“What’s my tell?”
“If someone’s tipping their pitches, you don’t let ‘em know what their tell is. You’re a baseball man. You should know that.”
“And you should know I’m being straight with you, dammit,” I growled.
Another long pause. Then Dan said, “Write this down.”
He gave me the address of the clubhouse where the Marauders operated. He started his car and we got out without another word. It was only after we returned to our vehicle that I realized I hadn’t thanked him. My headache had come on fast and strong, and I had no time for niceties. If we made it through the weekend in one piece, I’d send him a thank-you card.
34
We stopped at the Waffle Depot to switch cars. I was relieved to discover my Challenger had made it through the night without being stolen.
Next, we stopped at Wilmington Station. At the ticket booth, I bought two one-way tickets on the next DC-bound train. The silver-haired octogenarian working the booth recognized me…which was exactly what I was hoping for. We chatted for a minute or two about our grandkids, who were about the same age. On my way out the door I waved to a few passengers who gave me “the look.” Even shook a couple of hands. A teenaged girl with a red ribbon in her hair raised her camera phone, and I gave her my most vice-presidential grin. She pursed her lips and winked. She removed the ribbon to let her hair down and made another face. It took me longer than it should have to realize she wasn’t taking my picture—she was taking her own.
The Mayor nodded to me, but we didn’t speak.
Outside, I tore up the train tickets and dropped them in a trash can.
Barack was sitting in the passenger seat of the Challenger with his cap low over his face. “I was beginning to worry you got lost in there,” he said. “What took you so long?”
“I can’t exactly walk into the Joseph R. Biden Jr. Railroad Station without attracting a crowd.”
“Nobody calls it that,” Barack pointed out.
“Tonight they will. I made a scene,” I said. “I did everything but kiss a baby. If Esposito or her goons look for us, the trail is going to lead them to Washington—and then it’s going to go cold as Des Moines in January.”
“Unless she’s better at her job than you think.”
“I thought we were both in on this plan.”
“I’m just saying, I doubt it’s going to fool her. She’s being groomed to be the next chief of police for a reason, and it’s certainly not on account of her charming personality.”
I slapped the wheel with both hands. “Next time, I’d appreciate it if you could voice your objections before I spend two hundred bucks on useless tickets.”
“It might work,” Barack said, but there was a discernable lack of conviction in his voice.
I shook my head. “You know, this is where it all began.”
“Inauguration Day,” Barack said. “How cold was the wind chill? Ten degrees, wasn’t it?”
“I meant before that. My first run for president.”
The station was where I’d announced my campaign, back in 1987. I rode an Amtrak train rebranded the “Biden Express” with my family from Wilmington down to DC. After a decade and a half in the Senate, I was ready for a bigger challenge. Little did I know that the bigger challenge wouldn’t be the primary race (which I would unceremoniously quit), but a pair of cranial aneurysms that would leave me on death’s door. I’d had my last rites read.
“You really want to follow up this lead, about the motorcycle club?” Barack asked. “Do you know anything about biker gangs, beyond what you’ve seen on cable TV?”
“I used to ride.”
“Really?” he asked with disbelief.
“I had a life before I went into politics. Wasn’t in a club, or one of these outlaw groups, but I had a bike.”
“I believe you. But we need to seriously think about how far we’re going to go. The body count is rising. Steve is in the hospital. And let’s not forget that you got whooped by some woman swinging her shoe.”
“She’s an Amazon,” I said. “Seven foot tall.”
“If she’s the same woman from the motel, she wasn’t that tall.”
“She was in heels this afternoon. Flats the other night.”
“Regardless, you’re in rough shape. And I’m not even going to mention that knee that’s been hobbling you this whole time, or the concussion you sustained this afternoon.”
“You think that was my first concussion? Ha.”
“We need to think about the bigger picture here, Joe. What’s more important? Solving this mystery, or your health? A lot of people are counting on you. Maybe more than you realize.”
“This isn’t about the future,” I said. “This is about right now.”
Barack didn’t say anything.
I continued, “Remember what you said, when our poll numbers started to dip in 2008? Things were starting to swing McCain’s way. If the election tipped in his favor, we’d be dead in the water. Our whole strategy was built on maintaining that sense of inevitability—that sense that this was your time. America was ready for a black president. If there was even a sliver of doubt in people’s minds, it would open the door wide. ‘I knew America wasn’t ready,’ the doubters would say. ‘I knew he was too young, too cocky, too black.’ After Axe read the poll numbers showing the Straight Talk Express pulling neck and neck with us, doubt started to creep into that room. And what was it you said?”
Barack looked up and to the left, no doubt replaying that day in his head. He didn’t have to repeat what he’d said, though, because I knew every word:
Things have been easy so far. They’re not going to stay that way. The path to victory isn’t a straight one. There are going to be ups and downs, twists and turns. There will be times when we all wonder what the hell we were thinking. That’s doubt. You know what the opposite of doubt is? It’s not certainty, because nothing in this life is certain. The opposite of doubt is hope. I’m not talking about blind optimism; I’m not talking about wishful idealism. I’m talking about that stubborn thing inside each and every one of us that insists something better awaits us as long as we have the courage to keep fighting.
