“My friends and I are heading to Daytona Beach for Bike Week,” Harold says, indicating with a nod a group of five other men standing beside motorcycles. “We can give you a ride there or to the next town, whichever you want.”
I don’t know what Bike Week entails, but maybe that’s where I’ll find Hannah and my Harley, so I decide to go with them to Daytona Beach. “I’d appreciate that,” I tell Harold.
Sergeant Bronson gives a whatever-floats-your-boat shrug. He reaches into the cruiser and comes out with a business card, which he hands to me. “You can check in with the duty officer to see if we’ve found your cycle.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I say as the sergeant gets in the cruiser and drives away.
“Do you know that girl?” Harold asks.
“We just met. She was hitchhiking. I don’t even know her last name.”
Harold takes a cell phone from his pocket and offers it to me.
“I expect you’ve got some calls to make. Just come over when you’re done. We’ve got rooms booked in Richmond for tonight. Be happy to stake you to dinner and a room, if you want to go that far.”
I power up Harold’s cell phone as he walks toward his group. Who to call? Pete Dye, but his phone number is on my cell phone. What about Helen Abelard, the office administrator at Hartfield, Miller? She’d take care of everything, notifying my credit card companies and bank, ordering replacement cards to be FedExed, getting some cash to me, notifying my insurance company, and anything else that needs doing. Even though I don’t work at the firm anymore, I’ve always been pleasant to Helen. Jenna was in charge of sending her a nice Harry & David fruit basket each Christmas, although the last holiday was missed, with Jenna not at home.
I call the law firm’s main number and get routed to Helen, who says she’s happy to help, no problem at all. She’ll track down the info to get the proper authorizations for my accounts.
“We’ve all missed you,” she tells me.
Maybe she has missed me, but probably not my partners, who fired me.
I join Harold and his friends. He introduces me all around: “Jack, this is Tom Jarvis, Alan Dupree, Bill Standish, whom we call Miles, Langdon Lamont, and Victor Purcell.”
Tom is tall, with light brown hair and the broad shoulders of a collegiate rower, which, I later learn, he was. Alan is short, pear shaped, with a round face and thinning hair. Miles is bald and wears round wire-rimmed glasses; I imagine that he wears a bow tie to work. Langdon is handsome, tall and lanky, with slicked-back sandy hair and an aquiline nose. Victor is of medium height and has a grey brush cut. All of them wear the Devil’s Disciple colors on denim or leather jackets; all are as well groomed as Harold Whittaker; all are pleased to meet me; all have Harold’s New England accent except for Langdon, who speaks with a soft Southern drawl.
No one indicates in any way that I’m a naive idiot, which I obviously am. Gentlemen all. I’m wondering what kind of unusual motorcycle gang this is when Harold saves me from asking.
“We’re all from the Boston area, except for Langdon, who’s from Atlanta and owns a summer place on the Vineyard, where I first met him. I’m an investment banker. Tom is a professor at the Harvard Business School, Alan owns companies, Miles and his wife own a small book-publishing company, Langdon chose the right parents, so he mostly sails and works on lowering his golf handicap, and Vic is a developer of shopping malls.”
“I represent that remark,” Langdon says, grinning.
“I’m a lawyer, from Minneapolis,” I tell them. And then admit, “That was my first motorcycle.”
Alan smiles.
“I imagine, with your hourly billing rate, you can buy another one.”
I don’t mention that I no longer have an hourly billing rate.
“There’s a Harley dealer in Richmond,” Langdon says. “But as you can see, we prefer other brands.”
I check out their rides. All Japanese: a big Honda, two Suzukis, three Yamahas. They all appear to be styled after various Harley-Davidson big-bike models, disguising their Asian provenance nicely: wide and low, with gleaming chrome and fancy paint jobs. The kick-ass Harley look, with Japan’s superior technology and fits and finishes. Like a Lexus in Corvette clothing, I think. And like this group of successful professionals masquerading as the Wild Bunch.
“Very nice bikes,” I say. “How long have you been riding together?”
