“Holy cow,” Smudge gasped. “Did you ride to Kansas?”
“Right then and there. 1,300 miles one way, if I remember correctly.”
“You rode to Kansas for a bowl of noodles?”
“Took us two 12-hour days to get there.” He let out a laugh. “Ain’t much on dink food, but that was one hell of a good bowl of noodles.”
Smudge grinned. “I like that story.”
Bama’s eyes fell to the floor, and then he looked up. “You know what? I just thought of something. You had an aunt and uncle out there. Aunt died if I remember right. She would have been your mom’s sister. You still have an uncle, it’s just…”
Her eyes shot wide. “Just what?”
“He’s doing life in club fed.”
“Club fed?”
“Federal prison,” he said. “Third strike law. Gave him a life sentence.”
“Oh. That sucks. It was my dad’s brother-in-law?”
He nodded. “He rode with HA. Wild bastard. Bishop was his name. Road name was Nut Bucket. Hell, he was crazier than ol’ P-Nut here.”
“But he’s in jail?”
“Prison.”
“Oh.”
“More I think about it, heard word a while back that his boy had a club back there.”
“He’s got a son? He’d be my cousin, right?”
Bama rubbed his beard. “I guess he would. Yeah.”
“I’ve got a cousin?”
“Cousin who’s the head of an MC, I think.”
“Where is he?”
“Think he’s in Kansas. I’ll do some digging.”
“I can do some digging,” she said excitedly. “His name is Bishop, and he’s in Kansas? Is he the president of the club?”
“If I remember correctly. Been a while since I heard anything about him, but that’s what I’m thinking.”
“I’ll see what I can find,” she said.
I couldn’t imagine not knowing my father. Mine was my idol, and although it appeared Smudge’s father was hers, he was a man she knew very little about. It was nice to have a man who could filter stories of her father to her from time to time.
In my eyes, there was nothing more important than family. Short of an abusive stepfather, an alleged cousin, and an uncle doing life in prison, Smudge had none to speak of.
“We’re going to have to give the story telling a rest,” Bama said. “I’ve got to finish this plate.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Smudge said.
“Hard not to. You’re definitely your mother’s daughter. She made fried chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes and biscuits for my birthday when I was just a youngster in the club. Best meal I think I ever ate. That woman could cook. In fact, at that dinner, you’d just been born. You were living in El Cajon at the time. You weren’t walking yet, but you were crawling all over the damned place.”
“I don’t remember a house in El Cajon.”
“She moved out right after your Ol’ Man passed. Her and some gal she was friends with moved in together. Never knew what become of her, to tell you the truth. Then, after a few years, we all heard what happened to her. Damned shame.”
Smudge nodded, and her eyes fell to the table. “Thank you.”
Bama finished his plate, and looked around the room. “So, what gets you here cooking for this fool?”
Smudge looked up and laughed. “Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
“She’s staying here for a bit,” I said.
He looked at her and arched a brow. “You need anything, and I mean anything, don’t hesitate to give me a shout.”
“I uhhm. I can’t right now, but when I can, I will.”
He shook his head. “I’m lost.”
“My phone’s broken. As soon as I can afford it, I need to get it fixed.”
“Afford it?” He reached for his wallet. “I’ll get you a new phone. It’s the least I can do.”
“Sorry. I’ll take care of it myself,” she said with a wave of her hand. “It’s my phone, and my responsibility.”
“We’ve all got responsibilities, Joey. Best I can recall, I owed your Ol’ Man a few bucks when he passed. Four hundred if I remember correctly.” He opened his wallet and laid four $100 bills on the table. “You can do what you want with that. But, that’s my responsibility right there. Me and your Ol’ Man’s straight now.”
She looked at the money, and then at him. “I can’t--”
He stood. “Toss it in the trash. Take it to his gravesite. Frame it in a picture. Don’t rightly care. But that’s his. Him being gone and all, I suppose it’s yours.”
“Thank you. You don’t have any…do you have any pictures of him?”
“Your Ol’ Man?”
She nodded.
“Shit. You haven’t seen the book?”
“What book?”
He shot me a glare, and then looked at her. “The book about the history of the club.”
“I haven’t, no.”
“Plenty of pictures in there of your Ol’ Man. I’ll bring one by next time the Nut invites me over.”
“I can cook another meal,” Smudge said. “Fried chicken? Gravy? Biscuits?”
“Just tell me when,” he said.
“I’ll get the stuff and have Percy…” She shook her head. “P-Nut. I’ll have P-Nut let you know.”
He opened his arms. “Come here.”
She walked around the corner of the table and gave him a hug.
“Last time I seen you, you weren’t much bigger’n a minute. Nice to see you again,” he said.
“Nice to see you, too.”
Bama broke their embrace and looked her over. He shook his head and grinned. “See a lot of your mother in you, Joey. You’d sure make that woman proud. Get that phone fixed, and let me know about the fried chicken.”
“I will.”
As the sound of his motorcycle’s exhaust faded away, we carried the plates to the kitchen.
