Schuyler grips the small black steering wheel tightly between her hands. The artificial sounds of metal ricocheting off metal mixing with strobe lights is as obnoxious as it is encompassing. Bells and whistles dampen her senses, yet it is not enough to distract her from the feeling of being watched.
Her heart is pounding in her chest. The machines draw circles on the false tarmac around her. The environment stills. Then – "Charge!"
The command comes from Jackson who is sitting in a compact bumper car he barely squeezed himself into. Schuyler instinctually covers her face in brace for the impact. Four red and blue plastic cars strike her own nearly in unison jostling her violently. She hears the other occupants burst into hysterics.
When she looks up she punches towards the closest person who happens to be Juice. He is close at hand, but the safety harness strapping her to the dinky seat prevents her from landing a solid blow. Juice chuckles heartily as he drives away to avoid her retaliation. The remaining cars do the same. Only Tig thinks to reverse his toy car and make a second impact to Schuyler's as part of his getaway scheme.
Schuyler rejoins the game. She chases Jackson and Bobby who made the mistake of sticking together. She runs Bobby off the hypothetical road straight into the wall and purposefully sends her toy car into a tail spin crashing into Jackson. This goes on until the machines are stopped by the carnival operator and the adults are ushered to the nearest exit to make room for the children in line who are likely better fitted to the ride.
Outside the bumper car station, they are met by Clay and Gemma. The older married couple acts the part of perfectly happy, doting parents waiting to collect their rambunctious kids at the exit gate. They walk with their arms draped around each other as their figurative children bumble behind them through the carnival grounds. Gemma is especially handsy in regard to her husband, but neither her biological son nor his siblings by choice seem to mind the exchange. Despite how much fun is being had, this too, is official club business.
A traveling carnival popped up on the outskirts of Charming overnight. With the intention of maintaining peaceful cohabitation with the residents of Charming, SAMCRO chose today to put on a public face. Clay was sure to order any members who were free, including Schuyler to make her official debut, to attend. Thus, allowing locals to see with their own eyes that his club is made up of ordinary citizens who are in no way a threat like the police department would like to have them believe. Clay has always had a gift for maintaining appearances.
As if on cue a man, dressed in business causal wearing an expensive watch, enters the club's peripheral view. The man's very kept wife hugs their daughter in a pink shirt a little tighter upon seeing the parade of leather marching towards her. She speaks franticly to her husband in a hushed voice failing to conceal her desire to avoid making small talk. The man calmly approaches Clay despite her pleas.
"How are you doing Elliot?"
"Okay Clay."
"How are things at the ranch this season?"
"Okay Clay." The men's' tone is polite.
Gemma offers her greeting to the man's wife. It is returned in a practiced voice. Schuyler concludes the family has enough money to leave this town which is probably why they are here in the first place.
"Mom, I want to go on the bumper cars." The girl, of no more than thirteen, had gotten the idea from seeing the adults step off the ride.
"Are you sure," the woman asks, happy to have a reason to avoid eye contact. "They can be a little rough sometimes."
Schuyler is happy to engage with the little girl by offering her a hand full of tickets. "Here. Take some of mine. Go on. They kicked me out for being too competitive and scaring away all the boys."
The little girl captures the tickets in her hand and giggles. The girl's mother offers a tight-lipped smile in response to her parenting choices being challenged. "What do you say to the nice lady?"
"Thank you!" the pre-teen squeaks. She breaks from her mother's grasp to stand in line.
"No problem."
The man's wife leans heavily into his side and directs her next comment to the club. "It was nice seeing you, but we need to go."
Jackson knows the kind of stress his club can bring onto outsiders. He takes it upon himself to causally lead his friends further into the grounds away from his mother and stepfather who whisper flirtatiously about an act involving a photo booth and many more tickets.
Schuyler walks behind the group getting a feel for the population of the town. She observes a great number of families. Charming is an ideal place to raise children away from the bustle of big cities. Though there does not seem to be much diversity, the locals seem to be inclusive and get along with one another. No one is a stranger. People wander up to each other to start conversations whether they had seen each other last week or last year, and she witnesses multiple instances of individuals going out of their way to meet the few residents they are unfamiliar with. This explains why so many eyes are on her. She is the odd man out. She would wager that if she wasn't walking beside the notorious SOA, she wouldn't be able to avoid the vast number of civilians introducing themselves to her.
Ahead of her, she hears Bobby ask Jackson: "Darby's guys?"
She follows his line of sight. Two lumbering men with shaved heads and Aryan ink confirms they match a particular profile. The skinheads cross the MC's path; unaware they are being observed.
"I've never seen them before."
A random voice breaks through the cacophony of carnival goers. "Hey! Where you going? Five more bucks, your son will be convinced you're a loser."
A carnie is sitting high atop a dunking booth heckling a man and his son who stomp away fuming. The large waisted man in clown makeup catches sight of the MC. Sitting above the action without shade to cover him, his round face is visibly red from the mid-afternoon sun despite the white makeup covering it. His eyes grow wide as he fumbles over his words in a rush to get them out. Obviously he views the group as a prime target.
"Ohhh, look at the big bad bikers with their shiny chain wallets. Come to get clown-y all wet?"
Jackson hands a high school volunteer some tickets and receives three balls. He stands behind the indicated line in the grass and is spurred on by positive murmurs from his companions. He reels his arm back, throws, and misses the stripped target by a sizable margin.
"What's the matter tough guy? Performance anxiety?" The second ball is closer but misses. "You're embarrassing yourself in front of your girlfriend and all her little boyfriends."
"That right," Jackson shouts. He lobs his last ball straight at the carnie's head. It would have reached its mark if it hadn't been for the protective plastic.
"Tough luck champ." The clown claps his hands together joyfully as if he won a game of his own. "Hey sweetheart! Why don't you come sit on clown-y's lap? Let him show you how a real man sticks a small ball through a tight hole."
"Oh no," Tig shakes his head and one can see the humor drain from the carnie's flabby body. "That's a Bozo no-no."
