by Max Henry
“Happy birthday, son.” My old man had proclaimed as he tossed something small and shiny my way.
The keys to my first bike.
I turn the worn key ring over in my palm as I sit at my desk and wonder where in the fuck it all took a sharp turn off course. Almost a year since I lost my old man to the drug lord Carlos Redmond’s greed. Almost a year since my baby sister was fatally shot trying to get away as well.
Almost a year since I wiped the smeared makeup from under my oldest sister’s eyes and told her I’d sort everything out before she rode away on the back of a nomad’s bike.
Twelve months of nothing and no one. Of battling it alone, and feeling as though despite the fact I made the best decisions based on my circumstances at the time, that all I’ve done since then is fuck everything up.
Our chapter is in turmoil. The more our brothers up north get their shit together, the more ours seems to fall apart. I guess that’s what you call balance.
It feels more like suicide.
My old man bought me that bike twelve years ago, using the pittance I’d saved at after school jobs as the deposit to secure it and paying the balance himself. He knew I couldn’t prospect for the Aces without a ride, and there was nothing that he wanted more than to have me follow in his footsteps.
Easy enough when he was there to leave the imprints for me to follow, but now I’m staring down unblemished virgin dirt, wondering which direction I’m supposed to go.
Business will never be legit—I know that. But the thing that kills me inside is that the deeper we fall into the illegal rabbit hole of drugs, the deeper the lies run between the brothers. Lies to keep the peace, to appease consciences, and to harbor guilt.
We’re all as guilty as the rest for thinking we’ve made too many mistakes to be allowed forgiveness, but the thing is, we’re all as bad as each other. Just none of us want to admit it for fear of the repercussions.
For fear of losing all respect.
My phone dances across the top of my desk, announcing the call I’ve been waiting for. Downing the last of my whiskey, I set the tumbler down and retrieve the call.
“King, brother.”
“Hey, Hooch.”
“How are things in the star city?”
He lets out a short, callous laugh. “Organized chaos. How about you?”
“Not so organized. Plenty of chaos.” I pause while we both chuckle. “I need to speak with you. Was hopin’ you could come down for a visit sometime in the next couple of days.”
I catch the distinct sound of paper being moved about in the background. “I might be able to squeeze in a trip tomorrow. Got a couple of things to tie up with Bronx, but Callum could probably sort that out for me.”
“How are sales in Kansas?”
“Odd.” King pauses, a gentle sigh coming down the line. “Demand has dropped, as we wanted it to, but the epidemic is worse than ever. They’ve got to be gettin’ it from the same guys as you’re havin’ trouble with.”
“That’s pretty much the sum of what I wanted to talk to you about.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “Any ideas?”
“None. All leads have turned up empty. Elena’s even pitching in with what she knows history-wise, but we can talk about that when I’m down.”
“Yeah.” I reach out with my free hand and pour another drink. “How is the family doin’?”
“Settling in.” As though to punctuate the point, a child’s laugh sounds in the background. “They’ve just shown up to drag me out for a late lunch, so I’ll call you tomorrow when I head out, yeah?”
“Sure thing.”
I end the call, well aware that the ache in my chest isn’t just from the need to down my next hit of the white stuff; it’s jealousy. King may have gone through hell and back to get where he is today, but damn it all if the future he’s created isn’t what I want.
A woman who loves you through thick and thin.
A kid who adores you.
A family who’d miss you if you were gone.
I down the fresh whiskey in one gulp as I rise to my feet. A ride will do me good; a chance to get away from the bullshit and appreciate nature for a while. Making a mental note to let Crackers know King is coming down, I snag my keys and head for the door when a shrill tone sounds from my desk. It takes me a second to remember what the hell it is, but once I do, I whip around the timber desk and retrieve the burner from the drawer before it goes to voicemail. Forgot to pocket the damn thing when I got back from seeing Dagne off.
Distracted much?
“Go ahead.”
“Hooch?”
“Yeah, it’s me. What’s going on?” Traffic burns past in the background.
“I’ve got a bit of a problem.” Her voice wavers, and damn it all if that doesn’t make me feel the need to be there in person rather than sorting this over the phone.
“What’s the issue?”
“I got pulled over.”
“What the fuck for?” I pace to the door and lift my cut off the hook, awkwardly looping it over my arms as I shuffle the phone between my hands.
“I don’t know,” Dagne cries. “I wasn’t speeding, I obeyed all the road rules. They just stripped the truck and then told me to pass on a message.”
“What did they say?”
She hesitates, her breath shuddering. “They said to tell the biker bitches they’re watching you,” she repeats quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, baby girl.” It’s fucking Donovan’s. Asshole. “It was meant to shake me up. Are you okay to carry on?”
“That wasn’t all, Hooch.”
Damn it. What now? “They hurt you?”
“Not really.” I don’t miss the curiosity in her tone. Yeah, I would have delivered a healthy serving of retribution if they had. “They took your message.”