“I’ll get this cleaned up,” I said. “You cooked it, I’ll clean up.”
“I can help.”
“I know you well enough to know it’s eating you up inside about that cousin of yours,” I said. “There’s a computer in my bedroom. Go start digging.”
Her eyes went wide. “Really?”
I looked at her and grinned. “Really.”
She clenched her fist and held it between us. “Good lookin’ out.”
I pressed my fist into hers.
Glad I could help.
Chapter Seventeen
Joey
I’d been up half the night researching. After only a few minutes, I’d found information about my cousin. Intrigued by him, his club, and the thought of finding a relative of mine, I read everything I could find about him and his father.
There wasn’t a tremendous amount of information available about the club, short of one news story and a video about a botched bank robbery where a member of the MC took a gun from a bank robber.
Involvement in miscellaneous toy runs, fundraisers, and charity events led me to believe the members of the club were good people, and I was eager to find out more.
I’d woke up rather anxious, and came to work a few minutes early. Just before they unlocked the front door, Albert walked into the parts department.
Crap.
“Where’s Blane?” he asked.
“I don’t think he’s here yet.”
He looked at his watch and then shook his head. “Have you got a minute?”
His face was stern.
It was always stern.
Oh my God.
Don’t fire me.
Please.
He was the owner of the dealership, and the general manager. In his late fifties with closely cropped gray hair and always wearing a few day’s growth of beard, he was a tall and very intimidating man. He rarely came around the employees, and when he did, it was never a good thing.
I swallowed heavily, nodded, and inhaled a short breath.
“Just got l
ast month’s figures done,” he said “You hit your sales goal, and then set a record. You’re quite a salesperson.”
I exhaled. “Thank you.”
His eyes narrowed a little. “Where’d you learn about Harleys?”
I held my shoulders high. “My father was Billy The Snake Schreiber, enforcer for the Hells Angels. He started it all. And, I’m friends with a few of the members of MCs here in SoCal.”
He chuckled. “The Billy Schreiber?”
I nodded proudly. “Yes, Sir.”
“But your last name’s--”
“I was adopted.”
His eyes widened. “I see.”
He reached into his back pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me. “That’s your monthly bonus check, and another check for setting a new sales record. We’ll add a plaque on the wall for you back there.”
He motioned to a row of bronze plaques in the hallway. I found the thought of being added to the hall of fame humbling.
“And, you’ve earned two weeks of paid vacation,” he said. “Whenever you want to take them, just let me know. One week at a time, though.”
I accepted the envelope. “Oh. Wow. Thank you.”
“You don’t have a college education, do you?”
I set the envelope aside. “No, Sir.”
“According to your file, you don’t have any management experience. Is that correct?”
“I don’t. No.”
He glanced down at the floor, let out a sigh, and then looked up. “I don’t know what else to do.”
I had no idea what the problem was, but he looked worried.
“About what?” I asked.
“Big Hank’s going to have to be operated on, and the recovery is going to be a tough one. Long story short, he won’t be returning. I need a new manager for this department, and I always like to hire within. I’ve been crunching the numbers, and making the purchases, but I can’t keep it up. Not forever.”
My heart rose into my throat. “I can. I can do it. Give me a chance. Show me what needs done, and I swear, you’ll only have to show me once. I’m a whiz on anything computer related, and I’m a walking calculator. I swear, if you give me this chance, you’ll never regret it.”
He folded his arms. “You’re twenty?”
“Twenty-one in a matter of weeks.”
“You are great at sales.”
“I love Harleys and the people who ride them.”
He gave a nod. “It shows.”
“Please?”
“The Snake’s daughter, huh?”
“I sure am. But, I don’t want the job because I’m someone’s daughter. I want it because you think I’m the right person for it. And, I’m the right person for it. I really am.”
“It’s a tremendous responsibility.”
“I’m a responsible woman.”
He cocked his head to the side. After looking me up and down for a moment, he checked his watch. “I’m going to have that kid’s ass.”
“Back to what we were discussing,” I said. “Your thoughts?”
“Panhead model was made from when until when?” he asked.
“1948-1965. It was replaced by the Shovelhead, which was manufactured from 1966-1984. A few Shovels leaked into 1985, but not many. The Evolution, or Evo, replaced the Shovel, and it ran from 1986-2000. Twin Cam followed, coming out in late 1999 in some softies, and it’s still made today, although there’s been some fairly significant changes since the first model.”
“Damn.” He chuckled. “Walking dictionary, too?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He put his hands on his hips. “Who founded Harley-Davidson?”
I proudly recited the story as best as I could remember. “In 1901, William Harley and his friend Arthur Davidson had a dream. Through their friend Henry Melk, a machine shop owner, they developed the first engine. It took two years to complete, but in 1903, the first Harley-Davidson was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”
“Impressive,” he said. “Six-month probation period. If you meet the goals I set, you can have the permanent job. If you don’t meet your goals, you can go right back where you were as a sales clerk.”
I cocked a playful eyebrow. “Should we discuss wages and benefits first?”