"Hang-Hang-Hang on guys. I was just joking. I was just-" Tig is the first to reach the booth. He punches the target and the carnie produces a big splash. Tig scales the side of the dunk tank and sticks his hand inside, forcibly holding the carnie's head below the surface. Jackson climbs up the built-in ladder on the opposite side and hovers his foot over the barrel. Every time the clown tries to stand he gets himself kicked in the face. Juice uses the lip of the tube for balance; lifting himself up to get a better look. Occasionally he lands a blow of his own. The clown turned human punching bag has been converted into the carnival's best offer of entertainment.
The front of the booth holds a window to view the water inside. Schuyler shakes her head mockingly at the sputtering man being half drowned, half-beaten in the booth. "You just had to open your mouth, didn't you?" She gives the plastic a strong kick for good measure.
Tig's burner rings in his vest bringing him down from the booth. He has it to his ear for less than ten seconds. The exchange causes every ounce of fun to evaporate; it is replaced by his rough SA demeanor. He whistles loudly to halt the assault. "Chibs called. Guinness arrived on the docks."
The bikes are stacked neatly against the front gate. This is to make room for the expected semi-truck hauling a flatbed carrying strategically packed oil barrels to park alongside the bike railing.
Clay leans heavily against said railing while observing Half-Sack sweep the garage. "Think he's deep enough?"
Jackson offers his council. "May only have one nut, but it's a big one. I trust him."
"Hey Prospect!" Clay waves to the boy. "Come over here. Learn a thing."
The prospect tosses the broom aside and jogs in front of the flatbed as it enters.
"Watch out." Tig manages to make a show of friendship sound like a personal threat. "Don't get hit."
Half-Sack jumps up beside Juice who is perched on top the railing. He lets his feet swing freely. Schuyler asks a question for both their benefit. "Dealing directly with Belfast. That's a pretty tall order. Anything I need to watch out for?"
"They're stacked to the nines when partaking in business and they're religious zealots at home," Juice explains with an undertone of sarcasm. "So, don't skimp the bill and don't 'take the Lord's name in vain'. They'll pretty much leave you alone if you stick to those unspoken rules."
As Juice gives a rundown of the club's gun supply partner, Chibs jumps out of the passenger seat and steps up to Clay. "It's just McKeavy." He motions towards the Irishman who steps down from the cab. "Rest of th' boys made a head start up north. He'll be following them tomorrow."
The group migrates towards the flatbed. Schuyler tries to follow but is stopped by Clay's warning. "They can handle it. No need to go starting fires and the Irish…they can be a little…"
"Traditional?" Schuyler offers with a scowl.
"Aye, that's one word for it," Chibs huffs under his breath.
"I didn't want to play with oil barrels anyway."
Schuyler looks on as the group, excluding Jackson, advances towards the truck. Jackson stays and offers her a cigarette from his own pack. She takes it and lights it herself. "He told me to hang back, not you."
"I know." Jackson exhales through his nose. "I am 'cause I can and 'cause I don't wanna unload either."
Clay greets McKeavy with a hearty hug in a way suggesting the two are old friends.
"Clay, it's good to see ya."
"Same here Michael. Bring any iron with you?"
"Russia iron. Enough to keep the torch burning. Let me show ya."
Tig and Chibs follow McKeavy onto the flatbed. They watch intently as McKeavy unscrews the false lid, camouflage necessary to transport, on the first oil barrel. They then hand down both assembled and non-assembled pieces of hardware to the patched members.
As Clay begins his rudimentary questioning of the products, McKeavy catches sight of a woman. A woman with a stitched Reaper on her back conversing with the club's V.P. During an exchange of goods, no less, under the cover of darkness as if she has a right to be in his presence or anywhere near his merchandise.
McKeavy interrupts Clay mid-sentence. He conceals his anger poorly behind a half smile. "Yer letting the Oldladies wear the patch now, is that it?"
Jackson pulls hard on his cigarette drawing the smoke into his lungs to keep from responding in a less than civil manner. Bobby wears an expression meant to urge his President to answer the questioning of a club member. Everyone else falls eerily silent, unsure if they should step in themselves or proceed with unloading as if the comment had never been made.
Schuyler bites down on the orange filter. Instead of inhaling, she rolls the tube between her front teeth and lets it drop onto the cement. She turns as she trades the cigarette for her left thumb and pointer finger releasing a long, high pitched note. Half-Sack is particularly impressed with the volume of the sound, but the whistle is used to keep anyone else from responding for her.
She uses the same hand to expose the left side of her chest, purposely pulling hard enough on her dark flannel blouse to unbutton an additional button. The action reveals her chest down to the lining of her black bra. "Do you see a ring on my finger? Do you see a crow here, mate?" She spits the last syllable in demand of an answer.
"Not sure yet love. Why don't you open more of those buttons and we'll all find out?"
She releases the fabric, not caring how exposed she may be, and takes a few steps towards the man who is on higher ground. "No one is ever going to tie me down. Not now, not fucking ever."
"She's in Michael," Clay states coolly. "It's no concern to you."
McKeavy ponders Clay's words. He ultimately decides to be satisfied by having earned a rise from the woman. "Aye. Sorry lass. No offense was meant."
Inside the clubhouse, McKeavy sits beside Clay on a bar stool with a complimentary drink in hand. Members gather close by to witness the exchange. Only Schuyler and Half-Sack sit at a distance next to Juice who takes stock of the new inventory he has laid out on a pool table.
Schuyler is sitting backwards in a hardwood chair with her chin resting on top of her crossed arms. She left her shirt unbuttoned as an act of defiance and is trying her best to appear uninterested in the meeting; more intrigued by the assembly line in front of her. Comparatively, Half-Sack sits adjacent to her with his back to the pool table and elbows to his knees. His eyes attentively track the conversation.
Clay waits for McKeavy to take a swig from his beer mug. "Mayans torched the warehouse where we store and assemble our weapons."
"Holy shite. What the hell will that do to yer business?"
"Nothing more than an unfavorable setback. We bought nine acres on the other side of the county. We start rebuilding, we'll be up and running in two months. Three, tops."
"Can't you assemble them here?"
"We've learned our lesson a few times," Clay replies with a gesture to the wall of mugshots. "We don't cross our money streams. This is strictly a legit automotive business."