Fuck. I back up two steps and drop my ass to the front of the desk. “How long ago?”
“They just left, like ten minutes ago. I put all the stuff back in the truck before I rang you so it didn’t blow away or anything.”
“Sure, that’s fine. You did the right thing, Dagne.” Shit, shit, shit. “Where are you?”
“I’m not sure. Hold on.”
Scratches come through the line, the sound of the truck door opening, and then the muted traffic that indicates she’s inside the cab now. I pace the whole time, the seconds feeling like eons.
“The GPS says I’m just outside Gainesville. I’m not real familiar with this part of the country.”
“All good. I’ll be there shortly.” Thank fuck for small miracles, huh? Any further up the road and this could have got inconvenient fast. “Just sit tight.”
“I’ll pull off the next exit and message you the number.”
“Perfect.” Girl’s thinking. “I’m sorry this happened.”
“Hey, it’s not like you sent them after me, is it?” she tries to joke.
“Yeah.”
But I may as well have.
SIXTEEN
Dagne
I drop a coin into the machine outside the store, starting the metal pony up for the little girl who had been tugging futilely on its ears while her mother has a smoke. The kid squeals in excitement, gaining a confused smile from her mom who didn’t see what I did.
Air-conditioning is a welcome reprieve after that roadside rendezvous with the police. Given the age of the truck I’m driving, it didn’t really surprise me when I discovered a while back that I had only hot air blasting out the vents.
I select a bottle of sports water and then peruse the magazine rack on my way back to the counter. I messaged Hooch the exit number like I said I would and then parked the truck in plain sight, but given where I am, I’ve got at least an hour to kill.
The clerk gives me a curious glance when I hand over the motorcycle magazine as well as the drink, and rings the total up. I figure I may as well make the selection something useful to leave with the truck when I’m done here. Plus, maybe I�
�ll get some insight into the type of people these motorcycle mad are by reading the subscriber contributions and looking at the articles.
The kid and her mom are gone by the time I exit. Coins in my hand, I circle them in my palm while eyeing up the payphone at the end of the building. It’s been around four months since I last tried. Not that I expect the outcome to be any different. I made my bed when I left three years ago. I suppose I assumed that after the right amount of time she’d see reasoning in my decision.
Guess three years isn’t quite long enough.
Having so much time to kill, I figure what’s the harm in trying anyway. The receiver is hot in my hand thanks to the limited shelter over the phone. I insert the coins and punch the number I couldn’t forget if I tried.
“Mason International. How may I direct your call?”
“Fiona Alderson, please.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Her daughter.”
“One moment.” My heart speeds a little at getting one step closer as the receptionist places me on hold. I’m guessing she’s new at the desk and has no idea of our little historical game of cat and mouse.
The call disconnects.
Damn it. I insert another coin and dial again, going through the whole greeting/request motions a second time.
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist says when I ask for my mother again. “She’s asked not to be disturbed for the rest of the day.”
Bullshit. She’s told them not to put me through. The thought’s crossed my mind to phone and pretend to be somebody else. But I’ve never gone through with it. Somewhere deep inside I know that if I heard her voice without it leading to us actually talking it would kill me, the familiarity and the memories.
The pain.
I’ve been told in the past that the fact I still love my mother and seek her approval is odd considering she was the one person who could have helped me, but didn’t. We’re told as youngsters that if a situation gets out of control, if your best efforts are futile against those who harm and oppress you, that your parents are the ones you should turn to for help. Yet, when your father is the one who hurts you, and your mother is so blinded by love that she can’t believe the things you tell her, even if the evidence points firmly toward that being the truth, where do you turn?
To yourself.
At seventeen years old I learned the hardest truth of all: the only person you can rely on without doubt or fear, is yourself.
I replace the receiver and turn to face the sunbaked parking lot. The truck is parked in semi-shade, but given the direction the sun travels I’ll be roasting within an hour. A large oak covers the far corner of the lot with sprawling branches, providing shade that’ll last until the sun goes down in a few hours. Dejected, yet expecting nothing more from my failed phone call, I head for the bark chip covered garden bed at the base of the tree’s trunk. Cigarette butts litter the area, a few spent lighters and beer caps interspersed between. It takes me ten minutes to flick them all aside with the toe of my boot, but it’s worth it when I drop beneath the tree and hear the birdsong that greets me from above.
This is why I do it, why I travel.
Nothing centers you more than realizing how small you are in the scheme of things. Troubles fade to insignificance when you take a long hard look at the functioning machine that is nature around us. Millions of animals, bugs, and plants all working together to keep things running as they should. Should one fall, its importance isn’t lost; it transitions into another role. Everything has a purpose, everything has limits, and nothing living takes advantage of either.
Nature is life at it’s most complex, yet basic. Do the job you’re intended for, and don’t try to take more than you’re entitled to.
A rule that the human race as a whole seems to have a problem grasping the concept of.
Head back against the bark of the tree, I close my eyes and listen to the bird chatter. Under one hour, and he’ll be here. Hooch can figure out how to get the truck back to Fort Worth himself; it’s not my problem.
