Chapter 58

‘Shining’ Bill Tiffen, vice president of Gypsies MC Halifax chapter, stood six four and weighed about 320 pounds.
When he stood up from the table, everyone in the back room of the Hercules could not help but notice and follow his body as it moved across the room. He was light on his feet, or so it seemed, perhaps because of the top-heavy shape of his body structure. He was shaped sort of like a sturdy whale standing upright on it’s tail fin. His forearms looked like they were the largest part of his entire body. They were like white tree logs covered in fluffly orange hair, swinging out of the sleeves of his Killers T-Shirt.
Bill’s ass and belly were thick and square like a refridgerator. His leather pants had to be custom made, but his legs were sturdy, not fat. Or perhaps they only looked tapered and thinner because he was bow-legged.
Bill Tiffen fit a Harley Davidson Fat Boy perfectly. When he rowed around town, he looked huger than any man Joe Junior had ever seen. All you could see were those massive forearms on the handlebars. And that huge back when he rode away, like the back doors of a moving van.
He was the only biker Joe Junior knew who still had long hair. He looked like a biker out of the seventies. Gypsies now were all clean cut and looked like jocks with tattoos, including Joe Junior.
Joe Junior had been in thrall of Bill ever since the forst time he saw him. It was down the waterfront during Busker Fest in Halifax. The Gypsies were on a cross-Canada run before forming Halifax chapter. They stopped at the waterfront in front of Perks to meet and greet other bikers from around the Maritimes.
Joe Junior a Yegger back then and went down to try to get some good Gypsy contacts.
He was talking with Perry Spalding, at that time a Montreal Gypsy. At one point, Spalding getsured over his shoulder at a huge biker in full leathers and a vest with no sleeves stalking down the boardwalk, towering over everybody in the crowd around him and his long red hair flapping in the wind and a pointy red beard like a Viking. He walked like Michael in the Halloween movies, like a giant psycho. Like he was unstoppable.
He still walked like that.
Joe Junior watched him stalk over to the oak log bar in the corner of the Hercules church room. For a big man, he had so much energy. He seemed to float across the cherrywood floor.
A middle-age blonde lady who would’ve been sexy ten years ago was ready to serve. She stood in a white dress shirt and black jean pants with dark mascara around her eyes like a raccoon.
“Shelly!” Bill boomed at her.
“Hi Bill.”
“Gimme that bottle of Cape Breton whiskey.”
She handed him the 26 ouncer of Glenny Breton Single Malt and a thick crystal highball glass filled halfway with fat ice cubes.
“Thanks Doll. How’s Cody?”
“You really should come see her, Bill. She misses you.”
“I will,” Bill said, walking back to the table. “I’ll try.”
With the Fag gone and the strippers back to work, J.P Nason, Joe Junior and ‘Shining’ Bill started drinking whisky and hashing out the Dee Lee situation.
The question was how should Bill best appear to be helping Dee Lee in his time of need.
With chapter president Perry Paul ‘Cock’ Spalding facing murder charges, the other, larger Gypsy charters and other gangs across the country, were keeping a close eye on Halifax, as a potential chapter in peril.
The remaining members of Halifax chapter had to be seen keeping their shit together, or risk enemies moving in and staking out territory.
If what Lewis White said was true, Bill was also being considered a top suspect by Dee Lee, in the cocaine theft, which meant he had to make a stonger gesture of support than anyone.
“Okay,” he said, taking a serious tone. “Joey. Are you working on this or not? What progress are you making on locating the mooses?”
Joe Junior was joking around with Nason about the Fag still, but he turned instantly serious when Bill addressed him.
He put his hands flat on the table. “Okay. My tech guy has been working on this situation, as I said, and he’s making progress.”
He sat up straight and raised his eyebrows. “Basically, we think we may have found something that will hopefully get us an address for one of the mooses, in the next week or two.”
Bill lit a cigarette and blew the billowy first drag up toward the ceiling fan.
“What did you find? Because I sensed you had something.”
Bill tapped his wide freckled forehead and pointed to the chalkboard on the south wall, opposite the bar. “Use the chalkboard.”
Joe Junior stood up and walked over to the chalkboard, taking his glass of whiskey with him. “Okay. You know that one of the mooses worked for Rimpack, legit-ly, on one of the tuna boats this past fall.” Joe Junior set his tumbler of whisky down on a ledge and picked up a long piece of chalk.
“I know.” Bill said, eyes glinting. Bill always worked to cultivate the impression that he was supernaturally aware of things, nurturing the mythology that he possessed some kind of psychic powers.
Joe Junior was never sure what he actually knew and what he didn’t. He wrote the name of the moose down on the chalkboard, just in case:
Kurtis Missions.
“I said ‘I know,” Bill scoffed. “Get on with it.”
Rimpack was the Digby County fishing company of which ‘Shining’ Bill was director and part-owner.
A series of working 40-metre tuna boats with false wall compartments were used to smuggle drugs, cash and weapons into Canada from Mexico and Trinidad.
“My techie was tipped to this idea by someone at Service Canada,” Joe Junior began. “He’s not totally sure it’s going to work, but it’s got potential. Now, apparently-” Joe Junior stopped talking abruptly and wrote the rest of his sentence on the chalkboard:
Kurtis applied for pogey.
The Herc had been swept for listening devices after ‘Cock’ Spalding’s arrest, but ‘Shining’ Bill operated under the assumption that it had since been redone.
He insisted his men used the chalkboard whenever business was discussed.
“Okay,” Bill said. “He likes free money. Me too.”
“Just listen. Technically, we were his last legitimate-“ employer, Joe Junior wrote. Rimpack. “So, we received notification of his application, and were asked to verify that he had enough-” hours to qualify, he wrote, then erased everything he had writtten so far with a dry eraser.
“We had to fill in a form certifying that he had enough to qualify.” 600 hours, he wrote. “But on the advice of my guy, we-“disputed claim instead. Disputed number of hours worked.
‘Shining’ Bill took a swig of his whiskey. “Go on.”
“So, we’re alleging that he didn’t-" work enough hours. "That he’s trying to scam the system.”
“There’s a reason for doing so?”
Joe Junior put his palm up. “Just wait, you’re going to like this.” He turned to the chalkboard again. “Wherever he ended up, he hopefully gave them his," current address, "assuming he wants his money to come, right?" By disputing his claim, Joe Junior wrote, we receive a copy of his pogie application. “Which will hopefully have his current address on it.”

‘Shining’ Bill laughed and pounded the table with a club-like fist, shaking the glass ashtrays.
“Please God, let him be that stupid.”