In the Cut: SpoCompton, #2

By Frank Zafiro

Boone has been prospecting with the Iron Brotherhood outlaw motorcycle gang for almost a year, trying to earn his patch with the club. When a simple muscle job goes terribly wrong, his world changes forever. He is quickly plunged deeper into a world of drug and intimidation, and the lines between right and wrong blur. The bonds of brotherhood that he forges with other members clash with the dark actions they take. His girlfriend, Faith, represents a danger of another kind, but Boone can't stop himself where she is concerned, either.

When someone closest to him dies, and rampant rumors of a rat in the clubhouse puts everyone in danger, Boone comes to learn what it really means to live his life…in the cut. 

 

Authors note:  A "cut" is that leather vest that outlaw motorcycle gangmembers wear. It usually has a rocker on the back with the club name and city/region.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Code 4 Press
• Release date: Apr 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9798224638352

Frank Zafiro

Frank Zafiro was a police officer from 1993 to 2013. He is the author of more than two dozen crime novels. In addition to writing, Frank is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. He lives in Redmond, Oregon.  

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

In the Cut

About the Author

Books by the Author

For my running buddies long ago, Jarku and Kirku

Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom

—Aristotle

1

Rolling up on trouble shouldn’t feel so cold.

The cool night came after a day that had been unseasonably warm. Boone still wore nothing under his cut but a black cotton T-shirt with Black Label Society emblazoned on the front. On the ride over, the crisp air slashed through the thin fabric and made him shiver. At least the heavy leather vest didn’t flap too badly in the wind.

They pulled to a stop outside of Evan’s house and killed their engines. A.C. dropped his hog onto the low kickstand, then rubbed his upper arms. What the hell? he muttered. It’s August, not October.

That gave Boone an excuse to give his own arms a quick rub. I dunno, he said. It’s like the desert. Hot day, cold night.

Fucking Spokane, A.C. grumbled.

A.C. was from California, or so he said. The story he’d told Boone was that his mother brought him up to Washington when he was still in grade school, but that story changed, too, whenever it seemed to fit. Sometimes A.C. acted like he had just rolled into town a week ago, fresh from Redondo Beach.

Yeah, Boone agreed, because agreeing with the guy was the safest choice.

A.C. stood on the sidewalk, looking at the house. You think the dude’s home?

Only one way to find out.

True enough. Let’s take a look.

Boone took a step toward the front door, but A.C. put out his arm. Take the back, he told Boone. Just in case.

All right.

Good prospect, he said, and patted him on the head.

Boone clenched his jaw and endured it. As he started toward the back of Evan’s house, though, he couldn’t resist saying something. We should really have three guys for this.

A.C. scowled after him. Don’t be such a pussy. It’s one guy. And he’s small.

It doesn’t matter how big he is if he has a gun, Boone thought, but didn’t bother saying that to A.C. The guy was always right. Just ask him.

Evan’s back yard had a chain link fence with no gate, but Boone hopped it easily. He didn’t worry about a dog. Evan used to have one, but it had belonged to his girlfriend, and she bailed on him last week. That didn’t mean there still couldn’t be dog bombs in the yard, but there was nothing Boone could do about it. The light from the street didn’t reach into the back yard, and the house itself was pitch dark.

Boone took it slow so he didn’t trip over a hose or twist an ankle somehow. Evan’s little cracker box of a house had a strange design, with the back door located on the side, but almost all the way to the corner. Boone was almost to it when he heard A.C. pounding on the front door.

Evan! Open up!

There was no reply from inside the house. Boone reached the side door and paused, listening.

A.C. pounded some more. Evan, open the goddamn door! We gotta talk.

More silence.

A.C. stopped knocking, and Boone knew he was listening, too. He put the odds at even as to whether A.C. knocked again or just booted the door.

Boone wiped his palms on his jeans. Then he checked the gun at the small of his back. The cool metal was reassuring but filled him with dread at the same time.

Evan! A.C. knocked again. You’re pissing me off, boy!