"Are you meaning to go three months without buying weapons from us? What's the army meant to do in the meantime? SAMCRO's a huge piece of our income."
"You'll have to make the adjustment with us, alright? It's part of business."
Since arriving, McKeavy has only been friendly towards Clay. Schuyler gets the impression her presence has put him in a less than cooperative mood. "This isn't a business for us, brother. True IRA. We're not merchants; we're soldiers. The guns we sell fuel the cause. Without that, we lose ground."
"We support the cause McKeavy," Chibs reminds the Irishman. Having spent the better half of a day with McKeavy and his associates, Chibs has begun to slip into speech patterns he once was more accustomed to hearing and using himself. "S'it like this jus' 'appens. We'll 'ave our guns up and running in no time."
"That's the problem. No time!" McKeavy fires back. "T'ree weeks would cripple us. T'ree months, we can't wait for that."
"The hell do you mean by that," Jackson interjects.
McKeavy looks at the younger man belittlingly. "I'm saying if ye can't front us the cash, we're gonna have to find us a new buyer."
"I've been buying guns from you for over a decade Michael." Clay knowingly uses the Irishman's first name in a show of trust. "When you split with Adams, I stayed with you because of our friendship."
"You stayed with me because the other coward sold out. We're the only outlaws left. Now don't take this personally Clay. Your warehouse burning down is a casualty of commerce. We lose our guns, that's a casualty of war."
"We might could swing a down payment." As treasury, Bobby extends his financial advice as an olive branch. "Any more than that and you'll be putting us underwater."
"That's not going to work. I have to be paid on time, in full." McKeavy sweeps over the bar. His eyes land on Schuyler's back. "And once I tell the army about my visit, they're going to expect more. Insurance. Have to make sure you boys are aware of where your priorities lie."
"Don't go filing divorce papers just yet." Schuyler grabs onto the back of the chair and leans backwards to peer past the prospect. She levels the Catholic with an equally disparaging glare. She isn't the least bit concerned with his threat to make her status known. "We'll get you the money we owe you. We just need a little bit of time and a little good faith."
McKeavy is irritated Schuyler is the one who agrees to his terms, yet acknowledges she is willing to meet them. He will keep his knowledge to himself until she proves she is capable of being a real threat. He views her as no more than an insect and lets it show plainly on his face.
"I'll be in Washington before the week's out. Don't know for how long, but I'll let Chibs know when I plan to leave. I'll need the money before I can return. Next month's payment plus a month's insurance. The army will ask you keep paying this way for every month you are out of commission, but I expect you not to let it come to that, Clay. Or the army will find itself needing to make new arrangements."
Clay makes the final decision himself and agrees to the Irishman's demands. He shakes McKeavy's hand and walks him out of the bar. The other members hear their President apologize for the trouble McKeavy experienced and make promises for business to return to normal.
"How the hell are we gonna come up with two hundred k?" Tig grumbles. "How long is he going to be state's side? Six weeks, a month?"
"If we're lucky," Chibs supplies, leaning heavily on the counter. He isn't surprised by McKeavy's greed or aversion to any form of change. He is simply relieved to be done entertaining him for the day. "Less than that, more than likely."
"Come on Tig," Juice interjects. He recalls Schuyler's crack at McKeavy and makes a joke of his own. "Didn't you hear? We just have to have a little faith."
Bobby reassures them. "Something will come up. Something always does. Just another day at the office."
"Sack, what did you learn today?" Jackson inquires for no other reason than to keep his own frustration at Clay and the situation from festering.
Half-Sack produces a noise like a tire releasing air. "Business isn't easy. Sometimes there are speed bumps and clients get mad."
"That's almost a legitimate answer." Schuyler slaps the prospect on the back. "A compound sentence and everything. You get a gold star for today's lesson."
"What did you learn Sky?" Bobby shoots back.
"Honestly, I wasn't listening." She turns her nose up.
"Come on Schuyler."
"Oh, 'three', 'three', 'fuck you, I'm not bending over backwards to help you out'." Schuyler allows her annoyance to bleed through. She feels she's earned the right to do so.
Chibs is mildly amused if the quirk of his eyebrows is any indicator. "Ye were listening?"
"It was mainly the threes. I'm going to hear them in my dreams."
"Dreams?" Juice quips. Schuyler eyes him sideways. He raises a gun up to his line of sight as if inspecting, yet his grin is teasing. "Couldn't have been all bad."
"Still doesn't excuse the bastard from looking like a toad stool."
The small jab at the Irishman, delivered after the fact, earns her a few sympathy laughs. Tonight, every man had the opportunity to witness the kind of blowback Schuyler's presence can generate. Though many of their first instinct had been to come to her aid – just as they would for one another – they had yet to experience backlash of this caliber. Especially from someone who should be a trustworthy ally. Through no fault of their own, they chose not to rock the boat.
No one is more caught off guard by her comment than Chibs. It isn't so much a laugh as a chortle that escapes him. Quiet and airy from low in his abdomen. And then, another. This time louder. He is forced to convert the sound into a cough to prevent it from continuing for longer than could be considered appropriate.
Schuyler hears his laugh before she sees his amusement. The room seems to still as she witnesses the joy she is responsible for so shortly after receiving misfortunate news. The sound is pleasant to her ears. She finds herself liking the idea of being able to make him laugh. But not a moment later, she reverts her attention to the matter at hand. She moves her eyes anywhere and everywhere else, feeling much like a child getting caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
The group disperses with the knowledge that tomorrow will bring yet another day for club business. Most leave straight away. Schuyler stays long enough to see Jackson assist Juice in relocating the guns where they will be secure for a time. Chibs lends some mentor-like words to his prospect and sends the boy on his way. Then he himself makes a break for the exit, evidently having had enough human interaction to suit him for one day.
Ever confident, Schuyler catches up with Chibs just outside the door. The parking lot is dark and a single, pale light hangs from the roof over the loading dock. She comes parallel with a picnic table and her form is barely captured in the light's glow. In a soft, friendly voice, she calls to him. "Your accent."
