkness… but harder.

As the woman walked through the entry hall she assumed the man at the door was just a delivery man because he was holding what looked to be an expensive arrangement of flowers. She also saw through the glass a woman in the van, but thought nothing of it. Even though she didn’t see a company name or logo on the side of the van, she was completely at ease as she opened the front door. Without saying a word the man handed the arrangement to her. She took the flowers and turned her back to the delivery man as she placed them on the entryway table.

Looking at the flowers, and with her back still to the man she asked, They’re beautiful, but I don’t see a card…do you have it?

The man didn’t answer and when she turned to confront him…she was looking straight at a pistol aimed at her chest. Her reaction surprised the greasy long haired man. He had planned for her to scream but instead she had a knowing look on her face. It was like she had expected it or had at least been in this situation before. She didn’t try to run or fight for her life. She stood still as a statue and seemed to be accepting her fate.

His gun hand was shaking badly when he said, This is from Shane.

She was nodding in recognition when he pulled the trigger three times in succession. She dropped to her knees, looked him in the eye, and then collapsed to the floor in a fetal position. The shooter was now shaking so badly that he dropped the fake delivery ticket and almost sprinted back to the van. He slammed the sliding door to the van shut, climbed into the passenger seat and yelled, Go, Go.

The driver kept her cool and slowly pulled out of the driveway and turned left onto the street. As she looked back at the house she was shocked to see the bleeding woman crawling toward her neighbor’s home. Immediately she took a left back into the driveway, all the while yelling at her accomplice.

You stupid shit, she’s still alive. Goddamn it, finish her.

The driver drove the van up the driveway to within feet of the wounded woman. The shooter jumped out of the van as it was still rolling and in the blink of an eye was standing over his victim. Without hesitation, he shot her three more times in the back. Satisfied that she was dead, but too scared to touch her, he jumped back in the van and this time they sped away.

Part I

Chapter.1

1959

No one needs to waste their breath by telling me that hating someone is awful. I know it all too well. But that still doesn’t change my cancerous take on that coward. The hell of it is I’ve felt this way for thirty some odd years and I never even met the man.

The night that he changed everything for so many, including me, began like every other. My partner, Riley, and I were just two wet behind the ears white cops patrolling the streets in the swankienda neighborhood of Highland Park in Dallas, Texas. Nothing exciting ever really happened save for the occasional call about some Negro maid’s boyfriend causing a disturbance. Since it was 1959, and the presence of a colored man in a rich white man’s neighborhood was frowned upon, handling this problem was as simple as giving the boy a few love taps with a baton and dropping him off on his side of the tracks. Our nightly patrols in this part of town were for the most part fairly boring; save for incidents like that and occasionally escorting a few overindulged residents or their can-do-no-wrong children home. That is until that night and, God help me; I still remember every little detail.

The radio message from the dispatcher was that several calls from the neighborhood had come in about noises that sounded like gun shots. Riley and I didn’t think too much of it because cars in those days backfired pretty regularly. As we drove down the street the reports came from, we saw one house lit up like a Christmas tree. I remember this because, moments before, I’d made an exceptionally witty comment to Riley about the streets being as dark as my ex-wife’s heart. Anyway, we stopped in front of this white antebellum mansion that was probably built sometime in the late Twenties. Through the leaded glass doors we could see a little girl standing in the foyer that was brightly lit by a massive crystal chandelier. She was staring down to her left, frozen as a statue, at something we couldn’t make out from our vantage. It struck me at the time how her coal black hair was such a stark contrast to her pale complexion and rosy cheeks. She was so tiny and looked absolutely adorable in her Minnie Mouse pj’s. As we got to the door we could see it was slightly ajar and even though the little girl must have been able to see and hear our approach, she didn’t move a muscle as we entered. Truthfully, up until that moment I was more concerned about having to deal with a rich homeowner and his ability to cause me trouble with my boss than I was with the reason for the call.

