“So, are we finally going to talk about this?”
Wolf was staring at Bruf in the intimidating way that he didn’t even realize he had about him. Bruf didn’t want to talk about it. He’d gone most of his life not talking about it, and he’d even made up some stupid-ass story about his father being in the service and the family being stationed in England when he was born. That story was what he told the kids at school when he finally started at the age of ten years old...barely able to read and write at a kindergarten level. The other kids accepted that he was behind because he was a foreigner, and he didn’t get the same kind of torture he might have if he were just “slow” or if they knew the real story. His brother never went to school, and had his parents lived, Bruf wouldn’t have either.
At times he was able to go days or even weeks without thinking about the past. As he got older, it hurt less, and the rage that consumed him when he thought about his parents had begun to lessen. But since Wolf was cleared of murder charges thanks to the efforts of his brother...the General, aka Commander in Chief of the Brotherhood of the White Owls...he supposed he wasn’t going to be able to get out of talking about it any longer. The last time he talked about it was with Coyote, when he was eighteen years old and wanted nothing more in his life than to become a prospect for the Westside Skulls.
Bruf sat in the chair across from Wolf’s desk in the clubhouse office and stretched his long legs out in front of him. He sat there silently for a few minutes and then drew up his legs, rested his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his face like he was trying to wake himself up. “What do you want to know?”
Wolf cocked an eyebrow at him, folded his arms and said, “How about you just start at the beginning...”
Bruf chuckled and said, “Okay, in 1990 a child was born...”
“Spare me the smartass.”
“Sorry, Boss.” He sighed. “I hate this shit. My parents were...different. They lived off the grid, paranoid about everything...the government, school, fucking everything. My brother was ten years old when I was born. He was the only child for a long time. He grew up in the fog of all the pot they were smoking and acid they were dropping. It sounds bad, and I guess it was, but the thing is, they really weren’t bad people. They weren’t mean, and they loved us. Some people just aren’t cut out to be parents, and there were no two people that were cut out for it less than mine. The thing was, they were just scared of life and confused about how to integrate into society. I’m sure all the drugs didn’t help, but that was how they coped. We lived up in the mountains around Squaw Valley and my brother spent most of his time just running free in the woods. He was wild, like he’d been raised by wolves. By the time I came along, our parents had aged, and calmed down some. They’d stopped using the hard drugs, but they still supported us by growing some good weed, and they were smoking plenty of it. It was ultimately what killed them.”
He stopped talking. That was the easy part of the story. He had to delve down deep to get the rest out. Before he started talking again Wolf said, “Weed killed them?”
“Sort of. My dad invented this solar panel watering system for their greenhouse. It was revolutionary, really...if he’d sold it, they would have been rich. The weed grew something like three times faster than normal, and Mom and me, and sometimes my brother when he was around, would harvest and package it when it was ready. Dad would take it down the hill and sell it. I never knew who he sold it to, but one day, they followed him home. And that night, the whole crew showed up with a van and started emptying out the greenhouse. Dad got up in time to catch them loading the last of the plants. My parents were hippies and even though they didn’t trust anyone, they were very nonviolent. They didn’t have a gun and to this day I don’t know what he was thinking. He confronted them, unarmed, and they shot him...in the face. Mom ran out screaming and they shot her too. They never saw me, or I’m sure they would have killed me as well.”
“Oh fuck, brother, I’m sorry.” Wolf had a deep crease between his brows and it was evident that his heart hurt for his sergeant at arms. That was exactly what Bruf didn’t want. He didn’t want sympathy. He didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for him. Despite the way he’d been raised and what he’d seen that night, he had managed to grow up, do a short stint in the army, and find a home with the Skulls. He was content with his life, for the most part.
“Thanks,” Bruf said. “It was a long time ago.”
“How old were you?”
“About nine. I sat there with their bodies until my brother showed back up three days later. I told him we should call somebody, but he was as paranoid, if not more so, as they were. We dug two holes...”
“Ah Jesus...fuck, man...I’m sorry I made you talk about this...”
Bruf waved him off. “It’s okay, I should have told you a long time ago. We buried them and then my brother sat me down and made me tell him everything I saw. It wasn’t much. There were five guys, they were all black, and they were wearing red bandannas underneath their ball caps, and red or white t-shirts...My brother took that, and his paranoia warped further into a racist hate. He gathered his friends, all a bunch of mountain people and of the same mind as he was, and they went looking for these guys. Back in the 90s the gangs in Fresno were bad. I heard there were something like thirty-two gangs at that time...well, you lived it; the MC was right in the middle of a lot of those turf wars.”