"Yeah." He stops dead on the opposite edge of the light's dull luminescent beam. He considers ignoring her before back peddling into her space. He positions himself close enough to avoid having to raise his voice. It briefly occurs to him there should be no need to concern himself with anyone hearing their conversation as the lot is empty. Making the calculation alone, then realizing he had done so, surprises him. However, it doesn't keep him from remembering his annoyance at his accent, one of two prominent assets marking him as distinctly different within his own club, being called to attention.
"It got 't'icker'." She mimics what she had closely monitored in the Irishman's speech and is unable to avoid admiring within Chibs' own despite the difference in dialects. "When you were speaking with McKeavy."
He makes a conscious effort to keep from drawling his reply. In doing so, he nearly sounds American. "What of it?"
Schuyler decides it doesn't suit him. "Just thought you should know. It happened, is all."
Something in Chibs' demeanor shifts dramatically. He's no longer irritated; rather he's intrigued. Like he just made a discovery. He draws nearer still until he is less than two feet from her. He forces eye contact with the younger woman to test his boundaries. "Do ye find it distracting?"
Schuyler kept her feet firmly planted as he advanced, but she could do nothing to prevent her eyes from dilating even the tiniest fraction. She's comforted by her certainty that he is unable to tell in the poor lighting which is hardly enough to highlight their figures in the dark. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
She slinks past Chibs, taking precautions to keep from brushing against him, and heads towards her bike. She feels his eyes on her as she peels out of the parking lot with more torque than is necessary.
Nine days. It took Schuyler nine days to flush San Bernardino from her system and integrate, rather effectively she believes, into Charming. But there are some things she will never be able to shake from her past. Nor would she ever want to.
She rolls over in bed to grab her iPhone off her nightstand. The bright light illuminates her face flashing the time in thin numbers. It's early. She wishes she could sleep in on days like today, but her body is used to waking up with the sun.
A picture of herself beside a man her age, his arms covered in disconnected tattoos, peers down on her from the lock screen. He's a few inches taller than she is and they each have an arm around the other. They are smiling like they own the world. At the time the picture was taken, it certainly felt that way.
She types in a passcode and a different picture fills the home screen. Schuyler is in front of a billboard outside of an arena. She's sandwiched between a brutish looking man much taller than herself and a beautiful woman whom she shares nearly every physical feature in common with. The three of them are wearing concert T-shirts from separate events. The shirt Schuyler is wearing doesn't fit her as it originally belonged to the man and it is nearly as old now as she was in the picture then. She still has the shirt. The picture was taken at a concert they were seeing by the man who is on her lock screen. She remembers when the picture was taken and can recall seeing four more boys, not much older than herself, standing behind the camera operator not so patiently waiting for their turn in front of the marquee. That was a good show.
Opening the phone app, she presses the first man's name and the dial tone rings out three times. Schuyler thinks she'll get the automated message until the line is picked up. "You're late." The man's voice is groggy with sleep despite it being a Monday morning and he's several hours ahead of her in his time zone. She knows he's lying in bed more than likely mirroring her posture. They each have a knee bent and their free hand is lying across their eyes. "I expected to hear from you days ago."
"Give me a break Beau." Despite her need to feign annoyance, she's glad to hear her best friend's voice. She's made it a habit to call home every Friday night since she left Texas. Even going a week without hearing from Jessie – or, as his childhood friends named him, Beau – feels like a stretch since before Schuyler moved to California they'd never spent more than seven days apart. Not even while Beau did time behind bars. "It's only been nine days. You're getting to be as bad as my mother."
"It ain't my fault you up and moved yourself halfway around the world."
"Hardly." She hears rustling on his end and realizes he is clambering out of bed to avoid waking the woman and small children who are more than likely sharing his sleeping space. "If I had any sense I would have gone farther."
"Still. Gotta keep track of my baby sister. How's it been, inside the Mother charter? Does it live up to the legend?"
"Nah. Bunch of pushovers these guys. Same club, different area code." She pauses. "There are good people here."
"They ain't being too tough on you, are they? For real. I don't want to have to head out there to teach a bunch of beach bunnies some good old-fashioned southern hospitality, but I will."
"Took a few of them the week to get use to the idea of me." The corners of her lips curl upwards as a particular person enters her mind. She stops them despite Beau being unable to see her. "Managed to sell them on the idea of me. Happened quicker than it did with SANDINO which has got to count for something."
"Did you find it Sky?" Beau reaches the other end of his house and his voice becomes startlingly solemn. It fully wakes Schuyler from her sleep. She sits up in bed. "Did you find what you were looking for out there?"
"The change of scenery has been nice."
"Glad to hear it." He sounds unconvinced.
"One of Eddies' old platoon mates is still here. Piermont?" she prompts the receiver.
"Yeah. I remember. Vietnam. Helped Eddie start out but couldn't make his wake."
"We went on a run Friday. I impressed the hell out of him!"
"No doubt!"
She admits, "It's been nice. Talking to him. Getting to hear his side of things."
"That's awesome! He must have been who called Sammy last week. She heard you were getting along out there like a house on fire. Have you talked to her?"
"Ma's next. Gotta check on Krueger." She pictures the gray and white dog she hand raised, no longer a cuddly puppy, but a fierce guard dog with a neck the size of a tree trunk and a muzzle to match. "Guess I'll say hi to her while I'm at it. How's Christy, the kids?"
"Just as high maintenance as ever. That goes double for my Oldlady." The two share a fond laugh. "Misty's starting kindergarten."
"Already? Last baby is leaving the house. Are you excited?"
"Ain't goin' nowhere 'til she's eighteen and got a job."
"You're doing great with them. Even without me there."
"They miss aunt Sky. Especially the girls. They need a female role model."
"I miss them too. We'll Skype next Friday. Promise. How are the boys?" By 'boys' Schuyler is referring to not only the members whom she prospected with, but all the patches of her home charter who she grew to trust and rely on and they her in return.
"Everyone's adjusted to you being gone. Dad's doing great! Holding the club together by pure force of will." Beau dramatically clears his throat. "We're expecting a storm next weekend coming up from the south. Should blow over though." It never rains in Texas. Especially not this time of year. The code means the club has a routine shipment to make to clients in Mexico. "Is it too early for me to ask?"
