I looked at the velour cloth. Four examples were displayed, all facing me. The fluorescent lighting over the case did wonders for improving clarity and magnifying beauty, but it wasn’t enough.
I pointed at the cloth and wagged my index finger from left to right. “No, no, no, and no.”
She looked at me and blinked a few times. “Is there a problem?”
“Quality. I don’t want what everyone else has. I want something different. You know when you buy a shirt, and then you see someone else wearing the exact same thing? Imagine that in this circumstance. It’d make you sick, wouldn’t it?”
Her eyebrows raised. “Possibly.”
“I want something that no one else has, or can have. I want something that’d make everyone say, damn, I wish I could have one of those, but I know I can’t.”
She grinned a shallow grin. “I’m afraid you’re in the wrong place. You might try David and Sons on La Jolla Village Dive.”
“Know the address?”
“It’s in the 4000 block.”
“Appreciate your help.”
I rode to the location, circled the buildings, and found the shop. After parking the bike, I pulled my backpack from the saddlebag and walked inside.
The man behind the counter looked at the backpack, and then at me. “How can I help you?”
“Rumor has it that you specialize in products that aren’t like everyone else’s.”
He was in his mid-forties, had a shaved head, and was wearing a navy suit. He brushed his hands along the thighs of his slacks and then clasped his hands together. “I’d say that’s an accurate statement.” He craned his neck to the side and peered toward the parking lot. “Is that a Heritage Softy?”
I nodded. “Sure is.”
“An Evo, isn’t it?”
If he could spot an Evo engine from his vantage point, he was pretty knowledgeable about Harleys.
“You ride?”
“Collect. Ride. Get threatened with divorce. Sell a few. Buy a few more and sneak them in the garage. When she notices them, I sell one of them, and keep the other.” He extended his hand. “I’m David.”
“Percy.” I shook his hand. “Which one’s your favorite?”
“I like looking at my old ’52 Pan. I like riding the Road King.”
“The ‘King’s a good sled.”
He nodded toward my bike. “Are the bars comfortable?”
“More than any other bar out there. Everyone thinks apes are uncomfortable, but they’re not. Try a set, you’ll love ‘em.”
“I’ll do that,” he said. “Now, in response to your earlier statement, we do specialize in making a bold statement at an affordable price. We’re a specialty shop, but we’re family owned, and we’re small. We don’t have to feed a corporate machine, we only have to feed ourselves.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“What are you looking for, specifically?”
“Not sure.”
“Engagement?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not exactly. I want her to know I’m committed to her. I don’t want to scare her off with an engagement ring. Just something that’ll make sure she knows I’m in it for the long haul.”
He nodded. “Very well. Have you got a price point you’d like to be under?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got a lot of money, and you don’t know what the definition of a lot is. I want quality, and it needs to be unique. And, don’t get any wise ideas about snatching my backpack, either. I’m quite a bit meaner than I look.”
He coughed out a laugh. “If you’d like to follow me into the back, we can lock that in the safe while you’re shopping. Regardless of your definition of a lot, I’d hate for someone to attempt to relieve you of it while you’re here.”
I considered his offer. After a moment of weighing the possibilities of what if, I agreed. After securing the money in the safe, we returned to the front of the store.
“Do you have a preference on the shape of the stone?”
“Round.”
“Not a conventional solitaire?”
I shook my head. “Looks too much like an engagement ring.”
“Give me a few minutes, will you?”
“Sure.”
He returned in no time. “I’ve got a few I think you might like.”
He spread a cloth on top of the case, and then placed six rings on top of it. The differences in the eye appeal was immeasurable, but the difference in the sizes of the diamonds was drastic. He was obviously offering rings in several price points.
One stood out as being exactly what I had in mind.
“The one on the left. What do you call it?”
“That style is called a halo. It’s a round center stone that is surrounded by stones. It’s a custom piece, built by the one and only Master Jeweler Thomas. There’s not another like it.”
I nodded toward it. “May I?”
“Absolutely.”
I picked it up and held it under the light. It sparkled from what seemed like thousands of facets at the same time. “Damn, this thing sparkles.”
“It’s a Round Brilliant stone, and an Ideal cut. All Ideals are Round Brilliants, but only the best Round Brilliants are Ideals. It’s a remarkable stone.”
“Is it the best you’ve got?”
“It’s the best money can buy. There’s no finer cut. It’s also a colorless stone, and the clarity is VVS-1.”
The ring had a large center stone, and it was surrounded by two rows of smaller stones. The stones that surrounded it tapered toward the center of each side of the ring.
“Cost?”
“Cost for a fellow rider? $175,000.”
I admired the ring, and then placed it on the cloth. “I want to spend a little more.”
“Why?” he asked. “Because you can?”
“Something like that.”