“Harold, Alan, and I go back six years,” Tom says as he extracts a cigar from his saddlebags, along with a silver cutter and a flip-top Zippo lighter bearing a crimson Harvard crest. He clips off one end, lights up, and takes a long, luxurious drag, the white smoke curling upward as if announcing a new Pope. “The other guys joined us more recently.”
“I saw a program about motorcycle gangs on the Discovery Channel,” I say. “The Devil’s Disciples seemed to be one of the main ones, along with the Hell’s Angels, the Outlaws, and some others.”
Miles Standish says, “You’re wondering how a bunch of WASPy yahoos like us were admitted into one of those highly selective organizations. Like a scholarship kid being tapped for Skull and Bones?”
Langdon grimaces and walks about ten feet away, turning his back to the group.
“I always do that just to piss him off,” Miles says. “He’s a Yalie and a member of that esteemed club. Whenever you speak its name, a member must leave the room.”
Langdon laughs and strolls back over.
“Here’s the deal, Jack. I read in Cycle World, or maybe it was American Iron, that the Disciples decided to cash in on their rep by offering franchises.”
“Very high concept,” Victor says.
“So I had my lawyer look into it,” Alan adds. “Surprisingly, it was legit. Initial franchise fee of ten K, annual dues of one K each, special assessments for things like their legal defense fund. We get to wear the colors, plus we get preferred parking at Daytona Bike Week and Sturgis, and a newsletter with reviews of new cycle models and stories like the best biker bars in Arizona. They even offer discounted motorcycle insurance through GEICO.”
“So far, there are eight other franchises around the country,” Harold explains. “Langdon suggested it to some friends in Atlanta, and they signed up too.”
“There’ll be a Disciples hospitality tent at Daytona,” Langdon tells me. “We dropped in the first year. We were in fact welcome. Turns out they have a finely tuned sense of irony. You have to love that. But let’s just say they party a little harder than we’re comfortable with, so now we find our own happy hour.”
“How often do you guys go out riding?” I ask.
“Schedules are hard to coordinate,” Vic answers. “We get out maybe one weekend a month, cruising to Gloucester for a clam roll or up into Vermont for the fall colors. And then we do this annual ride to Daytona. Langdon is a bachelor. For the rest of us, our wives are mostly understanding, if not fully supportive. ‘Boys will be boys,’ my wife says, not meaning it as a compliment.”
“My wife said, ‘sure, go ahead and do your thing, as long as you increase your life insurance,’ ” Alan says. “So I did.”
“There’s also a yearly gathering in Sturgis, South Dakota,” Vic explains. “But it’s too long a ride.”
“And the other problem is, when you get there, you’re in South Dakota,” Tom adds.
His cigar is burned down to the band. He drops it onto the tarmac, stomps it out with his boot, then picks it up and deposits it into a trashcan on the median. Which a real Devil’s Disciple probably would not do.
“Time to saddle up,” Harold announces. “You can ride with me, Jack. This is a Honda Gold Wing. Heated seat, satellite nav system, heavy-duty suspension, even an air bag. Very comfortable.”
Vic chuckles.
“Easy on his hemorrhoids.”
Harold takes out a white helmet from under the seat, offers it to me, and then swings up onto the saddle.
“It’s my wife’s, but it should fit. She likes it roomy so it won’t flatten her hai
rdo on the way to the farmers’ market.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I really do appreciate this.”
Mrs. Whittaker’s helmet does fit, snugly, but well enough. I find a place to hang my saddlebags, swing myself up, and grip the back of the seat.
Funny, the thoughts you get at moments like this. I remember that the Harley service tech who checked me out on the bike back in Minneapolis told me I’d need to get it serviced after a one thousand mile break-in period. The odometer hit that mark just before I reached McLean, and I’d planned to find a dealer somewhere soon. Now I won’t have to. The Road King is such a fine machine that I irrationally hope that whoever ends up as its owner will know to get that service done.
The other guys buckle on their helmets, mount up, and six engines turn over with a sound that is higher pitched than my Road King, wherever it is.
WE ROLL out of the lot, two abreast, Harold and me in the third row, and head back onto I-95 South: six ersatz Devil’s Disciples, plus one unaffiliated tax attorney wondering where my own motorcycle is heading, what sort of charges might be appearing on my credit cards, and what new adventures I might find around the next bend in the road.