"Yes, it's too early. I haven't been gone two months. We spent more time in England."
"You know that was different."
He means that was before. When the club was still whole. When Schuyler went abroad, not only did Beau travel with her as it was for club business, but it was for a scheduled amount of time. When she went, she was always going to come back to her home. Even if she decides to return to Texas now, it will only be for a short visit. California is meant to become her new home. "I'll plan a visit soon. I'm glad to hear it's been routine for y'all. Shits amped up here."
"Anything I need to worry about?"
"Just a bunch of little things happening at once, but still. I've got to get my sea legs under me before I start traveling back and forth." Even as she makes the promise to do so, she knows both communities will suffer under the weight of her divided attention.
"Remember. It's a three-day drive if you ever need to see me. No reason too small."
"Yeah or for my big brother to come up and lend a hand."
"I already said I would! Ain't gonna leave you high and dry."
"Appreciate it Beau. Handle your shit. Talk soon."
"Give 'em hell Sky."
—
A car with a higher price tag than every vehicle Schuyler has ever owned combined blocks her from entering Teller-Morrow. When the driver parks, she finds her spot in the lineup where she observes Clay and Jackson approach the vehicle prior to the driver opening his door. The two escort the man with an expensive watch, the very same family man from the carnival, into the garage office out of sight from anyone visiting the automotive shop. If Clay's attempt to conceal the polished man are not suspect enough, Jackson is sure to close the door securely behind them. He draws the blinds closed for additional privacy.
Schuyler walks up to the first club members she sees in search of answers. Tig is milling around outside the garage doors and Half-Sack, having seen the stranger's nice car arrive, steps beside him to get a better view of the machine.
"Hey, why's Clay bent on keeping his friendship with money bags a secret? It's not like everyone in town didn't see us chatting up his family yesterday."
"Look, not that it's any of your business," Tig snarks. Schuyler bats her eyes at him with the patience of a cat. "That's Elliot Oswald. Most prestigious douchebag in town."
"That tells me nothing."
Half-Sack is still admiring Oswald's car. "Nice Benz. Oswald – as in Oswald lumber?"
"Yeah, Oswald lumber, Oswald beef, Oswald construction." Tig smirks while giving too much information to the prospect, despite the fact he should be regarded as a lower rank than Schuyler. "He owns everything worth owning for twenty miles around."
"Was that so hard?" Schuyler asks.
"What? Educating the prospect." Tig's face is smug. He wraps an arm too tightly around Half-Sack's neck. "Nah. Wasn't hard."
"Uh-huh. You still don't have a damn clue what they're talking about in there, do you? Must hurt some part of your giant ego."
Tig has time to sneer but is kept from forming a rebuttal as the office door abruptly swings open. Oswald darts out with hasty steps towards his car. He appears to have had more than a few of his feathers ruffled. Even at a distance he can be seen fighting back tears.
Clay and Jackson stomp out after him looking like men on a mission. Jackson hollers in their direction, "Table. Now!"
"Oswald paid us a visit," Clay says around a cigar in his mouth. He lights it for the steadiness the nicotine brings to his deteriorating hands. "His daughter was put in the hospital last night. She was raped. In Macon woods, not far from the carnival."
Juice shifts uncomfortably as he avoids eye contact. Chibs on the other hand lights a blunt he had stored in his vest and waits for Clay to continue. "Oswald gave a report to Hale this morning, but his daughter's going to be in the hospital for a couple of days. Kid's thirteen. He came to ask the club a favor."
Jackson finishes the request for him. "He wants us to find the guy who did it."
"Vigilante justice," Chibs exhales with smoke.
Bobby pushes out of his seat, muttering and pacing the length of the room. "Thirteen…thirteen!"
Schuyler lights a cigarette. She feels the room grow warmer as it gradually fills with the familiar, almost comforting mixture of smokes. "He tell you anything else. Does the girl remember anything? He give us a positive ID to run with?"
"Slow down cowgirl." Tig cannot keep himself from butting in. He tends to lead with a one-track mind. "We've got a two hundred k deficit hanging over our heads. We miss this payment and we lose access to our supply. Do we really, really want to be out there wasting time trying to track down 'Whodunit'?"
"Fuck that. Do you really need to take a vote on this?" Schuyler speaks calmly despite her use of profanity to prevent the anger she feels from influencing her voice or coloring her judgement. "This shouldn't even be a discussion. How about this? I'm going to look for the sick bastard. The question is: who's coming with me?"
"I get it, alright, I do. I just don't like putting my ass on the line for some outsider. Clay, Oswald doesn't give a shit about SAMCRO!"
Clay taps the end of his cigar into an ashtray. "You know when people get jammed up in this town they don't go to the cops. They come to us."
"That's right boys," Chibs muses aloud.
"And that means something to me. I don't know. Maybe I've got something to prove with this guy. That's my shit! So, if anyone wants to pass on this…"
Everyone at the table expresses their approval uniquely. Bobby is able to find his seat comforted by the thought of being able to right a wrong. No sooner does Juice agree does Schuyler offer him a fist bump. Chibs takes a long drag to blow smoke directly into Tig's face, stating, "No way, I'm in!"
Tig smirks back at the table callously. "Can't leave me out. Guess we're doing the pigs' work for them."
Clay settles back in his chair. "Wouldn't be the first time. Tell me, what do we know?"
"We saw a couple of guys sporting Aryan ink at the carnival," Jackson offers. "Not sure they were Darby's guys."
"Macon woods is right on the Lodi border. Darby's got a meth shack a couple of miles from there."
Bobby shakes his head exasperatedly tossing his shaggy hair. "Rape as retaliation."
Jackson confirms his thought. "Certainly, in the Nord wheelhouse."
"Tap into the SAWJA database," Clay directs his instructions towards Juice, "find out which Nords get hard for underage pussy."
Tig, wanting to make up for his resistance, offers his own skill set. "Bobby and I will go after Darby."
Schuyler pounces on the opportunity to take initiative. "I volunteer to retrace the carnival. Maybe there were witnesses and they'll be more willing to talk with someone not in uniform."