He grinned. “I can bring out rings that cost twice that and more. I brought that one for a reason. It has eye appeal. It’s not gaudy, it’s not ridiculously overpriced, and it’s not a mass-produced example. It’s a custom. A one off. It’s a remarkable piece for one type of woman. A remarkable one. Imagine if you build a one-off bike. Everything from forging the casting for the engine, welding the frame, and stitching the seat’s leather. All yourself. That’s what you were holding.”
I liked his analogy. I reached for it. After admiring it for a moment, I handed it to him. “I’ll take it.”
“You don’t want to see any others?”
“Nope.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yep.”
“Providing there’s no damage to the ring, we offer a seven day, 100% refund on returns. We also offer free lifetime maintenance. No one else in the city offers that.”
“I won’t be returning it. If she doesn’t want it, I’ll toss the fucker in the ocean.”
“Why do I believe that you’d do just that?”
“Because I will.”
“I’ll package it for you, and get the certification paperwork from the safe. You’ve made a wise choice.”
I sure hope so.
I paid for the ring, and then stuck around for a few minutes discussing motorcycles. Eager to get home and schedule the delivery of my gift to Joey, I bid my newfound friend farewell.
“Appreciate the help. And the honesty.”
“My pleasure. Stop in any time. You might bring your friend in when you’re able. I’d love to see that piece on her hand.”
I waved over my shoulder. “Will do.”
The money I had left would allow me to buy a lesser grade Mantle #311. Having a replacement would let me feel that I hadn’t lost a family member altogether.
He’d just be a little rougher around the edges.
In other words, he’d be one of the family.
Chapter Two Hundred Five
Joey
We’d ridden the rollercoaster a dozen times. Exhausted, my stomach hurt from laughing and screaming for an hour and a half st
raight.
“My stomach hurts.”
“Why’s that?”
“From laughing and screaming.”
He motioned toward Sweet Shoppe. “I need some ice cream.”
“Me too.”
We walked to the front of the store, and he motioned to the bench. “Have a seat, I’ll bring it to you.”
“I can go in.”
He wrinkled his brow. “Have a seat.”
Reluctantly, I sat. “What are you going to get me?”
“Butter pecan, and pralines and cream, what else?”
I liked it that he knew my favorite flavors. “Fine, I’ll wait here.”
I watched as he walked to the counter, ordered the cones, and waited. He was a wonderful man, and very few realized it. Being one of the few who knew him made me feel privileged. I hoped he felt the same way about me, but had no real way of knowing.
I watched as he talked to the boy at the counter, and then grew curious as he motioned toward me. The boy made eye contact, and then quickly looked away when Percy said something. I imagined him threatening the poor kid with violence for looking too long, and smiled at the thought.
He walked out of the store with two ice cream cones and a cup of water. He sauntered toward the bench, struggling to hold all three.
I stood. “Let me help you.”
He handed me the cone. “Here.”
I accepted the cone, took a bite, and then looked at him. “Were you being mean to that kid?”
He set the water cup between us and licked his cone. “What kid?”
“The kid in the store?”
“No. I was just talking to him.”
“It looked like you were scolding him.”
“Looks are deceiving.”
I glanced at him, and then took another bite. “They sure are.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means what it means,” I said mockingly.
“Finish your cone,” he said. “We’ve got shit to do.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Gonna ride to Meathead’s house.”
“Who’s Meathead?”
“One of the fellas.”
“Haven’t heard too much about him,” she said.
“Been in jail awaiting trial,” he said. “But they dropped charges. He’s free now. Pretty happy about that. I want you to meet him. He wants to thank you.”
“For what?”
“His freedom.”
I scrunched my nose and stared. “What do I have to do with it?”
“We’ll talk about it later, finish your shit.”
I rolled my eyes and took another bite. “Sometimes you give me an ice cream headache.”
He laughed. “Whatever.”
We nibbled at our cones and exchanged glances. He seemed happy about his friend, smiling each time he looked at me.
I wondered what he was thinking, and took another bite of my cone. My teeth clanked against something. I lowered the cone and pressed my thumb to my teeth.
“That was weird.”
I looked at the cone. Teeth impressions were left where I’d bitten into it. It felt like I’d hit a rock.
I raised the cone, looked at the spot where I’d bitten, and poked my finger at what appeared to be a piece of shiny metal covered in ice cream.
Idiots.
After pulling the chuck of funk from the cone, I wiped at it with my fingertip.
He tossed his cone in the trash, looked at me, and grinned. “What did you find?”
I found it odd that he’d tossed his cone, and wondered if he bit into something, too. I handed him the wad of ice cream covered metal. He looked at it, shrugged, and then poked it into the cup of water. After swishing it around, he raised his hand.
My heart shot into my throat.
I looked at the ring, and then at him. “P--Per—Percy…”
He reached for my chin with his free hand. He lifted it slightly, and looked me in the eyes.
“I was going to give this to you to let you know that I was committed to you. But, the more I look at you, the more I realize I can’t imagine living a day without knowing that you’re mine. That you’re as committed to this relationship as I am.”