The only thing I have to focus on is moving on.
SEVENTEEN
Hooch
The truck is backed into a park outside a convenience store just off the exit. I turn in, and idle to a stop beside the vehicle, noting it’s empty. Great. Probably scared her halfway to New York state after that little “courtesy” stop.
After killing the engine, I kick the stand out and lean the bike over. A quick peek in the windows shows the stuff I bought her still behind the seats, albeit a bit trashed. Interesting. If she hasn’t taken the food, she can’t be far away. But where?
Doesn’t take more than another second to work out the answer to that one.
Sitting under the tree in the far corner of the lot, she has her knees bent up and a magazine spread open on her thighs. I watch her for a moment, leaning my hip into the side of the truck bed, as she reads something with determined concentration, her left hand diving into a bag of pretzels every so often.
A young jock pulls his woman closer as I stride across the lot towards Dagne, ushering them toward the store at a pace much quicker than necessary. His fear is unwarranted—I ain’t here to mess with the public, and besides, if I was, he wouldn’t have had time to see me coming.
“Comfy?”
She tips her face up to the light as I approach, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the setting sun. “Strangely so.”
“What you readin’?” Yeah, there’s more pressing business to deal with, but this five minutes of leisurely interaction with a pretty girl? My soul needs it.
“Um.” She flips the magazine shut, reading the cover. “Hog?”
“Nice.”
“Yeah.” She gets up, dusting her ass off. “I thought you guys might like it when I’m done.”
Yet again, she’s showing how selfless she is without even trying to. “Learn much?”
Dagne chuckles, stepping off the garden to where I stand. “I think I just confused myself more. I never knew there were so many models and bits and pieces that all have different names and uses and … ugh.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I stare at the ground beneath my feet. It feels good to let it go, have a chuckle. Good, but not deserved.
“You ready to go? Or you want to duck into the bathroom first?”
“I’m good.” She smiles, heading for the truck. “But I was going to head off alone.”
“Like fuck.” The anger in my tone surprises even me.
Dagne comes to a stop mid parking lot and cocks her head to the side. “Excuse me?”
“You ain’t doin’ shit alone.”
“You gave me a message to deliver,” she snaps. “And right now, I don’t have that message, so I don’t know about you, but to me that negates our deal.”
“First,” I bite back, jabbing a finger in her direction, “even if I let you out of this, I wouldn’t sleep right knowin’ you were on your own. And second, we’re still delivering the message, just verbally.”
“What?” Her eyes squint a little as she frowns. “Why send me on a farcical trip across the country if you can just go and do it yourself anyway?”
“I couldn’t before.” She eyes me, questioningly. “It’s complicated. But basically since those jackasses pulled you over and took the address, we’ve got another stop off to make, and the sooner we head on up there, the better.”
She stares me square in the eye, sucking in a deep breath. “I swore I wouldn’t do this anymore,” she mutters, more to herself than for me to hear. “Fine. But that’s it. You can keep your money, but I’m taking the food and splitting when this is done.”
“Fine.”
“Lead the way, boss.” Dagne strides to the driver’s door of the truck and hops in.
I’m left lagging behind dumbstruck by the effect her calling me boss, had. Think about it later. Fuck, all I do these days is think about things later. Got one hell of a list to get through when the time comes for reflection.
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***
Barely twenty minutes pass before the sound of my bike reverberates off the trees lining the access road to our destination. Dagne follows behind, her hair whipping about her face from the wind cutting in her open window. Really must fix the air-con in that thing.
I train my focus forward again, checking every shadow and blind spot amongst the stand of cypress. Aside from our procession, it’s quiet and still out here.
Too quiet.
The trees give way to a streamside clearing. Scrubby grass tufts protrude unevenly across the expanse, clumped even thicker around the mobile home at the far end. The worn tracks in the dirt give out around the same spot that an unmarked sedan is parked.
Feds. Fuckers.
I gesture for Dagne to park the truck where she is, and then carry on alone. No signs of movement greet me as I park the bike beside the agent’s car. No sign of struggle. Everything is wrong. Everything’s off. Visions of the fed inside with her bound as a hostage flash through my mind. Shit. What if I’m too late?
I draw my gun and approach the trailer slowly, my boots causing the grass to swish underfoot. The door handle gives easily, and I edge it open an inch, checking the gap.
Feet. Polished leather shoes.
At least it’s not her.
I pull the door open further, stepping back to allow it past where I stand. There, spread out on the laminate floor, is one problem I definitely can’t stow away for later.
“Damn.”
Movement at the far end catches my attention, the rattle of things moving as a body passes by. I step in, gun held at the ready, but pretty certain I won’t need to use it.
Nope. Safe as houses.
“Hey, Hooch.” Familiar brown eyes stare up at me, a thin apologetic smile on a drawn and tired face.
“How about we step outside for a smoke and you can tell me what the fuck happened here?”