Jackson shows her his support. "Me and Chibs will back you up."
Clay sets them loose. "Let's get to work!"
Unfortunately, they get no further than the bar room. Half-Sack has come in from the garage to extend a warning. "Clay, Hale's parked outside. Said he wants to question anyone who was at the carnival."
"What?" – "Are you serious!"
"Goddamn it," Clay curses. "That third-rate Power Ranger isn't fit to enforce traffic tickets. Chibs, head out the front gate and wait for Jackson to reach out. Juice, I want you to take the prospect, go out the back door. I think the van is parked that way. Get off the lot until we need your statement. Gives us a card to hold onto."
Juice and Half-Sack leave out the back entrance and take the van unnoticed. At the same time, Chibs was permitted to leave after he confirmed his alibi with Half-Sack's. The same alibi that had been fabricated for them to meet the Irish at the docks. Everyone who is left exits the clubhouse to approach the patrol vehicles as a unit.
Schuyler strategically walks at the back of the procession intent on sizing up the unwelcome introducers before they have a chance to assess her. Peering between the shoulders of her ranking officials, Schuyler catches sight of a police car and a green jeep with a police light bar superimposed atop it. The vehicles take up four parking spaces. She counts three policemen and reads Sheriff's Deputy on a very shiny badge on the central man's chest by the time the two groups meet head on.
Clay gains the officers' attention while subtly making a public announcement that there are authority figures on the property. "End of the month already? I know we're your last stop Hale. Gotta meet quotas somehow."
"We're investigating a sexual assault." Said Deputy is acquainted with the local MC. He isn't affronted by Clay's familiarity. "I need to question your guys who were at the carnival yesterday. If they are not here, get them here. Now."
"You think a Son had something to do with it?" Jackson asks, getting in Hale's face. His goal is to intimidate. Hale doesn't back down.
Understanding she will be taken into questioning alongside half of the club, Schuyler decides when and how to make herself known. She separates herself, so the policemen can clearly see her. "How about a Daughter? Morning officers. I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting your acquaintance. The name's Schuyler. I'm new around here."
The officers are easily distracted by the female voice speaking over the men who normally dominate the premises. They search for the source, expecting to see the designated matriarch stomping towards them in expensive heels. Rather they are shell shocked to find the young blonde stepping up to them with imperceptible authority. Hale is none too shy when looking Schuyler up and down in a mixture of intrigue and utter confusion when presented with a woman wearing a vest. The same vest that for his entire life he has known to be under the sole ownership of men.
Schuyler puts her hands on her hips to open the vest wider and invite prying eyes. It is as if she is daring the officers to reach out and touch her in front of plentiful witnesses. "I'd be happy to vouch for my guys. You see, we were too busy eating day old corn dogs and getting sick on the tea cups to cause any sort of mischief."
Hale collects himself. "Half of your guys have violent crimes on their rap sheet. Just following logic."
Jackson scoffs. "Wasn't it just last week four Oakland cops were busted for prostitution and rape. Logic tells me we should be asking where your dick was last night."
Clay wags a taunting finger. "And don't say, 'in your mama'."
The motorcyclists laugh, but Hale presses on unfazed. "Officers Mann and Fain will be taking your statements. Could take hours."
"I'm trying to run a business here."
"We can do it here. At the station house. Wherever you wanna do it." Hale decides to reveal how acquainted he truly feels with the MC. "And don't say 'in your mama'."
"How considerate," Schuyler sighs.
The officer identified as Fain points to Schuyler. "I'm going to start with you."
"Would that make you happy, sweetheart?" Schuyler teases. The tan skinned officer nods emphatically. "Then I'd be happy to oblige!"
The second officer, Mann, continues imposing on Clay where Hale left off. "You should treat your guests to some coffee."
Bobby offers, "Do you want to get my statement out of the way while you're waitin' around?"
"That won't be necessary," Mann says.
"One at a time. Let's us play out the classic 'good cop/bad cop' dynamic," Fain says.
Schuyler remains with the officers who take her statement at the patrol car. The rest opt to stand inside the garage. The coffee machine manages to be turned on in the office but only Bobby pours himself a glass. Standing underneath one of the rolling doors, alternating between propping against walls and stalking like animals trapped within their terrain, the ring leaders watch their newest sibling get grilled for information. They can't help admiring the quality of her performance. Jackson voices what each of them is privately thinking. "She's a natural."
They watch as Schuyler laughs at every joke the male officers make during their questioning. She never lets on how bored she is of their dry humor and, more importantly, she never once touches either of them. Nor does she lean into their personal space or attempt to make herself appear smaller in stature. She doesn't need to. She charms them without having to lift a finger or demean herself to please them. Tig balks, "She's okay."
Once finished, Schuyler leads the policemen to the office where they are provided with coffee. The badges proceed to take a break which is clearly a tactic to slow the interviews. When they try to collect their second interviewee, Clay conveniently remembers Juice was in attendance and makes a show of calling him as Bobby is escorted away. On the phone, Clay orders Juice to return to TM and Half-Sack to track Hale's whereabouts for the rest of the day. By the time Bobby is finished being questioned and the cops enter their second coffee break, two hours' of daylight have been lost.
"I can't believe these jackasses are taking another coffee break," Schuyler complains from atop an empty oil barrel.
"Total jerkoffs," Clay surmises. He directs his next statement at the Sergeant. "Hale must know we're looking for the guy. We're going to be here all day."
"Why didn't you say so. Two double tranqaccinos coming up." Tig disappears into the cramped office and presses the power button on the coffee pot. While it pours, he produces a clear plastic bag with two dozen white pills from his kutte. He shakes a few onto the counter and sets to work carefully crushing them with the closet available utensil - a tea spoon.
Bored of batting her eyes to gain favor with the police, Schuyler hops down from her perch. Inside the open office door, Tig's taller frame prevents her from entering further.
She rests her back against the countertop and crosses her ankles. She stands close. Their arms nearly brush together, but not quite, and she leans over to watch his grease covered hands meticulously grind the pills to powder. A bit of a frown settles on her features causing her to look a few years older than her age. The frown is not because she disproves of the plan. The pills are merely a means to reach a goal. More so, she is disappointed in Tig for having had the narcotics readily available.