I wasn’t on guard in the least, that is, until she looked up at me and I saw in her big brown eyes a sadness that I’ll never forget. I followed her eyes as she looked back toward the adjoining study. That’s when I saw a woman in a scarlet cocktail dress lying in a pool blood. I couldn’t tell where the woman’s dress ended and the pool of blood began. I know this sounds macabre, but like the little girl, her raven hair and complexion contrasted; with one major difference, her skin wasn’t pale…it was gray. There was no question this woman was dead.

In the most heartbreaking voice I’ve ever heard, the only word the little girl said was, Mommy.

Like I said, I still remember every detail. Thank god for the training I received, for at that moment it kicked into high gear as Riley and I immediately drew our service revolvers. I picked up the little girl and began backtracking out the front door.

I set her down on the veranda, and with her behind me I stood at the door covering Riley’s back as he swept the study. He didn’t have to go any further to see the shooter. Sitting slumped to one side of a blue velvet wingback chair was a man with part of his head missing. As Riley looked around he could see a .45 was lying on the floor near the chair. We had no idea if anyone else was in the house so we both backed out with the little girl in tow and radioed it in from the cruiser.

I learned that night that even in death the rich and powerful get treated differently. At the time it was easy to see that this family had a fortune in terms of money. Down the road I would discover that they possessed an equal if not greater fortune in political power; a political power that would drag me into their lives for a very, very long time.

On the heels of an army of squad cars and detectives, the head honcho of the Dallas PD arrived. The Chief of Police himself. I was so naïve at the time that I questioned my partner about why and how he showed up so quickly. Riley just laughed and didn’t say a thing. After all, the Chief was a political appointee and this neighborhood was chocked full of the donating privileged few. I just didn’t connect the dots about the political connection the Chief had with this particular family.

I’d managed to get the little girl to tell me that her name was Patsy White and that she was eight years old. Believe me when I tell you that I’ve seen the effects of violence on the faces of a lot of people over the years, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone more traumatized than that little girl. All I knew was I had to get her away from this horrible circus. So once I heard the house was cleared, Patsy and I started to walk down the driveway to the back kitchen door. Just as we started walking, the Chief caught my eye and motioned for us to stop. As he walked up to us I was heartened that the Chief called her Pat and was amused when she flat told him You know my name’s not Pat, its Patsy.

Not knowing what to say to this devastated but defiant child, the Chief ignored her and informed me in a flat tone, Pat, then correcting himself, Patsy is now your responsibility until her uncle shows. He’ll be here in a minute.

Before we started our shift that night, we were told that if we observed any Highland Park residents having trouble navigating their cars home from the Oil Barons Ball that we were not to arrest them but were to escort them home. In those days, that’s just the way it was.Apparently the Chief had come directly from the Ball because he was dressed in what looked like an off the rack black wool cutaway tuxedo with matching silk satin stripe tux trousers, purple cumber bun, and a purple bow tie. He stood out like a sore thumb and his Puttin’on the Ritz look would have been comical had it not been such a gruesome scene. I couldn’t help but think he was attempting to look like royalty. What his highness didn’t tell me was that her uncle was Senator Jonathon Davis Braxton; J.D. to his cronies. At the time that little tidbit of info would’ve been nice.

Once Patsy and I walked into the kitchen I asked her what she wanted to drink. She perked right up and said Tang. I’ll be honest, I had no idea at the time what that was and told her so. Like a mother’s little helper she took charge and grabbed a jar of it out of the pantry, had me pour some water into a pitcher, and we sat down at the table and blended up a batch. As she stirred the orange mixture I was hoping this routine would help calm her. Sadly, as she took a sip the tears started to flow. Mommy says it’s my job to… was all she got out before she started to choke up. I don’t think I have ever felt so hopeless.

What can you say to a child who witnessed her mother being murdered by her father; a father who then proceeds to blow his own brains out? I didn’t know then, and I have no clue now. What I do know is that I still hate that bastard.

