by Max Henry
I stare into her soft, blue eyes and feel a calm wash over me. “Where are you going tonight?”
She smirks, and pulls her hands away. “Wouldn’t you love to know?”
Before she can move out of reach, I grip her about the wait and capture her with a kiss. She startles, but soon relaxes into the moment.
Sonya pulls away first and brings her fingers to her lips. “I do believe that’s the second time we’ve kissed,” she says with a smile. Pushing up to her tiptoes, she brings her mouth to my ear and whispers, “People will talk.”
I smirk as she saunters away and gets in the truck, flashing me a smile in the rear-view as she pulls away.
Let them talk.
THE NEXT day, I have my guy—a trailer-park dwelling tweaker with an eye for the prize. Best thing about a gateway drug like marijuana? There’s always a wannabe drug lord out there, ready to spend his last dollar on the fucked-up idea he can make himself an empire before he dies from his own habit.
The ride from the clubhouse to where the tweaker lives is a solid nine hours. I’m four hours in, and forty-eight hours behind Sawyer. Fuck knows what the asshole is up to. King has his eyes and ears on the job, but our contacts around here are slim. It’s like trying to spot Waldo in all of the American continent. I’m not exactly holding a candle in the hope that they’ll dig something up, but you never know if you don’t try.
What King’s contacts have managed to dig up for me is a phone number. A very specific phone number: Alice’s. It was a stab to the gut when I heard he’s back in our hometown, and the knife is twisted knowing King can get a hold of his details with the right amount of monetary persuasion. How much of a failure as a father does that make me, when one failed attempt at tracking him down so many years ago makes me give up? I should have thought to try again; people move—I did.
An hour back, I took a moment at the rest stop and tried calling. Predictably, he didn’t answer. Unpredictably, I couldn’t leave him a message on his voicemail because I choked. I fuckin’ holed up and lost my voice hearing him spiel off on the answer service.
My kid is a man.
He has a man’s voice.
My kid grew up without me.
It hurt, stabbed me right through the heart. I missed the crucial years, the years that shape the man, the years that define who he’ll be. And what’s worse? I get the feeling in my gut that he became something better without me.
Isn’t that what I wanted? Why then do I feel so cheated?
Still, I don’t hesitate in my determination to get there, to do what I can to stop Sawyer, to help my kid. Because, as Sonya rightly pointed out, if I don’t try, the regret will kill me. I’ll die a bitter old man, angry at myself, at the world, and at everything and nothing all at once.
The anger will eat me from the inside out, as it almost did eighteen years ago when Alice walked out the door.
The fuel light on my bike catches my eye as I lean into a sweeping bend. Taking notice of the numerous signs that fly past in a blur of green, I finally spot one giving me a distance to the next fuel stop. Filling my time over the last few miles before I reach it, I rerun the words I intended to say in the message on Alice’s phone. On second thought, maybe choking up was divine intervention. I’d intended to give him the whole nine yards—tell him what was happening and why I was calling. But in hindsight, maybe that wouldn’t be for the best. I know if my old man had called me after so many years and spouted something like that I sure as shit would have deleted the message and called him a crazy old coot.
No. I need to try a softer approach, gain his trust and let him down gently. I need to talk to him face to face, so he can’t hang up on me. I need to make sure he has no excuse not to see me in the flesh.
After this long, there is no way I can go without meeting my boy—without getting close enough to shake his hand.
After fuelling up, I take the bike over to a parking spot and recline on the edge of the curbed garden to eat the lunch Sonya packed me. To say it was a surprise would be an understatement. I get the feeling she’s interested in something with me, but doesn’t want the whole club aware of it. I don’t get why, though? Why would it matter what they all think?
The whole situation was was awkward; trying to slip out unnoticed and having her turn up with a bunch of shit to keep my energy up. Although, I have to give it to the woman—she knew the right stuff to give me. No cut sandwiches here, just beef strips, almonds, cooked rice . . . all the good things. Kind of makes me wonder if she knew a body-builder or two in her time. Most people don’t have a great knowledge about the best diet for men my size if they haven’t been in the lifestyle.
