CHAPTER 1

Bill Conlon caught the lights out of the corner of his eye. He checked the rearview mirror again and said, “I wonder what that is?”

His wife Sharon turned in her seat. Although the sun had set, it was light enough to see them.

“I think they’re motorcyclesmoving pretty fast from the look of it,” she said.

Despite the seatbelt, the boy in the back managed to turn and kneel, his chin resting on his small hands.

“Scotty!” his mother said. “Sit like you’re supposed to!”

“Wow, Mom! Look at ‘em!” the boy said. “Look at ‘em!”

In the blink of an eye, the pack of motorcycles moved into the left lane to pass.

Sharon saw the first two bikes come up alongside, the grim looking faces of the riders accenting the rumbling roar from the exhaust pipes.

“Scotty, don’t look at them,” she said. “Turn around, now!”

Engrossed, the boy heard nothing except the big Harleys as they flew by in a blur, two by two. They rode handlebar to handlebar, so close to each other that it seemed impossible, with scant room between the first ones and the others that followed.

Bill checked his speedometer and said, “An outlaw club—they’re packed tight. I don’t believe it! There must be 30 of ‘em. They have to be doing 90 or betternever seen anything like it.”

The rider at the back of the pack noticed the boy in the window. The kid was smiling, his eyes like saucers. In a flash, when the little boy waved to him, the hard-core biker raised his hand in salute.

“Mom! Dad! He waved to me! That guy waved to me!”

“They’re bad people, Scotty,” his mother said. “You shouldn’t look at them. They’re criminals.”

“They’re cool, Mom! They’re far out!”

Sharon shot a glance toward her husband. She noticed his smile the instant it disappeared.

“And what are you grinning at?” she said.

“The boy calls ‘em like he sees ‘em—and I happen to agree with him.”

“Scotty, turn around in that seat—right now!” she scolded, cutting her husband short with an icy look.

Scotty did as he was told, but his mind was with them, with the bikers, with the bad people. He stretched his neck to see their taillights as they faded from view.

Someday I’m gonna be just like them, he thought. Someday I’m gonna be one of them. Someday.

The old man got up from his desk, bones cracking, and called from the door to his office.

“Hey, Scotty!”

Interrupted from his reverie, Scott Conlon allowed his childhood memory to fade.

“Yeah, Ray, what’s up?”

“It’s past closing timeunless you want to stay over and finish,” Ray Thomas said. “I have to get moving and go meet the bondsman.”

Under his breath, he said, “Damn fool son of mine is in trouble with the law again.”

Scott made believe he didn’t hear the last part. He didn’t care much for Ray’s biological son David. He eyed the beautiful Pan/Shovel on the lift, thought about it for a moment and said, “I might as well stay. I should be able to wrap this one up in about an hour or two.”

Old Ray Junior smiled his big, toothy smile. He liked hearing that just fine. Although he looked years younger until you got up close to him, with his long pony-tailed hair and snow-white full beard, Ray was pushing 70. Back in 1967, when he’d come home from Vietnam after his father Ray Sr. passed away, he had inherited the family business, Ray’s Big Twin. He’d made a go of it, and had kept the business in the black through good times and bad.

Located right on the Gulf, with plenty of Florida beach frontage, Ray’s Big Twin was a popular shop and parts outfit for the local bikers. Ray had evolved with the times, whether it was racing, stock, or the current rage, custom hot rod bikes. As the rich folks bought up the beachfront properties and erected their giant multi-million dollar condos, Ray stubbornly held on to the place that his father had built after World War II, before the tourist invasions.

“Suit yourself, then,” Old Ray said. “Just lock up when you’re done.”

“Will do, Boss.”

Old Ray nodded. He walked out into the warm, Fort Myers evening thinking why couldn’t my son have been more like him? Where did I go wrong with David? Damn fool has too much of his mother’s family genes in him.

Sometimes I think I should just go through with it—arrange it so I leave the business to Scotty. Lord knows it’s been on my mind for at least a year. And why not leave it to him? Why shouldn’t I? It’s what the kid has always wanted. I’ve thought about it enough. I have to make a decision about it before it drives me nuts. Dammit, I think I’m just gonna go ahead and do it!

Hell, if I left it to David, he’d sell everything for drug money before I even turned cold in the ground. And one of these days I’ll have to straighten out the will, too—let Augustine know that I want to change it.

Ray fired up his twin-cam bagger, dropped her into first, and let the machine sound soothe him as he pulled out onto the main drag of Estero Island. He felt better already, now that he’d finally made up his mind. After he let Scotty in on his decision, he’d have Augustine draw up the papers to transfer ownership of the business.