12
Cocktail hour in Richmond, Virginia, as six motorcycles roll up the brick driveway of the Jefferson Hotel on West Franklin Street and brake to a stop under the broad front portico of the elegant century-old limestone structure.
The finely tuned Japanese engines, sounding like a swarm of locusts compared to the jungle cat growl of my missing Harley, echo under the portico roof. The boys cut them off, lever down their kickstands, and we stiffly ease off the saddles.
Usually, I imagine, the management of a venerable old establishment like the Jefferson wouldn’t be pleased by the arrival of a motorcycle gang, even one with reservations. But the Boston chapter of the Devil’s Disciples always stays here on the way to Daytona Bike Week, Harold told me this morning as we began our ride. The franchise Disciples, once they have showered off the road dust and dressed up like their real selves for dinner, fit the hotel’s target demographic perfectly, he explained. They have made themselves known as gentlemen and generous tippers, so the Jefferson staff is always delighted when they arrive. Their individual preferences are on file in the computer: an extra-firm mattress, a particular brand of mineral water on ice in the room, down or foam pillows, a massage appointment, a six-pack of Sam Adams or champagne or Laphroaig single malt Scotch whiskey…. These special needs are always accommodated.
“I trust these digs are acceptable,” Harold says to me as he takes a ticket from the valet parking attendant, who has welcomed him back by name. “When we stopped at the battlefield, I called ahead to add you to our group. King bed, pool view. All rooms are nonsmoking.”
Tom Jarvis is one of those Civil War buffs who dress in uniforms of the Blue and the Grey for battle reenactments, and who have elaborate setups in their basements depicting troop movements in famous battles. To accommodate Tom’s hobby, the Disciples always make a detour on the way to Daytona to the Fredericksburg and Spotsylvania National Military Park for a walk around what historians term “the bloodiest landscape in North America,” Tom told me.
I’ve never studied the subject, but was truly moved by the broad expanse of fields and woodlands where so many young men fell—more than 85,000 wounded and 15,000 killed, the markers said. Numbers so large as to defy comprehension. Compared to this, is the loss of one daughter so tragic?
Yes, it is, to Jenna and me. Catastrophes defy comparison to one another. If you lose someone close, knowing about the carnage of a Civil War battlefield is sad, but of no comfort. Each one of the 100,000 boys and men damaged during that battle had family and friends whose individual grief transcended the general pain of a nation at war with itself. Tremendous numbers of horses were slaughtered too, which saddens me as well.
I ease off my helmet, put my hands on my hips and bend backward with a groan. I’m still not fully recovered from my accident.
“Sounds perfect,” I say. “It’s been a long day. At this point, I could crash in the lobby.”
The valet is a young man dressed as a gentleman who might have roamed the streets of Richmond when Thomas Jefferson was in the White House. As he drives off on Harold’s big Honda, two other young men similarly attired swing open the hotel’s ornate brass front doors.
Inside the lobby, I take in the soaring ceiling, stained glass skylight, marble columns, hanging tapestries, stone floors, and antique furnishings. Yes, these digs will do nicely after a long day riding as a passenger on the Honda. Jenna would like this place, and Hope, too.
After being shown to my room by a Continental soldier carrying my saddlebags over his shoulder, I collapse into an upholstered armchair, pull off my boots, kick up my legs onto the footstool, and take stock of my situation: here I am in a very nice room with a wood-burning fireplace—the Continental soldier, with my approval, touched off a crackling blaze, requiring the air conditioner to be turned on—in the capital of the Confederacy, with no vehicle, cell phone, cash, or credit cards.
Harold Whittaker kindly gave the desk clerk an imprint of his own credit card to guarantee my payment, and tipped the bellman for me. Like Blanche DuBois, I am depending upon the kindness of strangers.
A bottle of champagne is chilling in a silver bucket on the table beside my chair, which Harold, taking me for a man of refined tastes, must have requested. I take this as a compliment, although I’m more of a beer and wine guy. I pop the cork, pour half a glassful into a crystal flute, take a swig, and review my options.