Two truckers walk past, and I give them a curt nod as I dive into the rice and vegetable mix. They eyeball me and keep walking—a typical response, so I keep eating. The mid-afternoon sun beats down on my leather cut, the black color causing me maximum discomfort. Yet, it could be a hundred degrees out and I wouldn’t take it off. It’s my message, my allegiance. It’s how I honor those who’ve been there for me in the worst of times.
But also in a way, it’s nice. It’s nice to be reminded that life isn’t easy, and that sometimes we just have to suffer the shit for the sake of getting through the day. If everything were a walk in the park, then what would we learn? Only when adversity strikes, does a person get a chance prove who they really are.
A lesson I’ve learnt repeatedly, but never paid due mind to.
Polishing off the rice, I pull my phone out and dial Alice. Again, his phone goes to voicemail, only this time I leave a message.
“Hey, Alice. I’m sure you’re wondering why I chose now to get in touch. It’s been . . . a while, but I promise there’s a good reason for this. Call me and we can meet up for a talk. Place of your choosing. I just have a few things to tell you—what you do with them is your choice.”
I hit end and pocket the phone. No way am I expecting a response from him. I’m almost one hundred per cent certain I’ll be making these captain’s log entries the whole fuckin’ way there. Only choice is to carry on, and hope like hell by some miracle he calls back.
Four hours of riding and half an hour of stretching my limbs out on the side of the road later, my phone vibrates in my pocket, sending waves across the surface of my skin. Traffic hurtles past me as I sit on the edge of the highway and pull it out.
One missed call: King.
I dial and wait.
“Hey, Lynch. Got some news. You sitting down?”
“On the bike, one hour out.”
“Cool, cool. So the guy I arranged to look into things for you?”
“Yeah?” I hang expectantly, hoping he’ll tell me they found Alice’s address, his whereabouts, and that he’s okay.
“He’s got news. Turns out Sawyer’s been busy already.”
My gut churns. “Spit it out. How bad we talkin’?”
“Bad, but not for your boy.” The relief almost knocks me off my bike. “Sawyer’s got to that kid Tigger, the knife kid, messed him up pretty bad, and it’s not confirmed, but I think he was a D.O.A.”
“Fuck. What now? How much do the others know?”
“The guy’s informant said the stories are that Carlos organized it. Don’t know how they know that—maybe they’re just linking the last names, I’m not sure. But your boy and his buddies are after Carlos.”
“The kid doesn’t know what he’s messing with.” I rub a hand over my face, frustrated that this is how my son wanted to grow up. So many other options . . .
“Bud, I think he does. I’ve been looking into them a little more, and yeah, they don’t take on light jobs. Don’t take this the wrong way, but your kid ain’t no boy anymore.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I let it out slow, watching the cars zip by. “I know, man. I know.”
“They’re jacking up this kid’s funeral for somewhere in the next few days. I’ll be in touch when I know the details, but in the meantime run with your plan. You’ll need the alibi.”
/>
“All good here, buddy. I’ve got my fuckin’ ducks in a row, don’t you worry about that.”
“Good. But for fuck’s sake, keep a level head if you can.”
I laugh and hang up on him. Keep a level head. Don’t think I ever have.
• • • • •
A COUPLE of younger hang-arounds play pool at the corner table as I vacuum the common room. It’s a Monday, and the place is pretty quiet. Only the live-ins are here during the week, and these days that’s not many.
I’m on my last leg, just moving the plug for the machine to a new outlet, when King walks in, his face a storm.
“Hey, Sonya.” He drops into the sofa beside where I’m gearing up to go again.
“How’s things?” I’m burning to ask about Vince, but I know the rules: women aren’t privy to club business.