Boone heard a shuffling sound inside the house. He had a momentary vision of a crazed mouse scrambling from under a washing machine. Then the back door opened.

Boone could vaguely make out Evan’s slight, shadowy form in the doorway. His eyes shone brightly, though.

He took a step in his direction before he realized Boone was there. Then he lurched to a stop. Shit!

Evan, stop.

Instead, Evan turned and bolted back into the house.

Shit, Boone muttered. He jerked the pistol from his waistline and chased him. Back here, A.C.! Boone yelled as he plunged into the dark house.

Boone tried to remember the layout of the place. He knew the door led directly into the kitchen. Even if he hadn’t known, the smell of rotting food and old grease would have given it away. He tried to follow Evan but right away crashed into his kitchen table, sending one of the lightweight chairs sailing across the room and into the cabinets. Boone cursed and righted himself.

This is bullshit, he muttered. He wasn’t going to chase Evan in the dark, in his own house. The other man had every advantage. Instead, Boone felt around the kitchen for a light switch, found it near the opening to the living room, and flipped it.

A weak, sputtering light appeared above the kitchen table. It wasn’t much, but it was way better than what Boone had before. He crept toward the opening to the living room and did a quick head check, peeking around the corner. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was empty. Of course, Evan could have ducked behind the couch and he’d never know.

Holding the gun out in front of him, Boone stepped into the living room. As he moved through it, he scanned the room, looking for movement or a pair of eyeballs staring back at him. He didn’t see either.

When Boone got to the front door, He found a kitchen chair jammed up underneath the knob.

Expecting us, Evan? he asked the empty room.

He moved the chair aside and unlocked the front door. A.C. stood in the doorway, a crooked grin on his face. Will you go to the prom with me?

Boone ignored his antics. He’s gotta be in the back.

He stepped inside. Not much of a back to this place, is there?

Not really, no. A bathroom and a bedroom is it.

He made a sweeping gesture. Well, lead on, prospect.

Boone nodded, turned and headed toward the short hallway. The bathroom was about one step in and on the right. The door was shut. Another step straight ahead stood the bedroom door. That door stood half-open.

Hold on, A.C. said. He fiddled with a floor lamp for a second. Then light flooded the living room. A.C. tilted the lamp, pointing it past Boone. Light sliced into the dark of the bedroom. You see anything?

Boone peered in but saw nothing. He looked at A.C. and shook his head.

A.C. took out his Colt and trained it on the bathroom door. Try the bedroom. I’ll watch the bathroom.

Boone didn’t like walking past a room they hadn’t checked, closed door or not. But A.C. had already taken up a position along the wall, and besides, he was a full patch member. That meant he was boss. Boone lowered himself into a squat and stepped past the bathroom door in two swift, shuffling steps.

You look like a crab, A.C. joked.

Boone ignored him. He stayed low, extending his gun out in front of him. With a nudge of his foot, he pushed open the bedroom door. The hinges let out a loud steady squeal until the doorknob bumped against the far wall. Light from the living room rushed in.

Nothing.

Evan? Boone called. Come on out. We’re not going to hurt you.

No answer.

Boone reached around the doorjamb and fumbled for a light switch. He found it, flicked it on. Weak, yellow light filled the small room. Boone scanned for hiding places. There were only two. Under the bed and in the closet.

Leveling the gun along the floor, Boone lowered his cheek to the musty carpet. The space under the bed was empty. That left the closet.

Behind him, A.C. grunted in impatience. Boone continued to ignore him and made his way toward the closet as quietly as he could. Floorboards creaked below his boots.

I’m an elephant, Boone thought. Evan wouldn’t even need to see him to shoot him. He could just point in the general direction of tramping feet and open fire.

The closet consisted of a pair of sliding panels. Boone crouched down again, and covered the closest panel with the gun. In a swift motion, Boone slid it aside, looking for feet, eyes, or the barrel of a gun inside.

Nothing.

