“Make it a venti Americano.”
He smirks a little. I’m a little surprised that Ripper is familiar with Starbucks jargon, but then again, nothing shocks me about bikers anymore.
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“You know where to find me.”
It takes a little longer than I expected at Starbucks. The person in front of me has trouble deciding which whipped cream drizzle drink he wants, and then the app on his phone won’t work when it’s time to pay. At this pace, Ripper’s going to think I forgot all about him.
On the drive back, a dark green Ford truck headed toward me swerves crazily into and then out of my lane when I round a corner a couple of blocks from Ripper’s house. It races by me and I get a look at the driver, who appears to be having a panic attack. The guy in the passenger seat has his head ducked down and his face is obscured by both a cap and a hoodie. Good thing I put lids on these coffees or I’d have an $11 mess on the front seat of my car.
A block from the house, an ambulance rips past me, sirens blaring.
I instantly tense up.
I arrive at Ripper’s to see a cop putting yellow crime-scene tape around the porch where Ripper and I were talking not half an hour ago. There’s blood all over the steps. So much blood. I take a gulp of air and fight the urge to toss my cookies. I’m not normally a queasy guy, but I know whose blood this is. Until this moment, Ripper has always seemed untouchable to me. He just seemed too tough, too smart, too respected to be vulnerable to anything. But now he’s nowhere to be seen.
I pull up behind one of several police cars stopped outside the house. I feel numb.
“What happened?” I ask without getting out of the car.
“Shooting. You know who lives here?”
“No.” I feel a bit dirty about the lie but I’m stuck in it now. “Are they going to be okay?”
“He was breathing when he left,” the cop says. I give my head a little shake, as if I’m just appalled at what’s happening in my neighborhood, and slowly drive away. I glance in my rearview mirror to see another cop taping off the patch of garden where Ripper was weeding.
I’m not sure why I sidestepped the cops. It was a reflex more than a conscious decision. Ripper isn’t one to talk much with the police, so I don’t feel I’m doing him any disrespect. I don’t think anything really. I just drive.
Chapter
26
I feel just like I did when I was a little kid on the verge of a panic attack. My breathing’s almost out of control, and I’m finding it hard to focus. My brain is ricocheting from one thought to the next, rapid-fire. I need to slow it down. Get a grip. I could easily have been at Ripper’s house when the shooting happened. That could be my blood all over his front steps. The gunman was probably in that green truck. I wish I’d seen its occupants’ faces more clearly.
A number of police cars are parked outside the emergency ward when I arrive at the hospital. I try to walk in casually so that no one will look twice at me, but I’m jerky and tense. There are uniforms stationed by the entrance and beside the elevators, too, clearly on alert. I’m feeling freaked at the sight of all of this security when I spot Ripper’s daughter, Frances, across the lobby.
I don’t know Ripper’s wife at all, but I do know a thing or two about Frances. She will never, ever be mistaken for a biker chick. She looks like a schoolteacher or a nurse, someone who has a sensible, caring job. She’s not plain but she’s certainly not going out of her way to attract attention. I’ve heard she lives in town and works in a Home Depot and is married to a nice guy who designs webpages and drives a minivan. I’ve seen her around here and there, but never, obviously, at any of Trollop’s parties.
“I’m really sorry,” I say.
“Thanks.”
Her voice is flat but she seems sincere.
“Any word?”
“Not yet. A nurse said it’ll be a while.”
I see a cop looking at me. He doesn’t avert his gaze when he notices me noticing him.
“I was with him, right before . . .”
“Did you see anything?”
“No. Well, I saw a truck driving away, but that’s it.”
She’s staring into space. I’m not sure where she stands on the biker code and cooperating, or not, with the police.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” she says, suddenly present again.
“Yeah, sucks. He didn’t . . . I went to see your dad because I was hoping the club might help out with a lawyer.”
I feel antsy with all the police around. It’s like they’re all looking at me, listening to me.
“Do you need anything?” I ask, knowing it sounds lame.
“I’m not sending you for coffee,” she says. She pauses for a second and then smiles. She’s got her dad’s sense of humor.
“Oh. You heard that.” I smile too, not just at the joke but at what it tells me. If Frances knows I went out for coffee, it means Ripper’s awake and talking.
She smirks, then her face turns serious again.
“Do you think the club’s under attack?” I ask.
She shrugs her shoulders.
“Who knows? But if Dad stays out of commission, Trollop will officially become president of the Annihilators again. Lord help us.”
“Sometimes I think of your dad as my cool old uncle,” I tell Frances, and her eyes sparkle.
“What about Trollop?” she counters.
I don’t want to call him a psycho and I don’t want to lie. I let my pained facial expression do the talking for me. Trollop as acting president is a scary thought. He could push the club toward the Popeyes or he could hook up with the Spartans to block the Popeyes from moving in. From the way he was sucking up to the scary Nomad in the red vest at the barn party, I have little doubt what he would like to do.