Patsy and I had been sitting in the kitchen for about the longest 30 minutes of my life when a very nattily dressed six foot four, two hundred thirty or so pound gentleman, walked into the kitchen. I use the term gentleman because he was the type of man that was not only physically imposing, but carried himself in a way that important men do. I mean you just knew this guy was a man that didn’t have to take shit from anyone. He was dressed in what looked like a real Saville Row Tuxedo. I mean classy. Hey, even I can see class. I guess I remember this trivial bullshit because most people would have thought that the Chief looked dapper. But, compared to this gentleman’s exquisitely tailored formal wear, the Chief of the Dallas Police department looked like an extra in a Fred Astaire musical. I was in the presence of the real deal and I’ve got to say that I was impressed.

Like I said, this family owned, and still owns, old political muscle. The amount of clout they possessed would continue to amaze me for years to come. As I look back, I’m embarrassed to say that in those days I had the common sense of a whelped puppy. Eager but easily put in place, young and dumb. I mean dumb enough to confront this man in a weak voice. Hell, I didn’t know him from Adam but I admit I was kind of awed at first sight.

Instead of a commanding cop voice, I’m pretty sure my voice cracked when I asked him,

Who let you in?

Son you need to be quiet so I can talk to my niece, was his reply.

‘Yes sir’ barely made it out of my mouth before he spoke to Patsy in a surprisingly loving manner.

Sweetheart I’m here now. I’m so sorry it took me so long to get here. Are you Ok?

Uncle Johnny, Mommy, Mommy was all she could get out as she rushed to him.

He tenderly replied, I know honey, I know.

For a brief moment it almost looked like this big man’s legs were going to buckle. Instead he simply dropped to his knees, swallowed her up his big bear paws, and visibly shuddered. Like a switch being flipped, he composed himself and asked,

Honey, where is your sister?

Immediately I was horrified that there might be a dead child somewhere in the house.

I blurted, A sister!

I had no idea there was another child and Patsy had not said a word about her sister. How could I have been so stupid not to ask Patsy if there was anyone else in the house? The Chief had said nothing about a sister!

Before I could say another word Patsy said, Lisa’s at a sleepover

God I was relieved. The man that for years to come I would simply refer to as ‘the Senator’ looked at me and asked, What’s your name son?

Before I could answer, Patsy said, That’s Tyler, Uncle Johnny, and he likes to be called Tyler not Ty.

The three of us smiled. It would be the one and only smile of the night.

Son, I’m Jonathon Braxton. In case you’re wondering, this young lady’s mother is my sister.

Yes sir, I’m sorry Senator I didn’t recognize you when you came in. I’m Officer Tyler Garrett.

I’m grateful to you for taking caring of Patsy. Her Aunt is on her way to pick her up but if you could look after her for a few more minutes I would greatly appreciate it. Right now I need to speak to the Chief Raines.

I knew he was ordering me around but he put in such a way that I willing to do whatever he said. His genteel way of telling me what to do held sway for many years to come.

I had no choice but to say, Yes sir, it’ll be my pleasure.

I looked at Patsy and said, Friends look after friends, Right? Patsy said, Right.

Chapter 2

I keep saying how young and dumb I was. Hey, the truth hurts and the truth was I had no idea about the way things really work when you have money. I expected the press to have a field day with this tragedy. It’s no surprise that a murder suicide, committed by the social elite, sells lots of papers. I mean, how could the average Joe not eat it up? As perverse as it is, everyone loves to see the mighty fall. I guess it makes us feel better about our own failings. What astounded me was that this bad news was not on the front page for very long. In fact, this news lasted exactly one day. One day. That’s it. Except for the one obituary, and even that was sanitized.

I don’t think of myself as a morbid person. Well, maybe a little, but no more than anyone else. I’d been a cop long enough that I could file away the dark side of the job. But, when it came to this case, I had a little more of an emotional attachment because of Patsy. I don’t know how to describe the depth of the experience I shared with this little girl. The closest I can come to explaining it is…it was raw.

Let me back up, this was not my first rodeo. It wasn’t the first murder I’d been called to. It wasn’t the first suicide. What it was; was the first time I ever saw a horrible thing through a child’s eyes. What I saw was a childhood stopped on a dime. There would be no transition from childhood to teen to adult. It was adolescence gone in thirty minutes and it happened, as corny as it sounds, right before my very eyes. How could I not have worries about her future? But life goes on and I figured that in the years to come I would occasionally think back and wonder how life had worked out for her. I never expected to see her again. Like I keep repeating, I was young and dumb, so little did I know that my life would weave in and out of this family’s troubles for decades to come.