"You guys are a bad influence," she chastises. "Here I was trying to make friends."
"Those are not the friends you want to make," Tig says while turning to mock her. It isn't until he locks eyes with her that he realizes how close she is, and he faces the pot again. He scrapes the powder into his hand and brings the pot to his face, mixing it with the drink. He manages to make his next words sound like an apology; possibly for the stance he took during the meeting, more likely for having taken every opportunity he could to dismiss her since they had met. "Best you stick with us."
Schuyler's frown softens. She understands how meaningful such a statement is. Especially one coming from Tig who had been the most critical of her. She almost mistakes the appearance of redness on his neck creeping up to his face for a blush but knows that simply cannot be the case. "Just as well. I hate uniforms."
Clay stomps in, shuffling past Schuyler on his way behind the desk, to check on the progress of their escape plan. Tig uses the distraction as an opportunity to brush the edge of his shirtsleeve against Schuyler's shoulder as he tips the coffee pot towards Clay. He knows jerking away from her could lead to suspicion, so he convinces himself the contact is necessary. "Looking at a twelve-hour nap."
"Nice."
Jackson is next to enter. He rests on the door frame. "They're coming for refills."
The two officers traipse through the garage, acknowledge Bobby and Jackson, and trade places with Schuyler who leaves the office when Tig invites them in. "Fresh pot boys."
Tig fills their cups and monitors them. Each takes a large gulp unsuspectingly. Satisfied, Tig innocently offers to pour Jackson a glass. "Jackson?"
"No, thank you," the Vice President waves away the offer. He smirks outside of the policemen's view.
"Juice should be here soon Clay," Tig updates. He sets the pot down and waits.
"Sometimes he gets lost," Clay attempts to joke.
Fain takes his second sip, feels his eyes close heavily, and collapses against the nearest wall. Luckily he doesn't hit his head too hard. Mann begins to rotate in response only to pass out from the same cause.
Tig instinctually checks for a pulse on Fain. "That was quick."
"They evidently don't have the same tolerance," Schuyler remarks crudely.
Clay checks for a pulse on Mann and pats him hard on the shoulder. Mann starts to snore. "Good to the last drop."
"This is so bad. And, illegal," Schuyler states for the record, but even she can't help the joy she feels at a plan successfully carried out.
"Po-Po on the flo'," Jackson halfheartedly mimics the start of a tune.
Tig cackles overtly leading the rest to easily joins in. Clay ushers them from the office to lock the newly sleeping captives inside, ensuring they won't be disturbed – or found – until it suits him.
Outside, Bobby is catching Juice up on the situation. "Get on the horn," Clay demands of Juice. "Anything you can find out about the Nords will help. Head out with Bobby," he instructs Tig. "Find Darby. We're going to go about this the right way. Get clearance on this perp before we nail him to the wall."
The group divides. Before any of the bikes leave however, Tig engages with Juice. He waves the bag of pills in front of his face. "Put these in my box."
"What are they?" Juice asks, already opening the bag for a more intimate inspection.
"They're vitamins, vitamins," Tig jokes as he straps on his helmet.
Schuyler clicks her tongue at the Sergeant. "Don't lie to the child. He'll believe you."
The bikes depart, leaving no one to witness Juice swallow one of the pills, planning to pace himself, and pocket the bag in his vest before going to find his computer.
For once, Schuyler has a motorcycle tailing her. She finds Jackson in her rearview when the carnival comes into view. The pop up is nearly empty aside from Hale's green jeep and the half dozen carnival ride operators surrounding it. Hale stands inside the main entrance gathering statements.
Before they left, Jackson phoned Chibs and the two agreed to meet outside the main entrance. Chibs is parked in the grass under twin trees where he can easily keep an eye on the Deputy. He has since been joined by the prospect, though the rookie isn't on his white motorcycle. For an unknown reason, Half-Sack is riding on a child's sized dirt bike half the size and less than half the weight of Chibs' motorcycle. They are sitting in silence waiting to be joined by the expected parties.
"You didn't tell me you had the kind of walking around money to hit up Toys-R-Us." Schuyler rolls to a stop on Half-Sack's left. She kills the engine and holds the heavy machine up with her legs while Jackson stops between the two other men.
"It's what was in easy reach." Half-Sack tries to play off her comment, but it's evident he feels humiliated, having been forced to travel on a knock off. He faces the Vice President to submit his report and hopes to be repaid in sympathy.
He isn't. "Hale started at St. Thomas and came straight here. He's been talking to the carnies for over an hour."
"Nice going numbnuts. Stay on him."
Dejected, the prospect puts on his helmet feeling ridiculous for doing so. He doubts a fall at this height or going at the bike's top speed of a measly twenty-five miles an hour would do him any real damage. He looks up to the two seasoned members with hopeful eyes behind his flashy shades. "Hey, you guys think you could double up. Let me take one of your bikes?"
Jackson fixes the boy with a deadpan expression. "Not unless he grows tits."
Chibs hasn't stopped smiling since Half-Sack showed up on the toy bike. "Big tits. Huge tits." He catches Jacksons' hand on a downward high-five.
Half-Sack turns to Schuyler in slow motion and tilts his head to one side like a puppy begging to be let out into the yard. She jerks her handle bars in his direction to taunt him. "Touch him and you lose a hand."
"It's a guy?" Half-Sack asks lamely. He's never heard someone refer to a motorcycle as male. It doesn't occur to him he's never spoken to a women with a motorcycle.
"Isn't yours?"
Half-Sack looks down on the moped in place of his Harley. His question is asked at a barely audible volume. "Why, is that bad?"
Schuyler flashes her teeth through a Cheshire grin. "You tell me!" She looks out onto the scene as Hale climbs into his jeep and knows it's the perfect excuse for Half-Sack to escape without persecution. She waves him on. "He's going."
The prospect leaves the trees' shade to follow Hale at a distance. Schuyler rights her bike upon dismount. She pins her hair behind her ears with the help of her Ray Bans. She follows the two men into the carnival grounds with a plan to conduct an interrogation of their own.