Thanks to Helen Abelard at Hartfield, Miller, overnight couriers are scheduled to deliver new credit cards in the morning, so I’ll be back in business. I’ll get a prepaid cell phone from a drugstore. I can find the local Harley-Davidson dealer Harold mentioned and buy a new ride, or maybe find another dealer and switch brands. I like the comfort of Harold’s big Honda and the look of the Suzuki and Yamaha, with their rich paint jobs and high-pitched engines that seem to want to run away from the pack. Or I could cab it to the airport, fly to Miami like an adult and rent a car for the drive to Key West. Or rent a car in Richmond. Or book a flight back to Minneapolis, an option always on the table.
I stare into the mesmerizing orange and blue flames and feel their warmth. I remember a snowy winter evening at home in Edina, my family gathered around the hearth when Hope was young, toasting marshmallows in the fireplace. Maybe Hope will suddenly reappear the way those two kidnapped girls did after so many years, what were their names? And then Jenna would be healed, and we’d have our family again.
The ringing of the room telephone interrupts this pleasant fantasy, which, I know, is not going to happen. I push myself up out of the chair, walk over to the desk, and answer.
“Jack, it’s Harold. Will you join us for cocktails down in the bar?”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
“Great, we’re going right down. See you momentarily.”
I extract from the saddlebags a pair of rolled-up khaki slacks, along with a green polo shirt, tan V-neck sweater, and my Topsiders. I’ll have to go without a sport coat. Setting out, I hadn’t packed for cocktail hour with an upscale motorcycle gang in a fancy Old South hotel.
I haven’t gotten a haircut in maybe a month, so my hair is longer than usual. I decide that I’ll let it keep growing, and also stop shaving. Unsuccessful so far in altering my interior, I can at least change the exterior.
I FIND the boys seated in leather club chairs in the oak-paneled bar, located off the lobby beside the hotel’s main dining room. Oil paintings on the walls depict scenes of fox hunting and blue-water sailing. Harold signals to a waitress that we’re ready to order drinks. I ask for a beer, the others cocktails or wine, except for Langdon, a Southern dandy of the old school, who wants a Ramos Gin Fizz.
“I like this hotel,” I tell them. “Very antebellum. A throwback to a time when Northerners were still welcome in the Old South.”
Victor Purc
ell replies, “And with this recession, our Yankee greenbacks are welcome. I know the owner. He’s a big-time real estate developer. Built Hilton Head, among other things.”
The drinks arrive.
“No offense, Jack, but …” Alan begins.
“Which guarantees that you are about to offend,” Tom says.
“Point taken. But I was wondering why you chose tax law. It seems rather …”
“Arcane?” Tom says. “Boring? No offense, of course.
” Everyone is smiling.
“I didn’t know what specialty I’d choose when I was in law school,” I tell them. “At my law firm, a senior partner is assigned as mentor to each new associate. I drew the head of the tax department, probably because I earned a joint law and accounting degree.”
“Smart boy,” says Tom, the Harvard Business School professor. “It’s all about the numbers.”
“I didn’t have to choose tax law,” I explain. “But the department head was approaching retirement age. He liked me and said tax could be a fast track to partnership. I never regretted it.”
Miles Standish, who, I recall, owns a publishing company, stands and raises his glass for a toast. The others all stand too, holding their glasses high. I follow their lead.
Harold explains: “The first year we stayed here, Miles offered a toast with a literary reference, with the challenge that, if we could identify its source, the drinks were on him.”
Miles clears his throat.
“Here’s to we few, we happy few, we band of brothers!”
“Here, here,” they all say, clinking glasses. “To we band of brothers!”
After a moment of contemplation, Alan says, “It’s from that book and TV series about a WW Two infantry platoon.”
“Band of Brothers,” adds Tom.
“Incorrect,” Miles says. “These are, of course, the immortal words of King Henry V, put in his royal mouth by the late great William Shakespeare. His St. Crispin’s Day speech on the eve of the Battle of Agincourt. Stephen Ambrose did take his book title from the work I cite. So, once again, I’ve stumped you fellows, which, as you well know, I always enjoy immensely.”
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