“The president also has control of the emergency fund,” Frances adds.
My heart sinks. That fund would be the source of lawyer money for Jamie. I’d rather not have to turn to the likes of Trollop for help but I may not have a choice. The worst part of the biker life, as I see it, is having to trust your fate to idiots like him.
“You working with Bill Taylor now?” she asks me next.
I’m surprised she knows him. “Yeah, I’m at the Sun-Sentinel. He’s way senior.”
She’s studying my face.
“You know him?” I ask.
“He used to live around here. He and my Dad were buddies, back in a different life.” There’s a long pause, and then, “They still stay in touch.”
There’s a faraway look in her eyes.
“What’s your number?” she adds. “I’ll let you know if there’s any update.”
We exchange information and I walk toward the door. I have the feeling that every cop in the place has his or her eyes on me as I climb into my car and turn the key.
Chapter
27
As nauseating as the idea is, it’s time to go see Trollop. Ripper can’t help me right now and I’m running out of time. I remember something Bill once told me about how his best sources aren’t usually found in the front pews of a church. I guess I’m in the same boat. I need money for a lawyer; I don’t need to love the guy.
Trollop runs his courier business from an office about twenty minutes away from the hospital. It’s in a nondescript strip mall, between a pet-supplies store and a kitchen renovation center.
I’m calmer now, and feel like I’ve slipped back into the Zone. I’m able to slow down and focus on my breathing and on the task at hand. Besides the lawyer, I need to keep on trying to learn more about who really killed Trent. His death must be connected to the attack on Ripper. Right?
Trollop’s hunched over his desk when I walk into his office. He’s face down in paperwork, and for a few seconds, he doesn’t even notice I’m
there.
There is nothing in the office that hints at Trollop’s biker identity. No family photos either. On his desk is a small, rounded object that looks like a seashell, except that it’s bony. Something looks wrong about it. Could it be human? I’m sure he would tell me if I asked, but I don’t feel like asking today.
Trollop flinches when he sees me.
“You startled me,” he says.
The man’s paranoid on a good day, and I imagine he’s nervous now. I’m guessing he knows that Ripper’s just been shot—news travels fast in this world—and maybe Trollop’s worried someone’s coming after him too. I can’t help but think of a joke Ripper once told me: “Help, I’m being chased by paranoids.”
There are two cell phones sitting at opposite ends of the desk. My mind goes back to the barbecue and Trollop posing for a selfie with the big Popeye in the Kevlar vest, like some biker fanboy. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that it could be important to learn more about that guy. When he came to town, people started acting differently, and not in a good way.
Trollop looks up and adjusts his glasses. “Yo, bro. So sad about your brother. What can I do you for?”
I try not to wince. In his mind, it’s a cool and original line. It’s like he aspires to be a cartoon character.
“It’s pretty screwed up. I’m really worried about Jamie.”
“We all are.”
He says “we” as if he’s a central player in this. He’s not the one potentially facing a life in prison, or the one who might lose a real brother. Still, he scrunches up his face in a semblance of deep concern.
“They might not have much on Jamie, bro,” he says. “Don’t panic. Be solid. We’ll get through this.”
Much on him? How can they have anything on him? He’s suggesting my brother is guilty. And what does he mean by “be solid”? Is he reminding me not to be a rat?
“I can’t believe what happened to Ripper,” I say, watching his face. “I just came from the hospital.”
“I know. Unreal,” he says.
After a pause, he continues in a tone that seems a little too bright. “You know, I have a buddy who could say he and Jamie were together when the murder happened.”
The idea immediately offends me. Maybe because I don’t want us to be indebted to Trollop. Maybe because we shouldn’t have to lie to prove Jamie’s not a killer. And—most important—maybe lying will just dig Jamie in deeper.
“That’s okay,” I say slowly.
Then Trollop startles me. “See you’re friendly with the cook’s sister,” he says next.
When did he notice? Am I that obvious? Is he that observant?
I don’t say anything.
“Best not to sell out your brother for a woman, no matter how sweet she is,” he tells me, smirking.
The way he says “sweet” makes me feel like punching him.
I could have him whimpering on the floor in seconds but I hold back. For her sake. For my brother’s sake. Still, I would love to. I can see how someone could turn violent in this environment. I take a deep breath instead. Stay in the Zone.
There’s a knock on the door and a dispatcher tells Trollop that one of his trucks has been illegally parked and is about to be towed.
Trollop swears and jumps up from his chair. “Be right back.”
The next couple of minutes feel like the middle of a big football game, when there’s no time to think, only to react. No time for paralysis by analysis, as my coaches would say. I scoop up one of the phones from Trollop’s desk, tap a couple of buttons, and start searching for photos.
Nothing.
I pick up the other phone, still trying desperately not to panic. I find a folder of photos and start scrolling down.
Jackpot!
I’m looking at a picture of Trollop and the Popeye in the red vest. Trollop’s grinning. The other biker is grimacing.