“Busy,” King says with a groan. He drops his head back on the sofa and sighs. I lift my foot to start the vacuum, but drop it back to the floor when he speaks again.
“You know that Vince lost his wife, right?” He drops his head forward again and his green eyes bore into me.
I nod, uncomfortable at his choice of topic. I’ve never felt right talking about people’s personal affairs when they’re not present.
“The guy puts up a pretty brave front,” he warns, “but he’s still really messed up about the whole thing. I think you’ll be the only one who can help him with that, you know.”
I frown at him. “How so? When did he lose his wife?” It can’t be recent considering I’ve never heard anyone here talk about her, and I know he was unattached when he came in.
“Quite a while ago. He’s never said exactly, but I get the impression his kid was young when it happened.”
I tip my head to the side. “King, I lost Mike pretty recently in comparison. If he’s still cut up about it after that long, how am I going to help?”
“Because you know what he’s thinkin’. And don’t tell me you don’t want to—you can’t help yourself, woman.”
“You think because of Mike that Vince and I are bosom buddies?” My heart aches just saying my dead husband’s name. “That’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“It’s exactly what I think.” King shifts, leaning his elbows on his knees. “You get it.”
“Does he want help, though? I mean, after that long a man has to be pretty settled in his situation.”
He slowly shakes his head. “Or he’s been too stubborn to ask for help.”
I place the vacuum head down and take a seat next to King. He turns his body to face me as I lean back, throwing my hands over my head to rest on the back of the sofa.
“I don’t think I’m the answer, though. I’m not sure if ‘getting it’ is enough, Lloyd.” I use King’s given name to push just how serious I am. “I mean, I understand, but I can’t offer him more than that. I don’t have any magic solution to the pain, the regret and the heartache. It’s been five years since Mike died in that accident, and for five years I’ve continued to grieve.”
“But you’ve moved on, right?”
“I wish.” I snort and shake my head. “I think, if I’m honest, for every ounce the pain of loss lessens, the heartache at what you’re missing out on grows.”
“He needs someone to make him see it’s not his fault, Sonya. The guy still blames himself for everything.”
“I don’t even know how she died. How can I tell him it wasn’t his fault if I don’t know what happened?”
King fidgets with the crown-shaped buckles on his boots, the very things that got him his name, and thinks it over. I can see the war within; does he tell me, does he not? I pray that he doesn’t.
“It’s not my place to tell you the story, babe. That’s for him to do. But I will say it wasn’t easy and it wasn’t quick.”
My heart aches anew at the implications of those words. What horrific thing happened to Vince’s wife? No wonder the guy is messed up over it.
I place my hand on King’s leg. “I’ll see what I can do. Only because I owe you.”
“I’ve told you before, Sonya. You owe me nothing.”
He stands and leaves, shoulders hunched and the weight of the world on them. He’s a good man, one who took me in and made sure I didn’t suffer alone when Mike died. My mortgage foreclosed, my belongings were sold, but King gave me a home, a place to live and a reason to get up in the morning.
He gave me back my life and I’ll never forget that.
I PULL up to the trailer park and set my booted feet down on the road. The place is unassuming enough, and the permanent dwellings are adorned with all manner of outdoor settings, kids toys, and tacky garden ornaments. The trailers which more than likely house pensioners are easy to spot, with their uniform red flower, yellow flower, red flower, yellow flower configurations and practical awnings.
I push off and idle the bike between the rows of homes, the engine chugging along nicely on the right side of stalling while I read the numbers. Two ‘roads’ in, I find the place I’m looking for and kick out the stand. The tweaker’s peering out from behind the broken blinds before I’ve as much as turned the engine off. He lets it slip closed when I approach, and pulls the door open a fraction.
“Name?”
“Yours?” I counter. I’m not stupid enough to be the first to give away information. For all I know, he’s snuffed the guy I’m looking for and hoping to get something outta me.