Wolf nodded. “Yeah, there were something like six to seven hundred gang members back in the 90s and that’s not counting us.”
Bruf winked and grinned. “That’s because we’re a club, not a gang.”
“Damn straight,” Wolf said with a smile.
Bruf’s smile fell then and he said:
“My brother lost it. He started killing black guys...any black guy he saw dressed in red, whether he was a gang-banger or not. His friends were like a little militia and they backed him up and did some killing of their own. Ediger...”
“Is that his first name?” Wolf interrupted. “I’m sorry, this whole time I thought it was his last name.”
“Yeah, he just goes by ‘Ediger’ now...thinks he’s too fucking famous for a last name. Anyways, Ediger and a few of the guys got arrested one night. They got picked up on a routine traffic stop with a lot of drugs on them and automatic weapons and shit. He did time and I ended up in the foster care system. By the time he got out, I was sixteen, and he had built one hell of a following. He took me out of the foster home and out of school. We moved up to this big-ass piece of land way up in the Sierras. Ediger said it was his, that he’d bought it. I had no idea where or how he came up with the money to buy a piece of real estate like that but he kind of scared me back then, so I didn’t ask. For a couple of years, I played the role of the general’s brother. They taught me how to shoot to kill, how to wire explosives, grow my own food...and a lot of other things you can only imagine. Ediger wasn’t happy when I joined the army...and that’s putting it mildly. I ran off and did it, without telling him, but the first time I came home on leave...well, let’s just say I was lucky to still be breathing when they got done with me.”
“Your brother let them beat you up?”
Bruf chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “Hell, Ediger never has anyone do anything he’s not willing to do himself. He got in some of the better shots. They dumped me behind the recruiting office in town and left me there, either for dead or to be found. I was found, spent about a month in the hospital, and got a medical discharge from the army. I was out about two days when I met Coyote and some of the guys at Spirits one night. Coyote and I played a few rounds of pool and I just remember thinking that maybe the MC life was my calling. They were anti-government involvement in their lives, but not so paranoid that they couldn’t function in society. They grouped together by race but weren’t so bigoted that they couldn’t tolerate another race. It was some of what I was taught, but much milder.
“That night I told Coyote my story and he invited me to the clubhouse. I think that next day was when I met you...and you know the rest of my story. As far as my brother and that mess up there goes, their goal is to become independent of the government and society...but Ediger hasn’t figured out quite how to cut the rest of the world off completely yet. Sometimes I think about Jim Jones and Guyana when I talk to my brother. That crazy preacher got those people to drink the Kool-Aid because he knew they’d never be able to escape completely any other way. My brother is smart, practically a genius...but his fuse is about a millimeter long and if it gets lit, look out, because there’s gonna be one hell of an explosion.”
“They ever get any of them for the gang murders? I was just a kid, but I seem to remember when all that was going on...the gang wars...Coyote had the club lying low during that time.”
“Nah, never could pin anything on any of them. They’ve had them on all the watch lists for years, but haven’t ever been able to get them on anything; it’s why that DA got so excited at the idea you might have been able to get something on them.”
“So why did your brother help? I mean, he has to know that...how bad she wants them, right?”
Bruf nodded. “He said he’d give me that information...and then I’d owe him something in return.”
“Fuck,” Wolf said, running his hand through his beard. “Brother or not, that’s not a guy I’d want to be indebted to.”
Bruf laughed softly again and said, “Me neither, and he’s my own blood.”
“You should have told me that before I accepted the deal.”
“Nah, because then you wouldn’t have accepted.”
“Damn right. I wasn’t lookin’ to make any trouble for you.”
“And you didn’t. I’ll weigh whatever favor Ediger ends up asking me for, before I agree to his terms, or make any kind of decision...and I’ll run it by you first, Boss. It could be years before he comes up with something.” Wolf looked worried, but he nodded and said:
“Did they ever get the right guys? The ones that killed your parents?”
“They got one of them, the one that shot our dad. The other one, the one that killed Mom...he’s still out there.”
“Can I ask how you know that for sure?”
“Because he had a tattoo of a bulldog on his neck. I saw it plain as day the night he killed her...and then I saw it again, just a few weeks ago.”
Wolf raised an eyebrow but waited for Bruf to go on. When he didn’t, Wolf finally asked him, “Did you tell your brother you saw him?”
Bruf shook his head, slowly and then with an intense look of his own he said, “No. That one’s mine.”
