Jinx (Kings of Carnage MC) - Chelsea Camaron Page 0,7
when I would normally already be on my way out of the door.
Efficient.
Effective.
This is how I like it. I don’t need to have some bullshit conversation where he asks me how I’m doing when I know he doesn’t give a shit, just as much as I don’t give a fuck about his day. Business is business. This is a transaction, and then we move on. Typically, I would walk right back out the door without the need for a conversation.
Except today, there is no simple exchange. We have a problem.
I shoot the information in a text to Sly who waits on the property with North in a full size blacked out van so we can load up.
“Chuck,” I say his name and watch as he lifts his head, no doubt to meet my stare. With my sunglasses on, he can’t read my expression.
“Jinx,” he replies with a crack in his voice. “Is there a problem?”
I shake my head, “Not yet, but there could be.”
He drops his half-eaten sandwich to his plate as his face pales. “What is it?”
“Rail Wreckers are back. Told you last time, that shit doesn’t touch my shit.”
He’s the one to shake his head now. “Jinx, I can’t control those kids. They got nowhere to go. Most ain’t got no family. They don’t get into the boxcars that are yours, I make sure before I pull out those are loaded and locked up tight. No one touches Kings merch.”
Aw, isn’t he fucking cute feeling sorry for the assholes. I don’t give a fuck about their lack of a home or a job, that’s not my problem, that’s on them. My sympathy simply doesn’t exist. “I want them gone.”
“It’s not that simple, Jinx.”
I don’t repeat myself. Frankly, having to restate anything pisses me off almost as much as a case of blue balls. “You got twenty-four hours, Chuck. It’s them or you.”
I don’t wait for him to respond or try to negotiate. I leave the office and get back to business because in the end, everything is about the Kings for me.
Making my way to the cargo car, I mentally start breaking down the order. One pallet is cocaine. A brick is one kilo, a kilo earns roughly twenty-thousand dollars on the street. A pallet is worth about ten million if we just sold it. But the power in supplying it to rivals and gangs gives us an upper-hand at all times. So, not only is the white powder our biggest profit, it’s also our easiest item to trade. Once someone snorts, smokes, or shoots the shit, it’s gone. They don’t pay, then it’s an easy marker to the Kings. Sometimes those markers are worth more than any amount of cash.
The pallet of guns in this car, well, all AR-15s. While we will strip the guns and keep half for our armory, the other portion gets sold to the street. There is also a pallet of ammunition. A pallet of batteries, a half-pallet of pharmaceutical supplies that will be used to manufacture meth, and the final pallet of non-perishable food will be distributed to the food bank in the upper east side where the people line up each week for a paper bag of food that will hold them over for another week, but only if they are one of the precious few to get the goods. Since finding out about the shortage in supplies, the Kings have been dropping these off anonymously every week to help serve more people in our community.
There isn’t a single item in this order that doesn’t have a value of some sort. As I approach the train car, I pull my gloves from my back pocket and put them on. At the doors, I retrieve the key to the lock and get the doors open. North immediately jumps up and begins to cut into the shrink wrap as Sly makes his way into the fold. We have a system, the three of us, and it’s something I swear we could do in our sleep.
If Sly or North can’t make it to help me, Bash or Chaos step in. Bash is the club VP, and while he and I work a lot of deals together, I prefer he stay close to the Prez. We’re all better together than alone. Safety in numbers and all that bullshit.
Getting the shit offloaded into the van, we work quietly. Sly will get the items distributed appropriately. The coke will go out to the dealers Bash and I