Chapter Two: Prospects
Bones
Some people didn’t like gambling being in Holbeck. Lined up along the beach, there were four hotels, each one with a casino floor inside. Being smack dab in the middle of the Bible Belt, it had been quite the cause for concern from the more uptight members of the community.
Occasionally, these people put together a protest, as if it would really change anything. The casinos brought in a lot of money for the town and state. Tourists didn’t just come here for the sandy beaches. No, they came for the chance to win big. It made the casinos a huge and successful industry and no one in the government would be taking them away. Besides, there were plenty of us locals who liked to visit them too.
Still, as I walked toward the Red Stone Hotel, I spotted a group of protesters gathered in front of the building. Most of them were women that looked like soccer moms with their bob haircuts and scowls on their faces. They were all carrying signs that said things like Close Down This Den Of Sin! and Outlaw All Gambling! They were badgering people walking into the hotel, but it didn’t seem to be deterring anyone. A security guard stood by the front doors watching them, but I figured he couldn’t do anything unless they tried to enter the building.
I sidestepped the protesters and they didn’t even try to dissuade me as I went by. I couldn’t help smirking at one of the women as I made eye contact with her. Normally, I didn’t care for the way the world viewed me because I wore my club colors on my back, but this time I found it amusing as the protester gasped and backed up several steps as if I was a serial killer pursuing her, instead of a biker merely walking by.
Entering the building, a reception area for hotel guests to check-in stood front and center. On the other side of the lobby was a nice restaurant, the kind of place with a dress code and a wine list thicker than the menu. You could easily max out a credit card at a place like that. I walked past this, heading for the second floor, which was entirely devoted to the casino.
Everything was brightly colored here, yet the lighting still seemed dark. The only illumination came from the fixtures hanging low over the tables and recessed lighting near the entrances and elevators. There were no windows on this floor and I knew this was a deliberate part of the design. Meant to help the customers stay hyper-focused on gambling. They wouldn’t have any reference to day or night and would probably end up playing longer.
I’d spent enough time in casinos to have picked up on tricks like that.
Glancing around the Red Stone Casino, I looked for Hawk. Also a member of the Rebel Saints, Hawk was the sergeant-at-arms and my closest friend. I trusted him completely, which was good because one of his duties in the club was to act as my bodyguard. I didn’t really need one, but it was a traditional role for his position.
Scanning the craps and blackjack tables, I looked for the patch on the back of his cut-off jacket. The place was full of people. Sunday afternoon and I could spot which customers came here straight from church. They were still in their nice clothes, even as they crowded around the tables, placing their bets and indulging themselves.
Movement at the bar caught my eye. Hawk sat there on a barstool, sipping what was likely bourbon and playing an eight-liner game built into the surface of the bar.
Those games were like the slot machines all lined up in neat rows on the far side of the casino floor, except slot machines only allowed for horizontal item matches. Eight-liner machines could also be vertical or diagonal. There were more ways to win these games… all digital.
I approached Hawk.
He seemed busy feeding coins into the game and pushing a button to make the screen reset with new items to be lined up.
I took a seat on the stool next to him.
The bartender appeared a moment later, her smile as flawless as her cleavage, which was on full display. “What can I get for you, sugar?” she asked, keeping her hands busy by wiping down the bar between us.
“I’m good,” I said. I owned the club’s bar, so if I wanted to drink, I usually did it there. I didn’t come to the Red Stone for that.
When she walked away, I turned to Hawk. “Where is this guy?”
Hawk had asked me to come here to meet a man who wanted to join the club, a prospect. Every biker wanting to join the club had to meet certain criteria. For one thing, only men were allowed. Some clubs were more progressive and allowed women to become members, but Rebel Saints was still only a boy’s club. I would be open to changing if the rest of the members voted to do so. Prospects also had to ride and own a bike. That seemed obvious, but I’d learned over the years not to take anything for granted. The person also had to be at least twenty-one.
That was about it as far as criteria to be considered for membership, but prospects had to prove themselves. It took a majority vote of all club members to make a prospect a full member with a period of initiation first. The prospect would perform whatever tasks the club required for six months, then we would vote. In the time since the club had been around, we’d never voted against a prospect becoming a member, but there had been a few instances where prospects backed out. Some people thought they knew what it was like to be a part of a motorcycle club. They romanticized the lifestyle, but they changed their minds when it turned out to be different from what they expected.
Being in a motorcycle club was about brotherhood. We weren’t just a bunch of guys who liked to ride motorcycles and drink beer. The guys in the club were like family to me. We had each other’s backs and that meant something to all of us.
“Charlie ran to the bathroom,” Hawk said. “He’ll be right back.”
“How do you know this kid?”
Prospects had to be sponsored by a club member and this was the first time Hawk had ever done it. He’d always been particular about the people he stuck his neck out for, so I was interested to meet this man he was willing to sponsor.
“I knew Charlie’s brother back when I did time.”
This news made me sit up and pay attention. Hawk hardly ever talked about the three years he was put away. He had gotten into trouble with a couple of other teenagers when he was nineteen, breaking into empty houses when the owners were at work and stealing anything of value that they could sell to a pawn shop. It had been stupid, but he was an impulsive kid that needed money to pay for college. The group got away with it for a long time and eventually, they got cocky.
When they broke into the mayor’s house, they finally got caught. The others were seventeen, so they were tried as minors, but the mayor went on a crusade against Hawk, demanding that the justice system make an example of him.
The younger kids got community service while Hawk did time. It was bullshit.
“Was he your cellmate?” I asked.