“Hey, the more the merrier, Levon. This is a spanking new chapter of the Assassins of Youth, so I’m building it from the ground up. I pulled a couple of guys from my Bullhead City chapter, but they couldn’t really spare any more, and I got one guy from a local riding club. The rest’ll have to be Prospects, starting off shining hubcaps.”
I was grateful to Gideon, although I couldn’t really picture Deloy sporting a leather cut, much less steering his own Harley around town. He’d probably be wearing black high-top Converses under his American Eagle Outfitters jeans, vaping on his e-cig. He probably couldn’t resist ironing a patch that said “Does this bike make my ass look fat?” onto his jean jacket vest. And his scoot would probably be a rice rocket. But I should talk. I often drive around with my dog in my sidecar.
“I really appreciate that, brother. I hate to lose Deloy, but I can understand that he wants to move on. Listen. I want to know what you know about a Ladell Pratt.”
Gideon made a sound of disgust. “Pratt? Only that already he’s been the biggest bee in my bonnet, getting in the way of me making any progress here in town. He’s been mayor since ’95 when Chiles was first excommunicated from the mainstream church and came here to set up his fundy compound. Since then, the Avalanche town government hasn’t had a contested election, or even a political campaign.”
“Sounds about right,” I seethed. “Pratt’s a polyg too?”
“I think they all are, the whole town council, the chief of police. Only, of course, they can’t advertise it as freely as they do inside the walls.”
“So, you wouldn’t mind if he suddenly…vanished off the face of the earth.”
Gideon paused. I could understand his predicament. He couldn’t run around condoning taking some guy out when he was trying to build a town for himself. Then again, he hated Pratt, too. “I wouldn’t be too shaken up. You planning to pay us a visit?”
On a cheery note, I said, “I am, matter of fact. Jonah Garff—Dingo—mentioned some investment opportunities. As you can guess, I have some money I’d like to—” I looked around, although of course no one was listening. “Like to clean.”
“Well, come on down, Rockwell! You’re more than welcome. We’re buying up defaulted real estate at rock bottom prices. Houses that’ve never been lived in are going for a song, if you don’t mind nineties interior decorating styles.”
“I was thinking of more like starting a business.”
“Really? Well, come on down, let’s discuss it. Mi casa, su casa. In fact, I can put you up in an empty house I’m buying that’s in escrow. You’ll just have to share it with Mahalia’s sister.”
That sealed the deal for me. It was fate that I’d be thrown together with that priggish, superior bitch. “You know what? Text me Oaklyn’s phone number when you get a chance. That way she won’t be taken by surprise at my coming, and bash me over the head with a candlestick.”
Gideon chuckled. “She is pretty self-righteous, isn’t she? She’ll learn, though, being around my MC. No one’s a star. We all work as a team. A well-oiled team.”
When we hung up, I didn’t text Oaklyn about my arrival. I texted her a poem by Wordsworth. Maybe I wanted to show off my literary leanings., but ever since talking to her, the poem had been stuck in my head. Typing it out helped me cleanse my soul of all doubt about what I was doing, or what I planned to do.
How strange that all
The terrors, pains, and early miseries
Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused
Within my mind should e’er have borne a part,
And that a needful part, in making up
The calm existence that is mine when I
Am worthy of myself!
It was my turn to be smug. Oaklyn would probably have to google it, or she’d wonder who it came from, because I said nothing else.
I had nothing to prove to her. But I wanted her to know that I was fine just the way I was—she would never change me.
CHAPTER THREE
OAKLYN
Avalanche, Utah
It took Giovanni two days to call me back. Almost as long as the VD test results took.
By that time, as usual, I was fuming, a powder keg about to go off. I stood on the back second-story verandah of the house my sister had loaned to me. Pacing ten feet one way, ten feet back, I no longer admired the stunning backdrop of the colorful layers of Zion’s cliffs. For two days I’d been basking in the exquisite, flaming sandstone towers and summits to the east. I could see why Mahalia had decided to stay here, so close to the site of her former torture, the infamous fundamentalist stronghold of Cornucopia. That morning, the sun bouncing off the scarlet rock had been so fiery it had woken me up in a blaze of glory.