I gleaned from the obituaries that Patsy’s mom, Cecelia Anne White nee Braxton, was from a long line of Texans. Her father, William Walter Braxton, a partner with H.L. Hunt in the discovery of the largest oil field in Texas, was descended from one of Sam Houston’s scouts, on his paternal side. Cecelia was an honest to god, crude oil in her veins, Texan.

Cecelia was survived by her children, Patsy Jane and Lisa Lynn, her brother Senator Jonathon Davis Braxton, her sister Glenda Braxton Carlson, and numerous cousins, nieces, and nephews. It was a big and filthy rich family.

The story ran front page one day, obituary the next, then…story over. The press had nothing more to say. Subject closed. Patsy’s sorry sack of a father didn’t deserve nor did he receive an obit. The whole sad incident was over as far as the press was concerned.

You know, as trouble after trouble piled up for this family over the years, it wouldn’t have surprised me if the Patriarch of this clan had secretly sired another family, like his partner H.L did. Old H.L. had one in Dallas and another in Shreveport. I’m sure some newspapermen knew about H.L.’s dalliances but for some reason didn’t spill the beans.

Maybe it’s because rich wildcatters live by their own rules and rule number one is always know where friends and enemies hide their skeletons. It seems rule number one applies to the press as well… no exceptions.

The day before Cecelia was buried I was called into my precinct Captain’s office. His instructions were short and sweet. I was to attend Cecelia White’s funeral as a guest, not as an escort. Unlike the movies, a beat cop doesn’t argue with a precinct Captain. Nor does he question the orders. But I did, not quite like in the movies I suppose, but all the same I argued. I wanted to put that night behind me.

Why me Cap, Chief Raines knows these people, I don’t. Let him….

That was young and dumb; what the hell was I thinking? I was talking about the Chief of Police like he was on my level, so I shut up.

In a condescending tone the Captain said, I don’t need to explain a god damn thing to you but I’m going to this one time. Senator Braxton requested your presence. Apparently you said something about friendship to the little girl, and she wants you there... tomorrow 10am at First Baptist followed by graveside at Oaklawn. Dress Blues. That’s it.

But that wasn’t it. It had just begun.

Chapter 3

It took me 6 years, but I’d managed to earn a degree in criminology from North Texas State College and by 1962 I’d gone through the ranks and been promoted to Sergeant- pay grade 1. For me, young and dumb had transitioned into middle aged and dumb. Dumb that I thought hard work and the ability to keep my mouth shut had been the reason for my promotions.

I held this belief until one night, after my shift, I met up with my old partner Riley to have a few drinks at Jack Ruby’s place, The Carousel Club. What you have to remember is that Jack didn’t become famous until 1963. A lot of Cops knew Jack because he loved to buy them drinks so he could hear their war stories. But free is never free and Jack could be a real pain in the ass. Anyway, Riley let it slip that the precinct scuttlebutt was that there were three other guys, with more time in than me, that were pissed for being passed over for the position.

Everyone’s saying that you got the job because someone’s pulling a few strings. Ty, I’ll bet ya I know who it is.

You mean who’s saying this crap?

No man, who’s pullin’ the strings.

C’mon don’t try and sell me this horseshit, you know that’s a load. I’ve worked my butt off.

After taking a long pull off his can of Schlitz, Riley said, Think about it, you chump. Where does most of your off duty work come from? Do you really think you get all of those cush jobs because you’re a dedicated police officer?

I said with rising anger, Gimme a break, you worked a lot of those too.

I looked around and saw that we were being watched because of my loud mouth so I cooled it and took a drink of my JD and water.

After another pull on his beer Riley said, "Listen old buddy, I’m grateful, but it’s you towing me along, not the other way around. You know as well as I do that right now the Senator has you