“As long as you have hope,” he said, repeating his words from that day, “you’re still in the game.”
“And when you lose it?” I asked, echoing a field organizer’s question.
“You can’t lose it. Hope never dies.” He looked down at his hands. “We were younger then.”
“Not by much. You’re younger now than I was then.”
“I’m not talking about the years.”
“We had eight years,” I said. “It wasn’t easy.”
“I never expected it to be.”
“Together, though…together we got it done.”
He focused on some faraway point.
I wiped my nose with my sleeve. I was getting the sniffles. Maybe the start of a summer cold. I was all too aware that, at my age, that could mean a joyride in a pine box.
“Forget about 2008, and 2012, and 2016,” I said. “Forget about everything we did, and everything we didn’t do. Forget about our successes and our failures. Focus on this one thing, right here. This is it. This is our chance to make a difference. A real difference.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. For once, he didn’t shrug it off or make a joke out of it. “I don’t exactly know what happened between us at the end, but it’s water under the bridge. You got that? We’re out of our element here—”
“We’re not even on the periodic table.”
“All the more reason to harness whatever hope is left inside us. What do you say? Can we do this?”
“Yes.” A thin smile spread on his face. “Yes we can.”
35
The Marauders’ clubhouse was located about half a mile from the Heart of Wilmingt
on Motel. We’d driven past it twice this weekend without a second glance; it was an anonymous concrete fortress. The windows were boarded up. There was no signage anywhere, no address number. The parking lot was cracked and empty. The building had, once upon a time, been a strip club. There was more discreet parking out back. That was where we’d find the motorcycles, I guessed.
Barack and I parked in the lot of the pawn shop next door. There were two pickup trucks next to us, which gave us some small cover as we scoped out the clubhouse. The last time I’d been inside a hockshop had been back in college. These days, pawn stores were being replaced by check-cashing joints and payday-loan emporiums that had no qualms about taking advantage of the struggling American consumer during times of hardship.
“Guns, gold, jewelry, and DVDs,” Barack said, reading the window signage. “The story of America. All that’s missing are the Bibles.”
“I’ve never heard of someone pawning a Bible,” I said. “Where I come from, you can lose your home, your kids, your wife, and the clothes off your back…but the one thing you hold onto is the Holy Bible.”
“This is where you come from, Joe.”
He was half right. Though this wasn’t a neighborhood I’d ever spent time in, Wilmington was where I’d lived for most of the past sixty-plus years. My formative years, however, had happened in Scranton. It was where my ancestors were; it was where my roots were. Can a man claim more than one hometown?
I flipped the visor up. “Let’s go next door and get this over with.”
“Remember, it’s just you and me now. We don’t have any backup. We don’t have any weapons. If anyone’s in there, they’re going to be armed to the teeth. So we should figure out how we’re going to play this before we just bust through the front door like a two-man SWAT team. Speaking of which, it would take a lot more than a shoulder to knock that door in.”
The front door was steel. It could have been a foot thick for all we knew. Neither Barack nor I was on the guest list. There was, however, an alley that ran between the clubhouse and the pawn store. “We’ll go around back. There’s more than one way in and out. Once we’re inside, we’ll ask some questions. There’s our plan. See how easy that was?”
Barack frowned. “Without a court order, it might be difficult to get them to cooperate. They’re called outlaw biker gangs for a reason.”
“I’ll open my wallet if I have to. And if that doesn’t work…”
I cracked my knuckles.
“You’re getting worked up, Joe. If you walk in there angry, you’re going to encounter nothing but hostility. Let’s just sit here in the car for a few minutes and breathe deeply. Okay?”
“I’ll breathe deeply when this is over,” I said, throwing my door open.
“Wait,” Barack said, reaching for me.
It was too late, though. I was done waiting.
This time, Barack didn’t follow me.
Behind the clubhouse, two dozen motorcycles were lined up against the building. All that chrome shone brightly under the midday sun.
I slipped on my Ray-Bans.
There was, as I’d suspected, a back door for deliveries. A little wooden ramp led up to it. The door was steel, same as the front, with one difference: it was propped open with a keg. The country twang of Kenny Rogers drifted out of the open door. The sun cast my shadow behind me, and there wasn’t enough light coming from within the building to see beyond the opening.
I took a deep breath.
The Irish in me told me to barge in and make a scene, but Barack was right. We were both unarmed. My “plan” wasn’t a plan at all. It was bullheaded and reckless. As soon as I put one sandal inside the clubhouse, I would be crossing a line that I couldn’t uncross. The longer I thought it over, the more I realized just how far in over our heads we were. Barack and I weren’t detectives. We weren’t even politicians anymore. We should have known better than to go around poking bulls. One of us was liable to get gored.
On the other hand, there was something to be said for just going for it. Thinking was overrated. Even the best-laid plans could fail. Just ask Hillary.
I stepped through the open door. Inside the clubhouse was pitch-black. I couldn’t see a thing, including my own nose. It took me a second to figure out that was because of my sunglasses.
Once I took them off, I could see better. Funny how that works.