He’s in the bathroom, Boone called to A.C.

"Ev-uuuhn! A.C. yelled, pounding on the door with the heel of his hand. You open this door or I swear to Christ, I’ll put a hundred rounds through it. Your girlfriend won’t recognize you at the funeral."

There was a pause. Boone crossed the bedroom and stood near the bathroom. A.C. leaned forward as if he were going to shoot, but right then Evan’s nasally voice came through the door. You promise you’re not going to hurt me?

No, A.C. said. But I promise not to kill you.

Another pause while Evan thought it over. Finally, about the time Boone thought A.C. was going to open fire, the knob of the bathroom jiggled and the door swung open.

Hey, guys, Evan said, with a worried smile. What’s up?

A.C. didn’t answer. He grabbed Evan by the front of his shirt and jerked him out of the bathroom. C’mere, he grunted, walking Evan down the hallway, then tossing him into the living room.

The little dope dealer landed heavily on the thick living room carpet, letting out a squeal.

Take care of this, A.C. said.

Boone stuck the gun into his waistband at the small of his back and took a step toward Evan.

Wait! Evan yelled.

Boone hesitated.

No more waiting, you little prick, A.C. said. No more chances.

Boone took another step toward Evan.

He held up his hands. No, man. Hold on, hold on.

Boone kicked the bottom of his sock-clad foot, making Evan jump in surprise and pain. He scrambled backward, trying to get to his feet. Boone almost teased A.C. about who looked like a crab now, but knew the time for joking was past them. Besides, Evan hit the far wall with his upper back and shoulders and slid down to a sitting position. He stared at both of them, waiting expectantly.

Time to put the fear of the club into him.

How’re sales, Evan? Boone growled, mostly for A.C.’s sake. Boone knew he was watching to see how well he’d do. As a prospect, most of the weight he’d carried up until now had been light stuff. This was going to be his first real beating, and A.C. would be paying attention.

Evan swallowed nervously. Uh…slow?

Slow? Really?

Yeah, he squeaked, then cleared his throat. People seem to be taking a break from crank, you know?

People don’t take breaks from crank.

Evan gave him a weak shrug. I dunno. That’s the free market, I guess.

We’re not here about the crank, A.C. said from behind them. We’re here about your side business.

Evan’s face fell. Aw, Jesus. You guys know about that?

Boone nodded. Of course we do. We’re not stupid. Boone leaned forward. Like you.

It’s only H, man, he pleaded. It’s not crank. I didn’t know the club had any interest in H.

Yeah, well, that’s the problem. We do. Boone jabbed a finger at him. And you didn’t ask.

I’m sorry, Evan whined. Boone could smell the acrid odor of his sweat. Jesus, it’s not crank, right? It’s goddamn H.

H is the new crank, Boone told him. What’s old is new again.

Since when?

Since the club fucking said so. Boone shrugged. "Everything goes in cycles, Evan. You should keep up on things like that. That’s how the free market works."

Evan nodded vigorously, standing up. Yeah, you’re right, man. I should keep up. I really should. He held out his hands, placating. "But I didn’t know before. Now I do."

Boone grabbed a handful of Evan’s stringy, greasy hair and hauled him to his feet. Timing is everything, buttercup. You’re too late.

No, I—

Boone’s punch snapped into Evan’s mouth, catching the tip of his nose in the process. He short-stroked it, sacrificing the wind up in favor of speed and surprise. It worked. Evan’s eyes watered and became momentarily unfocused. He let out a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a sigh.

Boone reached back and drove another punch, this time into the mid-section. The blow caught Evan perfectly, and his breath whooshed out in a wet, wheezing rush. His knees gave out, and suddenly his body became dead weight. Boone tried to hold him up but couldn’t. Evan collapsed to the floor.

Jesus, Boone, A.C. said, disgusted. Two punches? That’s light.

I’m not finished.

Then why’d you let him go?

You ever try to hold a hundred and fifty pounds of shit at an arm’s length?