“Nathaniel.” He sniffs, and rubs the back of his hand under his nose. The kid may be looking to pedal some green stuff, but he sure as shit is shooting rock or worse.
“Yeah, I’m your guy,” I tell him, cautious of his jerky movements.
“Come in.”
I follow him into the trailer, watching with disgust as he kicks trash aside and pushes dirty dishes off the foldout table with his arm. They fall to the floor with a smash and quickly blend in with the rest of the filth.
“Sit down.” He tips his chin toward a seat.
I eye it up, undecided if it was originally blue or green. Either way, it’s a putrid shade of caramel now.
“I’d rather stand.”
He gets to business pretty efficiently. Watching his mannerisms and the tells, I’d say he’s a day past his last fix and ready to use whatever he can to ease the itch—including the goods I’m packing.
Where the fuck do our contacts find these low-lives?
Within the half-hour, I’m back out front of his trailer, straddling my bike and getting ready to go when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and answer, watching the trailer in case our tweaker gets antsy at me hesitating.
“Hey, I’ve got info.” King slurps down the line. He’s probably on his tenth coffee already¸ knowing his habit of alternating coffee and smokes to make it through the daylight hours alive.
“What you find?”
“Funeral details. Friday at one P.M.”
“Noted.”
“You got the moolah to cover a week in a motel?”
“Yeah, I’m flush.” My eyes roam the rows of homes as I listen. I make a mental note to never come full circle and end up in a place like this—rundown, and way past its prime.
“I’ll sort you out when you get back, anyway. Sonya says hi.”
“Yeah?” I cringe at my blatant surprise.
King laughs—hard. “No! Just wanted to case you out, and damn man, you got it for her, haven’t you?”
“Fucker,” I growl. “That was not funny.”
“Totally was. Anyhow, I’ve got paperwork to complete if I want our boys doing their work this week without hassle, so I’ll catch you soon.”
“No problem. Can you text the details so I don’t forget by Friday?”
“On it.”
King ends the call and within seconds I feel the vibration in my pocket to say I have a message. I kick up the stand, and hightail it out of the place, uncomfortable with the chills it’s giving me. Too many memories in a place like that—memories of a c
hildhood I’d rather forget.
The M on the motel sign flashes, and the L has died. I pull up beside the reception office of the ‘m-m-mote’, and take the keys from the bike. A fan drones beside the door as I push it open, the buzzer announcing my arrival. It sounds like it’s about as enthusiastic as the neon M outside to be there.
“Afternoon.” A middle-aged man appears from a door behind the counter and balances his reading glasses at the end of his nose. “What can I help you with today?”
I’m sorely tempted to ask for a haircut, just to be an ass after such a stupid question, but I bite my lip for now. “Four nights,” I reply.
“Cable?”
“Didn’t know it was optional.”
“Everything’s optional.”
Wish somebody had told me that sooner—may have opted not to have my wife die and my kid walk out on me. But you know, hindsight and all that.
“Cable.”
He tallies up my room and we complete the transaction; he gets money for a shithole in the wall, and I get a key that opens the door to my solitary confinement for the better part of a week. Winning all ’round.
I walk the bike to the parking space out front of my room—number thirteen, how nice—and head inside to rest. It’s been a long ride, a hell of a week, and I need sleep—lots of it. The room is adorned with the normal pastels and cream, square with a small bathroom in the back right corner and a bed built in to the left wall. Given the age of the wood-paneled television, I’m duly surprised it can even get cable.
I throw my jacket, cut and helmet down on the small armchair by the door, and kick my boots off on the way to the shower. The water runs hot over my back after I finally shirk my clothes and step in a few minutes later. It’s heaven on my aching muscles. I let the rivers run over me, soothing the pressure that originates deep from within my bones.
Refreshed and relaxed, I shirk the towel and dive under the sheets as stark as the day I came into the world. The crisp, white linens are cool against my hot skin, and within minutes I’m fast asleep, charging up my batteries for whatever shit-fight I’m about to walk into.