Jersey Tough by Wayne Bradshaw

Jersey Tough by Wayne Bradshaw

Author:Wayne Bradshaw
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: True Crime
ISBN: 9781770908437
Publisher: ECW Press
Published: 2016-01-12T05:00:00+00:00


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SHAKING THE TIGER’S TAIL

Things were quiet for two or three weeks, with no visits from members of the Breed. It was hard to believe that Whiskey and his buddies would let Steve and me get away with the firebombing, but maybe they were just hanging low for a while.

I continued to hang out at the Globe Bar in Red Bank with my friends. One rainy night in late March, I was having a beer there when the phone rang. The bartender picked it up.

“It’s for you,” he said, handing the phone across the bar to me. I’d never received any phone calls at the Globe before; this was truly a first, and I wondered if the caller would be friend or foe.

“You haven’t been coming around,” Jake Slater said casually. “We never see you.” A legendary figure on the Jersey Shore, Slater was the very persona of a tough biker, a man feared by all who crossed his path, and respected by some.

“I’ve been busy,” I said. “But when are you getting something together?”

“Tonight, as in now,” Slater said. “I’ll give you directions, you gotta come by. Some of the guys want to meet you.”

“Okay, give it to me. I’m in.”

I’d met Jake on a couple of occasions. He lived in Atlantic Highlands, where he pretty much ruled the community. Jake stood about six foot three and weighed a muscular 260 pounds. His black hair was moderate length and wavy, and he always had a beard—sometimes a full one, sometimes a Fu Manchu. He was missing one of his front teeth, which gave him a gap-toothed smile. Jake always wore a black leather glove on his right hand, with silver metal studs on it, and a matching chap on his right forearm.

Slater reminded me a bit of Big T from my army days. Both men were naturally massive in size, loved violent domination and were charismatic and intelligent. Both could also be disarmingly charming one moment and sadistic and deadly the next. I genuinely liked Slater and enjoyed the brief time I’d spent with him. I knew he was being seriously courted by the Pagans Motorcycle Club, and I was still a little gun-shy from my time with the Breed, so I never attempted to locate him or frequent the places where he could often be found drinking truly prodigious amounts of rye whiskey.

I paid my tab at the Globe, headed out and hopped into my old Ford Galaxie for the short ride to Slater’s designated meeting place, his buddy Steve Stone’s house in the Port Monmouth section of Middletown. About 12 people were there when I arrived late that evening; I only knew two from high school and around town. A few others I recognized as members of the Asbury Park chapter of the Pagans Motorcycle Club. No one at the house was wearing colors, and the mood was light and friendly. What was perhaps most remarkable about the gathering was the setting: the interior of the house had been gutted, and we were looking at wall studs, outlets and plumbing.



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