Page 65 of Iron Heart
When Savannah tells me the Lords of Carnage own a garage called Ironwood Car and Truck Repair on the south side of town, I know I have my way to get a closer look at Dante’s club.
I have no idea what I’m looking for, or what I think I’m going to learn from going to where the Lords of Carnage do their business. I’d have to be stupid to think the garage is the only thing they have their hands in. But I can’t let that scene with Dom and those rough-looking strangers go, until I have at least investigated a little bit.
I’ll be honest, this is the most interesting lead I’ve worked on since I move to Ironwood — which means it’s the most interesting lead I’ve ever worked on. Too bad it’s never going to translate into a story. I’d never write anything exposing Dante or his club, no matter what I find out. We may not have ended on the best of terms, but I care about him much more than that.
I think I might even have been on the verge of falling in love with him.
I don’t know the first thing about cars, except how to open up the oil reservoir to add another quart. The first thing I do is spend about an hour on YouTube, looking for ways to create a car problem that’s serious enough to need fixing, but not so serious that I can’t drive my car to the garage — or that will cost an arm and a leg to repair.
I finally chance on the perfect scenario: a broken compressor belt on the air conditioner. Easy enough to cut the belt with a strong pair of scissors and remove it. If I’m lucky, the mechanic will probably just assume it broke on its own, and that it’s lying in the road somewhere.
I find a video that shows how to replace an air conditioner belt on my Honda Civic, and watch the beginning a couple of times, so I make sure I’m not going to cut some other belt by mistake. Then I go outside, pop my hood, and do the deed. I get in my car and turn on the ignition. The warm blast of the fan hits me through the vents and doesn’t get cooler. Success!
Still sitting in the driver’s seat, I look up the number for Ironwood Car and Truck Repair, and make an appointment for the next day.
When I get to the address, I see a chain link fence around a large compound. To the right, there’s a building that’s obviously the garage. The bay doors are open, and at least one car is up on a lift. Men are milling around, some holding tools. To the left of the garage, there’s an area that looks like it has been the scene of a recent fire. A pile of half-melted tires sits next to what used to be a large propane tank or something like it. The ground around the tank is scorched and black. My brows knit together, wondering what happened.
Across the cement lot on the other side is a larger building. It looks like a big warehouse, except for a small front door and more windows than warehouses usually have. I wonder if that’s the Lords of Carnage clubhouse. As I watch it, a couple of men in leather vests that look like Dante’s come out of the door and head over to a row of Harleys to their left.
I pull closer, toward a large gate in the fence, more than two car widths wide. The gate is standing wide open, but it’s guarded by a large twenty-something guy with a receding hairline, layered with tattoos. He’s got a leather vest on similar to the one Dante wears, but with fewer patches. One on his left pec is one that announces, “Prospect.”
Driving slowly, I stop my car even with him and say through my open window, “I have an appointment to get my car fixed.”
I’m weirdly nervous, even though technically I’m not lying. The guy with the prospect patch scrutinizes me for a second, and then gives me a broad grin that clashes oddly with his leather and tattoos.
“Go on in,” he tells me, motioning toward the garage. “Just pull up behind one of the bays and one of the guys will take care of you. There’s a waiting room through that door for maxin’ and relaxin’ while they’re fixin’ your car.”
“Uh, okay, thanks,” I reply, and do as he says.
Once I’ve stopped my car just outside the garage and put it in park, it occurs to me for the first time that I might easily run into Dante here. Something I frankly do not want to do. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m some sort of stalker.
A man comes out to check me in, and thankfully I don’t recognize him. I tell him my air conditioning seems to be out, give him my keys, and scurry to the waiting room that the prospect indicated. It’s almost deserted except for a bald fifty-something man with a long ponytail, reading the paper. He barely looks up at me, and I give him a nod and take a seat by the windows that look out onto the side yard.
From here I have a better view of the fire damage to the large tank and the half-melted tires. The area is pretty tidy otherwise, which leads me to conclude the fire was probably a recent event. I stare off into space for a while, watching people come and go from the main door of what I’ve concluded is their clubhouse. None of them is Dante, thankfully.
Except for the guard at the main gate, no one seems to be paying much attention to who’s coming and going. After a few more minutes, I stand up nonchalantly and go outside. Even though I’m the only woman in sight, I’m pretty much ignored, at least at the moment. I wander around a little, making a show of stretching my legs, and being careful not to go too far. I don’t want any of the bikers to see me and get suspicious of what I’m doing here.
I saunter over to the burned-out tank, checking it out while pretending I’m not really checking it out. The first thing I notice is that there’s actually a sizable hole blown into it. Like it’s been shot by a huge bullet or something. It’s really odd, and more than a little alarming. I don’t see how that could have been made by anything except for something really powerful being aimed at it.
My God. What if Dante had been close to that thing when it blew?He could have been burned to a crisp. Or worse. My brain flashes on a horrible image of him in a hospital bed, third-degree burns all over his body, writhing in agony. I squeeze my eyes shut and squinch up my face, forcing myself to think of something else.
“You lookin’ for something?”
A deep, suspicious-sounding voice makes my eyes fly open in alarm. Heart pounding, I turn around to see a large, stone-faced Lord of Carnage staring down at me. In a haze of adrenaline, I realize I’ve seen him before. He was the one who was with Dante and his brother Dom that day in the parking lot. Ranger, I think his name was, or something like it.
“Hi!” I bleat, like an idiot. “No, not at all! I’m just waiting for my car to be fixed. The air conditioner’s out. Anyway, I just got sick of waiting around in the waiting room, so I decided to come out here and stretch my legs.” I pull in a deep breath, then nod at the gas tank. “Gosh, that must have been scary when that blew, huh?”
Ranger’s eyes flick toward the tank, then back at me. He moves his large body one step to the side, effectively blocking my path. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. His message is clear:This area off limits.
“Anyway,” I say hastily, “I have some phone calls to make. I guess I’ll head back inside.”
Ranger’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You do that.”
Giving him a too-wide, awkward grin, I spin on my heels and start to head back toward the waiting room. Just as I do, the sound of an engine catches my attention over toward the gate. The prospect guarding the entrance steps aside and raises his hand in a one-finger wave at a truck pulling into the lot.
It’s Dom’s refrigerator truck.
Ducking my head before he can see me, I go back inside and quickly perch back at my seat by the window. I watch as he drives past, his familiar face just visible through the windshield. He drives through the lot, passing Ranger and the gas tank and tire pile, then keeps going toward the back, until I can’t see it anymore. I strain my ears to listen as the sound of his engine gets softer, then eventually cuts out.