From Chapter 1
Even though the Chief was nearly broke, it felt good to have his mother with him, back in Atlanta, where there was no presence of the Mafia. He had a restaurant called the Chief's Hideaway that he built out of a house he had bought along side the Chatahoochie River.
The Hideaway sat on about five acres of land that was covered with heavy woods and reminded the Chief of his grandfather's mountain, in South Dakota. He had gone into the country, where he offered to tear down and haul away several old barns, using the wood to quadruple the size of the house, and line the inside and outside of the walls with the old, weather beaten planks.
The house had been built on a slope leading down to the river. The Chief connected a two-level structure to the rear of the house, with huge bay window spanning across both levels of the back, overlooking the river. He added a breezeway that stretched halfway across the front of the building, and had a large waterfall pouring down the center, with several types of exotic plants growing on each side of it.
The inside was dimly lit with antique lamps. The barn wood walls were decorated with old Indian weapons, gold mining tools and several mounted animals that he and his friends in the Tribe had shot. They had hollowed out the middle of the house and built a bar that filled the center of the main room. There was a fireplace off to the side with a sofa and a couple recliners huddled around it. The master bedroom had been converted into a poolroom, and pool sharks hung out there trying to take the Chief's money.
Though a large part of the clientele was gamblers, prostitutes and dope dealers, a lot of descent people went there on a daily basis. It wasn't just because the Chief had the best French chef in Atlanta, and people would wait for hours to eat his crÍpes. Nor was it because you could get a twelve ounce New York strip for eight ninety-five, or even because it had the strongest drinks on the northwest side of Atlanta. The place had an aura. It revolved around the Chief. Something about him and the Hideaway attracted people. There was always something exciting going on and you never could tell what was going to happen next.
The Chief had made over two hundred thousand dollars in the previous year selling marijuana. He'd been getting Columbian reefer from his new friend Nick down in Florida for two hundred fifty dollars a pound, and selling it in Atlanta for two seventy. He wasn't making much profit per pound, but he was moving between two and five hundred pounds per week, and he was developing a trusting relationship with Nick. Blackjack and Mike picked up a thousand pounds in Florida with the Chief's motor home and started distributing it to various members of the Tribe around Atlanta. They had already unloaded about eight hundred pounds and were dropping the last two hundred off to a guy named Danny Davis.
Danny had recently been busted and the Chief of Police had him talked into setting up Chief Blackbear.
Frank Faulkenstein was the Chief of Police in Atlanta and felt there was only room for one Chief in his town. He hated Blackbear and had been trying to bust him ever since he hit town. The two things that pissed him off the most were the fact that his daughter was getting it on with Blackbear's son and his wife loved going to the Hideaway to eat the crÍpes.
Mike was driving the motor home when they pulled into Danny's neighborhood. It was about ten at night and they were anxious to unload the last two hundred pounds. "Does that look like a narc car?" Mike asked, nodding toward a four-door Dodge.
"Looks like it to me. There's another one up there," Blackjack replied. As they pulled onto Danny's street they noticed a couple more cars that looked liked undercover police cars.
"I don't like this shit," Mike said, scratching his thick brown beard.
Blackjack looked out the window. "Man, they're all over the place."
"There's one right behind us," Mike replied, looking in the mirror. "It's a good thing we already got rid of most of the shit."
"Don't stop. Keep going," Blackjack said when they got to Danny's driveway.
Faulkenstein was riding shotgun in the unmarked car behind them and put the light on the roof when Mike didn't pull into the driveway. Another car pulled in front of the motor home to help make sure that they stopped.
Mike was getting scared. He looked to Blackjack and said, "Looks like we're busted."
Blackjack punched the dash and yelled, "Fuckin' Danny set us up, man. Whata we gonna do?"
"Take it easy, dude. Just go with the flow and try not to get beat up. Our brother will get us out of it."
"I hope so. I hate fuckin' jail."
"Me too," Mike replied, turning off the engine. He went on to say, "Stay quiet and follow my lead." He opened the door and jumped out. Blackjack did the same. Faulkenstein and the black undercover cop who was driving the car climbed out, as Mike and Blackjack walked toward them, one on each side of the motor home. Mike was tall and thick. He had shoulder length, straight, brown hair and a full beard and mustache. His faded jeans had flared bottoms that covered his worn out cowboy boots and his untucked flannel shirt helped cover his large stomach.
Blackjack was tall and wiry. He was more concerned about his appearance than Mike and ran his fingers through his shoulder length, blond wavy hair, before tucking his black, silk shirt neatly into his tan, corduroy leisure suit. He had a goatee, several gold chains and wore black stack shoes.
Blue and red light from the police cars flashed through the night as the four of them met at the back of the motor home. Mike saw that the Chief of Police had personally taken the time to bust him. He asked, "What's the problem, Faulkenstein? We weren't doing anything wrong."
Faulkenstein stood about five ten and had a big gut hanging over his belt. He wore a dark brown leisure suit, with a white shirt and a maroon tie. A bald runway ran down the center of his head and his thick brown mustache was in need of a trim. "You got a broken taillight," he replied.
Mike looked at the motor home and said, "There ain't no broken taillight."
"The hell there ain't," Faulkenstein replied. He kicked the passenger side taillight and said, "Whata ya call that."
"Hey, you can't do that," Blackjack shouted.
Faulkenstein grabbed Blackjack by the shoulder and slung him toward the undercover car, shouting, "All right smart ass! Hands on the hood. Shake him down, Parker." He moved onto Mike, shoving him from behind, shouting, "You too. Hands on the hood."
"He's clean," Parker said.
"What's that I smell?" Faulkenstein asked taking a big whiff through his nose as he finished frisking Mike. "Smell's like marijuana. Whata you boys carrying in that there motor home?"
"There ain't nothin' in there," Mike replied.
"Well, let's go take a look and see," Faulkenstein said, walking toward the side door. He ordered Mike to open the door.
"I ain't gotta open it. We got our rights."
"Yeah, and I'm about to read them to ya. Now open the damn door."
"No," Mike responded.
Faulkenstein grabbed Mike's left arm and twisted it behind his back. As Mike screamed, Faulkenstein grabbed his hair with his other hand and smacked his forehead against the side of the motor home three times.
Blackjack shouted, "What the fuck! This shit ain't right, man."
Parker drew his gun and stuck it under Blackjack's chin saying, "Take it easy, man."
Faulkenstein was about to break Mike's arm when Mike shouted, "All right man, I'll open it."
"I know ya will," Faulkenstein replied, letting go.
Mike opened the door and the Police Chief looked to the back of the camper and asked, "What's in those gunny sacks back there?"
"What gunny sacks? There ain't no gunny sacks back there," Mike replied.
"What the hell do ya call them?" Faulkenstein shouted.
Mike looked in and frowned, "How'd they get there?"
Faulkenstein went in and ripped open one of the bails. "Looks like marijuana to me. You two dumb-asses are gonna be doing some time." He looked up smiling with a handful of reefer and said, "Unless of coarse you want to work with me. Then I'll get you off with probation."
"Fuck you, Faulkenstein. This shit'll never stick," Mike yelled.
"The hell it won't. You dumb sons of bitches are under arrest."
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