He released my chin, got down on one knee, and held the ring between us. “Joey, will you marry me?”
My lips quivered against one another. My throat tightened to the point of choking me. I couldn’t respond. I wanted to terribly, but my mouth wouldn’t follow my mind’s thoughts.
So, I did the only thing I could.
I made a fist, held it between us, and nodded eagerly.
He pressed his knuckles to mine. “We got a deal, then?”
My head bobbed up and down. My lips parted slightly. My heart raced.
Then, somehow, I managed to speak five simple words.
“Yes,” I said. “We’ve got a deal.”
Epilogue
We rolled past exit 53, and I couldn’t help but laugh to myself at the portion of the image that remained on the billboard. My photoshop skills weren’t stellar, but they were good enough to merge the picture of Percy’s dick into the open mouth of an ATF agent’s wife. It looked much better that the beer bottle that was in the original picture.
The agent that had been held captive not only held true to his word, but he also helped resolve an issue Percy had with giving his word, and not keeping a promise.
As we turned onto the street that led to our home, Crip and Peyton were pulling out of the driveway. Upon seeing us, they turned around and parked.
We pulled up to their side, and Percy shut off the engine.
“Hey Joey,” Peyton chimed. “Love those jeans. They make your butt look sexy.”
I was wearing jeans that were too tight, and a sleeveless top that looked much better on the rack than it did on me. I smiled nonetheless. “Thanks, but I don’t feel very sexy today.”
“Well, you look it,” she said.
I pulled off my helmet. “You’re sweet. What are you guys doing?”
Crip offered a sharp nod. “Growing old waiting on you two idiots, that’s what.”
“Pleasure seeing you, too,” I said.
He smiled and gave a nod. “Smudge.”
I climbed off and gave a sharp nod in return. “Crip.”
“I want you two to look at something before it goes to print,” she said. “My boss has approved it, but I don’t want to do it without you guys seeing it first.”
Peyton was an award-winning reporter for the San Diego tribune newspaper. I wondered what she might have that she needed my opinion on, “What is it?”
She opened Crip’s saddle bag, pulled out a thin newspaper, and motioned toward the house. “Want to go inside?”
I heard Percy open the garage door.
“No,” I said. “I’ll just sit here on the lawn chair.”
Percy must have read my mind, because he showed up with four chairs. After unfolding them in a row, I sat down.
Peyton handed me the newspaper. “It’s two pages. The front page is the article, and the second page is the photo that I’d like to put with it. It’ll be a front-page piece if you like it.”
The headline was catchy.
SOCAL COMES FULL CIRCLE
Peyton paced the driveway nervously. As Percy tinkered in the garage, Crip sat down at my side. I unfolded the newspaper and began to read the article.
In 1848, the California Gold rush started. There were no laws regarding property rights at the time, and the prospectors staked claim to their land. Out of respect, that claim of territory was honored. Two years later, California became a state. A state filled with men who lived their lives respecting the territorial claim of others.
The gold miners were dreamers who sought freedom in a country that was free. They came to California hoping to live a life in a state that was filled with men who gave respect. When a man gave his word, you could trust that he would honor it. His loyalty was proof that he’d mee
t your expectations.
A century and a half passed. Times changed. Ideals changed. Men changed. Today, the men of California still dream. They seek freedom in a country that is free.
They do so not from horseback, but from the seats of their American V-Twin.
Today, SoCal Outlaw Motorcycle Clubs battle over turf, willing to die for what they believe they’re entitled to. As difficult as it may be for the layman to digest such behavior, doing so only requires understanding the meaning of one simple word.
Respect.
If one club respected the other, they’d never attempt to claim the right to territory that had already been spoken for.
No differently than their horse riding counterparts, out of honor, they’d provide respect.
Twenty years ago, a man stood for these old-school values. He attempted to change minds, and in turn, change processes. He lost his life while trying to defuse a war that was brewing between his club and a rival club.
His memory, and his processes, live on today through his daughter and the Motorcycle Club she proudly rides with as an Ol’ Lady of a patched member.
Respect. Loyalty. Trust. Honor. The men who rode in the motorcycle clubs of yesteryear lived by these words. In the next four weeks, we’ll learn how this SoCal Motorcycle Club is changing minds and processes back to the ideals of yesteryear.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I glanced at Peyton. She paused and raised her eyebrows.
“Done?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Turn the page,” she said.
I turned the page.
Holy cow!
Seeing the two black and white photos caused me to go numb.
On the left was the photo of my pregnant mother and my father that Percy had purchased the rights to. On the right was a photo of Percy and me. I recognized the clothes I was wearing – I’d worn them two weeks prior during a poker run to Los Angeles – but I had no idea anyone had taken a picture of us.
It was apparent, however, that Percy did.
Through tear-filled eyes, I gazed at the photo. I found it hard to believe it could even exist.
It was further proof that I was where I belonged.
“What is it?” Percy peered over my shoulder. “Holy shit.”
Holy shit was right.
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