“Fifty-five thousand a year plus monthly bonus, a 401-k that I’ll match, Blue Cross health insurance, and two weeks paid vacation.”
Fifty thousand dollars?
Despite the fabulous offer, I wanted him to know I was a good negotiator. I folded my arms over my chest, took a step back, and studied him. “Make it sixty-five.”
He let out a laugh. “Sixty.”
“Seventy.”
“Sixty-two-five.”
“Seventy-two.”
“Sixty-five it is,” he said with a laugh.
Holy cow!
I clenched my fist and held it between us.
He looked at my fist, clenched his, and grinned.
With a racing heart, and a prideful smile, I pressed my fist to his.
And, just like that, we made the deal.
Chapter Eighteen
P-Nut
I twisted the throttle as tight as it’d go. Blaring down the street at 90 miles an hour, I was going three times the legal speed limit. When the shop came into my line of sight, I swerved across the oncoming lane and into the parking lot.
In a full-throttle run, I blasted past the shop’s open garage doors, locked up the rear brake, and spun the bike into a 180-degree tailspin.
Halfway through the controlled skid, I released the brake, downshifted two gears, and hit the throttle.
Now pointed directly at the open doors, the bike shot through them and onto the spotless concrete floor of the shop.
I grabbed a fistful of front brake and the pressed the rear brake pedal at the same time. The bike came to a screeching stop in the center of the shop.
After whacking the throttle a few times for good measure, I killed the engine.
Crip was leaning against the work bench drinking a beer. Unless he was taking care of beating someone’s ass, he could always be found in the same spot.
Against the bench with a beer.
“God fucking damn you, P-Nut,” he howled. “Don’t come in this shop like that. You’re going to kill someone one of these days. And, I’m sick and fucking tired of you revving that piece of shit up in this shop. It’s un-goddamned-called for. This is the last time I’m telling you.”
He was the president of the Filthy Fuckers MC, and a former navy SEAL. He was a wise man, a great leader, and someone I comfortably called a brother. Despite holding him in such high regard, I treated him as if he irritated me. In fact, I never let anyone know how I felt about them.
I considered doing so a sign of weakness.
I pulled off my helmet, hung it over the handlebars, and reached for my smokes. “That’s what you said the last time.”
“Well, this is the last time.”
“Until next time.”
“I mean it.”
“I’ll slow that fucker down when I’m too old to control it.”
He crossed his arms. “What the fuck brings you in here this time of day?”
“Ever heard of the Selected Sinners MC?”
“Yep.”
“What do you know about ‘em?”
“Decent bunch of fellas, I think. Midwest presence. Kansas, Texas, and maybe Oklahoma. Up and coming club, for sure. President’s name is Bishop. Axton Bishop. Why?”
I lit my smoke, took a long drag, and nodded. I was damned impressed with his knowledge, but I wasn’t about to let him know.
“Girl who lived next door is the cousin of this Bishop fella. She just found out. Didn’t know she had any relatives. Long story, but I might be makin’ a run out that way to see him.”
“Smidge?”
“Smudge.”
He shrugged. “I was close.”
“I’ll start calling you Crop instead of Crip. Suppose that’s close enough.”
br /> He let out an audible sigh. “Need some club presence on that run to see him?”
I took a long pull off my cigarette and then blew the smoke in his direction. “Nope.”
He waved his hands through the plume of smoke, as if coming in contact with it would kill him.
He shot me a glare. “1,500-mile run is a long one. Going without a chase vehicle or a few of the fellas isn’t a good idea.”
“1,364, to be exact. And, I ain’t lookin’ to have any of the fellas tag along, thank you very fucking much.”
“Remind me why you’re in this club.”
“I love large groups of sweaty men.”
“I’m being serious. You’re one hell of a rider, I’ll give you that. And you never miss a meeting, a ride, or a run. When it comes time to take care of business, you’re right there, every time. You’re devoted, that’s for damned sure. But you want nothing to do with anyone in this club unless it’s on your terms.”
I took another drag off my cigarette and considered what he’d said.
I locked eyes with him. “I’d take a bullet for anyone in this club, you included. Two things in my life are important to me, family, and this club. But, I’m no different than anyone else in this MC. I don’t swap spit with every swinging dick who wears a patch. Don’t know ‘em that well, and don’t care to.”
“You run with Smokey, Pee Bee, and Cholo. That’s it. Club’s a damned sight bigger than that, ‘Nut.”
I spit out a laugh. “The patch earns my respect, but friendship comes hard, Prez.”
“Just saying, you ought to try running with a few of the other fellas. Get to know them.”
I thought of the prospect that ended up being an ATF agent. Smokey, despite my warning, had befriended him. In the end, he was a cop who was posing as a biker.
I chose my friends wisely, and only after a long period of them proving themselves. With me, trust was earned over time, and never simply given.
Trusting people exposed me and those I cared for to risks, and I wasn’t in the risk-taking business.
“Let me ask you a question, Boss.” I said, my tone sarcastic.
He took a drink of beer and then gave me a condescending look. “I’m all ears.”