I send a copy to myself, erase the “sent” file, then slide the phone back down on his desk. If I can learn more about the guy in the photo maybe I’ll be able to start puzzling out the truth about Trent’s murder—and Jamie’s role in it.
I panic for a moment, remembering that Trollop is just the type of clown who’d have a surveillance camera hidden in his office. I can only hope that isn’t the case. Too late to do anything about it anyway.
Before I know it, Trollop is back. My heart’s pumping so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it from across the room. It’s time to get out of here. Forget about asking for legal help for Jamie—I’m barely keeping it together.
“How’s the knee?” he asks as I’m leaving. Everyone seems to want to hear about this. Don’t they know there are more important things going on?
“Good thanks. I’m back in the gym. Going there right now, in fact.”
Moments later, I’m in my car in the parking lot. I have to make it past a parking attendant and a barrier gate before I’m home free. As I’m starting the car, I forward Trollop’s photo to Bill Taylor.
You know this guy with Trollop? I text. He could be worth checking out.
Then I’m out the gate. If Trollop has a hidden camera, he hasn’t checked it yet.
When I’m a couple of blocks down the street, I pull over to catch my breath and see that I have a new text message from Ripper. The fact that he can text me at all is a relief, since it must mean he’s doing okay back at the hospital. The message reads: Club can cover $5,000 for lawyer’s retainer. Afraid we can’t handle more but it’s a start. Good luck.
It’s not much but it’s something. As things stand right now, all we have is enough money for one roll of the dice . . .
Chapter
28
My next stop is the gym. It’s the best place I know to clear my head and focus my thoughts. It’s after suppertime and the place is almost empty; I have the bench press area all to myself. I really need a hard workout today, and not just to make up for the ones I’ve missed over the past week.
My plan is to deliberately load the bar with more weight than I can handle and press until my arms and chest feel like jelly. It’s a great way to safely stress the muscles so they rebuild aggressively and you come back even stronger.
There’s a new guy in the gym today. His head is shaved and he’s sporting a soul patch. He has about twenty pounds on me and looks like he knows his way around a weight room. I don’t know him but I need a spotter and this isn’t rocket science.
He seems friendly enough and agrees to help when I ask. It’ll only take five minutes but some guys are really uptight about their routines, with their timers and exercise logs and protein shakes and little bags of supplements. They don’t want you looking in their direction, let alone asking them for help.
All I need the spotter to do is keep the weight from coming down hard on me as I near the end of my final three lifts. By then, I’ll be seeing stars on a purple background but I don’t want him to make it too easy. A good spotter can do the job with just two fingers touching the bar.
He stands behind my head, out of sight but ready to help, as I lie down on the bench and grip the barbell.
First . . . the weight goes up without too much trouble.
Second . . . I exhale and my elbows lock. I see a little flash of purple but I’m okay.
I pause for maybe a second before I lower the bar again. Slowly. My arms are shaking a little under the weight.
I repeat the process a second time and it’s not too much worse. More purple flashes. More shaking of my arms. But it’s doable.
The third rep is where it can change fast. I take pains not to bounce the barbell off of my chest; there’s enough weight here to do some serious damage. I barely get it off my chest when everything seizes up. Now the stars are everywhere, and up close. That’s my signal that I’m maxed out. I’m going to need help.
I let the bar rest on
my torso. I see a burst of purple stars. Then black. Then yellow. Like my own personal fireworks show.
Nothing’s happening. I can’t move the weight. Where’s the spotter?
I nod my head to signal that it’s time for him to step in.
Nothing.
Another nod.
Still nothing.
Perhaps he’s trying to respect my wishes to make the lift hard. But can’t he tell I need help?
Another second passes.
And another.
White exploding lights.
No help.
I’m alone here.
I can’t move the bar at all to release the pressure, and I’m feeling faint.
He must know there’s a problem.
He must know this is dangerous.
He must know I could die.
I nod my head frantically. The weight is impossible for me to manage now. I’m not strong enough to keep it from crushing my chest if my arms give out.
Everything has gone black, and I’m seeing bursts of stars, one after another.
I’m about to pass out.
I look up at my spotter.
He’s no more than a shadow but he’s still there. I can’t see him but I can hear his breathing. He’s just standing there, motionless and silent.
If the bar slides up, just a little, it could snap my neck or strangle me. If it slides down, just a little, it could crush my ribs. I don’t have enough air in my lungs to curse him or beg him for help or scream in distress, not that there’s anyone else around anyway.
I could die here and it would look like an accident. People would think I was just being careless trying to lift a heavy weight without a spotter.
I hear a hoarse whisper. Something about minding my own business.
Then, “Back off.” That’s what it sounds like anyway. I’m physically unable to reply, even if I wanted to.
The bar is rising now. Slowly. He’s barely helping.
I feel like I’m going to faint, but I struggle to keep the heavy weight moving.
Finally, there’s a clank as the barbell lands back on the rack. I’m too drained to move. My arms and chest muscles are shot.
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