I do it every time I hit the gym. And watch your tone with me, prospect. He motioned toward Evan. Stop making pansy excuses and finish what you started.

Boone turned back to Evan, who was crumpled in a ball up against the wall. Up, Boone told him. Don’t make me lift you.

He saw a flash of movement come from Evan’s pocket. His hand was coming out, but it wasn’t empty. The blur of silver sent a spike of adrenaline through him.

Gun! Boone yelled to A.C.

Instinctively, Boone leapt to the side and yanked out his own gun. Evan pointed the small pistol directly at A.C.

Boone fired twice. The thirty-eight barked sharply in his hands and fell silent.

The bullets struck Evan in the chest. The result was nothing dramatic, not at all like he’d seen in all the movies. Evan only let out a small, muted cry before his hand dropped. He seemed to shrink in on himself a little, and went still. That was it.

But Boone knew he was dead.

Holy shit, A.C. said.

Boone couldn’t stop looking at Evan’s motionless form. The stench of his sweat and blood filled his nostrils.

We’ve got to get out of here, A.C. said.

Boone tore his eyes from Evan and met his gaze. He’s dead, Boone said.

Now! A.C. barked.

He grabbed Boone by the shirt sleeve and pulled him toward the front door. As they passed the light switch, he flicked it off. They stepped through the momentary blackness. Then the door swung open in front of him, and the cool night air rushed in.

It was fresh, so fresh.

Let’s go, A.C. said, and this time, he’d lowered his voice.

They made for the bikes.

2

I gotta get out of town, man, Boone told A.C.

They were at Tooley’s house in Hillyard. They’d made straight for it when they left Evan’s, risking the arterials to get there quicker. His back yard was open to the alley, so they were able to pull right up to his back door and park the bikes there, out of sight from the street.

Tooley was sitting out on his front porch, sipping a beer and watching for the cops. A.C. and Boone stood in Tooley’s kitchen.

Probably, A.C. agreed.

"Definitely. I just killed a guy."

I know, dickweed. I was there. He flipped open his pre-paid phone. But you’re not going anywhere until I talk to Smiley.

Boone nodded. That made sense. All right. But be careful what you say over the phone.

A.C. gave him a withering look. This ain’t my first rodeo, cowgirl. He dialed the phone and waited. After what seemed like forever, he spoke. Hey, it’s me.

Silence.

Yeah, A.C. said. We took care of it. But things went a little sideways.

Another silence.

Yeah, like that.

More silence.

No, not me. The other one.

Boone watched A.C’s impassive face while he listened to Smiley on the other end of the connection.

Yeah, okay. I’ll tell him. Yeah, bye.

A.C. hung up and looked at him. Smiley says that you getting out of town is a good idea. You got your pre-paid?

Boone tapped his front jeans pocket. The hard plastic flip-phone was there. Yeah.

All right. Head out, and give it a couple of days. I’ll call you when it’s clear.

Got it. Boone started for the door.

Hey, A.C. called to him.

Boone stopped. Yeah?

He gave him a hard look. Don’t go home. Head straight out.

I know.

You got cash?

Boone shrugged. Some.

Enough?

Boone shrugged again.

A.C. reached into his pocket and pulled out his roll. He flipped expertly through the cash, peeled off some bills and held them out to him. Gas and motel money, he said.

Thanks.

Good luck, brother.

Boone nodded to him and headed for the front door.

On the porch, Tooley gave him a nod that was part acknowledgement, part dismissal.

No cops?

Nope.

Boone thanked him, walked around the side of the house, through the gate and into the back yard. His bike started up with a fiery roar, and Boone headed out.

The Spokane River ran high and fast this time of year. Boone parked his bike and walked down to the observation point. Dark brown and black rocks lined the pathway. Subdued solar lights lit up the sidewalk.

No one else was around. Boone checked all directions before he hurled the pistol down into the churning current. The roar of the falls upriver drowned out any sound of the metal hitting the water, but thanks to the