Page 9 of Joker

If it’s a woman, why not say that?

If it’s a witness, why only one escort?

If it’s something political between chapters, why me and not Logan himself or one of the higher-ranking guys officially carrying chapter authority?

The answers come and go, none of them landing solid.

At the first state line, I make the call like I was told.

The number rings twice before a rough voice answers. No greeting. No name. Just, “Yeah.”

“Crossed over,” I say.

There’s a beat of silence. “Keep moving.”

Then the line goes dead.

I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and keep driving.

By the third hour, the road has flattened into that endless southern stretch where the scenery changes just enough to keep you from falling asleep but not enough to entertain you. I crack the window, let hot wind push through the cab, and eat half a bag of jerky without tasting it.

Around hour four, I start thinking less about what I’m picking up and more about why Logan chose me specifically.

That answer is easier.

I don’t ask questions when it counts. I don’t panic. I don’t spook easy. And if what I’m bringing back is breathing, I’m not likely to make it worse by saying too much.

That feels deliberate too, like he didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing in front of the wrong ears. There are always ears around a clubhouse, even ours. Prospects, old ladies, kids, members coming and going. People hear more than they should.

I can respect that. Doesn’t mean I enjoy being kept half blind.

By the time I’m fifteen minutes out from the address, I’m running on caffeine, nicotine, and a curiosity that’s sharpened into something close to impatience. I make the second call. This time the same voice answers before the first full ring.

“Fifteen out,” I say.

“We’ll be ready.”

Again, dead line.

Friendly bastard.

I pocket the phone and turn down a narrower road lined with trees and old fencing. The address leads me farther out than I expected, away from anything crowded, the kind of place you’d choose if privacy matters more than convenience. The Louisiana chapter’s property comes into view around a bend, the gate set back from the main road, clubhouse sitting farther in with outbuildings scattered around it.

I slow as I approach, give my name to the prospect waiting by the gate, and get waved through after a quick check that suggests they were told exactly who to expect.

No surprise there.

I park where another prospect points me, kill the engine, and step out into the thick heat. Louisiana feels heavier somehow, the air dense enough to drink, and by the time I shut the truck door my shirt is already sticking between my shoulders.

A couple men are watching from the porch, not hostile exactly, but alert enough to remind me I’m on someone else’s ground. Fine. I’d do the same.

I grab the file from the seat, slam the door, and head up the walk without hurrying.

Grinder, the chapter president is waiting just inside the open clubhouse doors. Mid-fifties maybe, broad through the shoulders, weathered in the way men get when life and leadership have both taken their cut. He doesn’t waste time with fake warmth. He steps forward, offers a hand, and says, “Joker.”

I take it. “That’s what they call me.”

His mouth almost moves. “Heard.”