There weren’t any lights on, but there was a little sunlight coming in from the open door behind me. Enough to recognize I was in a kitchen. Dishes were stacked high in a sink. It didn’t look like anyone had cooked in here since the Cold War.
I found a door on the far wall and opened it a crack…
You know that scene in movies where the out-of-place guy struts into the honky-tonk, and the music stops playing and everyone looks up and there’s that long moment of uncomfortable silence?
That’s not how it happens in real life.
In real life, the music keeps playing. That uncomfortable moment is stretched out even longer as you wait for someone to unplug the jukebox. Not that I mind Kenny Rogers, but when you’ve got two-dozen bikers pointing guns at your face, the last thing you want to hear is all that talk about knowing when to walk away and when to run. It doesn’t matter how fast you are. Even if my knee had been one hundred percent, it’s impossible to outrun a hailstorm of bullets.
36
“That’s the guy I was telling you about,” one of the bikers said. His southern accent was thicker than Grandma Biden’s turkey gravy. I recognized him as the speed demon who’d led us on the chase through the country. He was armed with only a pool cue, but I didn’t doubt he could break me seven ways ‘til next Sunday.
I raised my hands in surrender. “If I could just say one thing—”
I heard a couple of safeties click off, so I shut up. I was outnumbered and outgunned. Even if Barack had followed me in—even if Steve was still with us, and not lying in a hospital bed—we would have been outnumbered and outgunned. The Marauders weren’t your typical motorcycle club composed of weekend riders. They were a gang. Judging by the array of high-powered weaponry on display, they also apparently didn’t realize that fully automatic weapons had been banned in the U.S. since 1986. Dan had tried to warn me. I’d been foolish to ignore him.
The speed demon stepped up to my face. He reeked of marijuana. Despite the pungent odor, I didn’t flinch. Criminals were like dogs: they could smell fear. They could also smell urine, which was sure to leak down my leg at the first loud noise.
“You nearly backed right into me, just as I was pulling out of the gas station,” he said. He was still wearing his black motorcycle helmet, which looked like something out of a World War I documentary. “You were driving like a madman. You chased me halfway to Pennsylvania. There’s no telling how many accidents you almost caused.”
“Backed into you? I didn’t even see you!”
“Exactly,” he said.
As much as it pained me to admit it, he was probably right. I’d backed up the Escalade without first adjusting the rearview or side mirrors.
“You were following us first,” I said. “That’s why you were there. Admit it.”
“Why would I follow you?”
“Because of who I am.”
“And who are you?”
“The vice president of the United States.” I paused. “Former vice president.”
The bikers looked around at one another. There was a lot of shrugging and head shaking. The Marauders weren’t exactly my target demo, but they couldn’t be that clueless…could they?
“Vice President Biden. I was your state’s senator for thirty-six years.”
Still no recognition.
With a heavy thud, a body landed on the floor beside me. The Marauders’ skull logo grinned up at me from the back of the man’s vest.
“Keep moving,” a deep voice
boomed from behind me.
The guy on the ground wasn’t dead. Just dazed. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled toward the pool table, which he caught for support.
Barack put an arm around my shoulder. “How you doin’, Joe?”
The speed demon who’d been in my face stared blankly at the president. Then he glanced back at his friend, then to the president again. Barack had a sawed-off shotgun balanced casually on his shoulder.
“Where’d you get the hardware?” I whispered to Barack.
He nodded at the biker clinging to the pool table. “This fool set it down while he was smoking out back. I picked it up just as he was returning to the kitchen door.”
A machete clanked on the floor. The bikers had all lowered their weapons.
“Looks like you all know who my pal is,” I said with authority.
“He’s the guy who killed Bin Laden,” one of the bikers blurted.
They all nodded in agreement. The awe in their eyes was, frankly, embarrassing.
“Actually, SEAL Team Six—” I started to say, but Barack cut me off with a stiff pat on the back.
“—is waiting outside, in case there’s any trouble,” he finished. “If we’re not out of here within ten minutes, two dozen trained killers are going to bust in here and shoot this place up like they’ve got video-game cheat codes. Am I making myself clear?”
A few guys nodded. A couple “yessir’d” him under their breath. They may have been outlaws, but I’d seen more than one U.S. military insignia on their vests.
“We’re looking for somebody,” Barack said, pacing the room. “Somebody with a tattoo on their forearm.”
The bikers looked at one another. There were a few muffled laughs. There were very few Marauders in the clubhouse who didn’t have tattoos on their forearms.
“A skull tattoo,” I said. “The club logo.”
Barack continued to walk the room, inspecting forearms. I scanned the clubhouse from side to side, but didn’t see the man who’d been in Darlene Donnelly’s room. He was the key to all of this, I was sure. He probably wasn’t the only one involved with the drug trade—if so, we’d be back. But we couldn’t interrogate them all at once. We may have had the upper hand momentarily, but somebody was going to point out the obvious: Barack Obama wasn’t commander in chief anymore, and there was no way SEAL Team Six was waiting outside. Right now, however, most of the bikers were too high on reefer or drunk on whiskey to think clearly. We’d interrupted quite the party.
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