Jackson approaches the first carnie he sees with a confident swagger. Schuyler and Chibs trail him at a close distance hovering over either shoulder. Each stands proud like a guardian angel. Jackson holds up a recent photograph of Oswald's daughter given by Oswald himself. "See this girl last night?"
"Who are you," a man with comical and discolored facial hair to rival the best of clowns retorts. He sounds bored and doesn't glance at the picture.
Chibs rocks up to Jackson's left. "Concerned citizens. The hell did you say to that cop."
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" The carnie takes a step away to avoid confrontation.
Jackson grabs the man by his open shirt to stop him. The rest of the carnies see Jackson put hands on one of their own and they gather close to determine the cause.
"This girl was raped last night less than a mile away." Schuyler spits venom. "The pervert responsible is gonna need more than a slap on the wrist."
A new rider operator makes his voice heard. "Suppose you think you're man enough to deliver the punishment."
"I reckon I have more balls than any one of you. Considering you pussies ain't doing shit to point me in the right direction. Would that be on account of your protecting somebody?"
The first carnie counters in an attempt to intimidate the lone female. "Watch who you sling accusations at bitch."
"The lady is askin' you a question, Captain Spaulding," Jackson rebuts. "Shit like this doesn't happen in our town which points to an outsider."
"And there's not much more outsiders than you Muppets," Chibs grimaces.
A circle of carnies, some in casual clothes and some partially dressed in colorful costumes, crowds the motorcyclists. They are aware they are outnumbered two to one, but the statistic doesn't stop the SOA members from turning their backs on each other. The goal is to guard each other's six as much as it is to prevent a surprise attack from behind.
Jackson discloses he is carrying, egging the carnies on. "We can go that way if you want."
Amidst the crowd, Schuyler hears a man call her out specifically. "I don't know about this guys. Goldilocks looks like she can take a punch."
Schuyler spots the man from the dunking booth. His blotchy face is recognizable without the clown makeup. He appears to have escaped the encounter with the club with minimal injuries and demonstrates his feeling of invincibility. "Is Ronald McDonald lookin' to find out?" Her fingertips brush her throwing knives. A blade catches the reflection of the sun. She hears Chibs make similar threats no doubt with his hand grasping his gun.
"Alright, alright," the first carnie says to keep a brawl from breaking out. "I'll tell you what I told the cop. All my guys were here powering down rides, chaining up booths. Security guards your town hired 'tell you the same thing. Happy?"
Jackson frowns, seemingly having reached a dead end. He catches Schuyler's eye over his right shoulder, and they nod in agreement. The trio turns collectively and walks through the circle of clowns on their way to the next stop in search of answers.
Schuyler winks threateningly at the obese carnie. "Next time honey. Promise."
Their next option is to track down the local Sheriff. Which isn't difficult since Jackson knows the man's routine. He can be found at the local barber shop getting a shave by Floyd at this time every Sunday.
The bikes roll into the town center and nearly squeeze into a single parking space. Chibs acts as look out while Schuyler follows Jackson inside. The entrance and extending wall is made entirely of glass windows that face the street. Their goal is to discuss business with a man who has been on Clay's payroll for the better part of twenty years.
"Give us a minute Floyd," Jackson requests the elderly barber. Schuyler assumes he owns the shop since his name is posted above the door.
"I'll give you two." The lean man rights the chair of the client he had been working with and taps his fist gently against Jackson's. He meanders out onto the pavement.
"Jesus Christ. My one peaceful moment of the day," the frail man in the chair grumbles irritably. He wipes at the excess shaving cream on his chin with the bib tucked into his tan shirt collar. He appears to be of a short stature and hardly has a hair to brush into a combover. He is dressed in his police uniform and his badge is dotted with specks of shaving cream, so he must be considered on duty. The perks of protecting a small town. Extended lunch breaks are one of them.
He realizes Schuyler is with Jackson and gawks. "And what in the Sam Hell are you supposed to be?"
"I'm my brothers' keeper."
"She's the new transfer," Jackson acknowledges. Schuyler is surprised the club mentioned a transfer, even to crooked cop. With a simple sentence, she learns how deep the Sheriff must be. "You'll be seeing a lot more of her."
Unser's reply is as crabby as his personality. "I've seen some strange things in my time, but I'm sure even with your charming personality, you'll be just as much a pain in my backside as the rest of 'em."
"We're checking in. Need to know where the PD is at with the Oswald case," Schuyler inquires, wanting to move introductions along.
"Jackson," Unser ignores her. Evidently he has been expecting to hear from the club on this issue. "Do you have any idea how much heat I'm getting on this? Clay wants me to get Hale on board? For that to happen, to even have a chance, I'm going to need you guys," Unser gives Schuyler a sideways glance, "and gal, to trust me to handle this one. If I do anything to compromise this case…"
Schuyler smiles politely. A smile reserved for law enforcement. "'Guys' works fine for me and there are new cards in play."
"We're not asking you to compromise," Jackson replies with equal charisma. "Just tell us what you already know."
Unser wipes his face again while looking uncertainly between the patches. "Got nothing. No witnesses, no suspects. Only one who knows anything is the girl, and she says she's got no memory of it. Even if she did, Karen won't let anyone near her."
"Poor things," Schuyler mutters.
"Can't say I blame her. I'd probably do the same under similar circumstances."
"A'ight. Back to the grind," Jackson forfeits. He makes a move towards the windowed exit.
"Jax! You guys cannot screw me on this. If I don't catch this rapist, I'll be the one put on trial. That's bad for all of us."
"Don't worry chief," Schuyler teases. She ignores his plea much like he ignored her question. "We'll catch him."
On main street, Chibs gets off of a phone call. "Juicy's intel came back. Pinned one of the Aryan's from the carnival with half a dozen sex crimes. Clay wants us to meet him in Pope. Got the address."
"He with Darby?" Jackson mounts his bike.
"Darby says no, but Clay wannae sure. Says we're going in carrying."
Schuyler adjusts her sunglasses. "BYOWeapons?"
"Aye." Chibs turns the key on his bike and leads the trio towards the neighboring town.