Ray grinned when he thought of his lawyer. Augustine always had an angle, and he wasn’t going to like this turn of events. He had tried to get Ray to sell, claiming that he could make him rich if he’d agree to sell the property to the condo developers, who were snapping at his heels to make a deal.

When his thoughts turned to back to David, Ray Thomas felt the bile rise in his throat as his pulse rate quickened. Although he loved his natural son as much as a father could, at nearly 40 years of age David was a bigger disappointment than Old Ray ever would have believed possible. From early on, it had been the drugs. When it boiled down to it, from the time his son was a teenager, it had always been the drugs. And lately, it had gone from bad to worse.

As he crossed the bridge to the mainland and rode to bail out his son, Ray promised himself this would be the last time.

“Scotty, I want to talk to you in private.”

“Sure, Ray.”

Scott followed him into the office. His eye took it all in, and he gazed again at the photos as if seeing them for the first time. The pictures of Ray as a young man and his racing bikes, his ex-wife and son David, hot-rod motorcycles that Ray had built over the years, interspersed with feature racing posters and girly pin-ups fading yellow with age.

And the pictures of Scott himself, from the young boy that hung around the motorcycle shop, to his army picture sent from the Gulf War in the Middle East, to the recent photo of him and his fiancée Virginia. This place felt like home.

As Ray rummaged through his desk, Scott regarded the old biker. When he thought about it, Scott realized that Old Ray was more than an employer, more than a friendin so many ways, proven time and time again; Ray was like a father to him. For a microsecond, Scott thought of his own parents, and the bombshell they’d dropped on him the previous yearwhen they told him that they were originally from Texas, and that he’d been adopted. He had always wondered why he was so unlike them, and now he knew.

“I see the Pan/Shovel is gone,” Ray said, bringing Scott back to the present. “Jason come to pick her up?”

“Yeah,” Scott replied. “I gave him a call after I took it for a test ridethe bike ran smooth as silk. Jason wanted it right away last nightI figured you wouldn’t mind. Paid cash, too. Hundred dollar bills. The money’s in the till, under the tray.”

“He have anything to say?” Ray asked.

“Not really, but he was happier than a pig in shit,” Scott said. “Took off like a bat out of hell.”

Ray grinned and said, “He ought to be happy, after seeing how the job turned out for him. Another satisfied customer.”

“Yeah.”

“There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Scotty, and I ain’t gonna beat around the bush on this one. It’s been on my mind a long time and it’s time I brought it out into the open.”

Old Ray hesitated for a moment, thinking of his son David.

He assessed the young man seated before him, and saw what he expected to see. Satisfied, Ray leaned back in his chair and continued, “So here it is, Scotty. I want you to take over the shop. I know you always wanted a business of your own. I’m retiringhell, Lord knows it’s about time. I’m crawling up the back side of 70 and I want to do right by you before I check out.”

“But Ray, I …”

Ray held up his hands, palms out.

“Just hear me out, son. I know what you’re gonna say. David’s my only child and it should go to him. You needn’t worry on that account. David will do fine on what I’m leaving him … but hell, when you think about it, he don’t deserve a damn thing! He never comes around herehas no interest whatsoever in the businessonly time I see him anymore is when he has his hand out for money. On top of that, one of these days he’s going to end up in the state prison if he doesn’t clean up his act. He’s in some kind of trouble again, that’s all I know. I had to bail him out. Not even a thank you from him, either. There was another warrant for his arrest. He’s in trouble with the drugs again, I’m sure of it.”

Old Ray looked away for a moment, and stroked his beard. It pained the old man to cast his son in a bad light, or speak ill of him, and Scott could see that it hurt him to the core.

When Ray looked up, his voice was soft when he said, “Truth is, I don’t think he’s gonna clean up nothing. I wish I could understand my own boy but the gospel truth is I can’t. Damn fool can’t keep himself clean! But

hell, Scotty, that’s none of your concern!” Ray said, perking up. “Ever since I put you in charge here we’ve nearly doubled our profits. The word’s out—hell—everybody wants a bike like them assholes on TV! When they want a custom build they come to Ray’s Big Twin. And that’s on account of you, son. I don’t need to tell you thatyou know it already. All these boys working for mehell, everybody in the shop who makes his living herethey rely on you now. They’ll be happy with the change. And I want to retire. Do a little traveling. Take the bike out west. I promised myself I was gonna do it and now it’s time.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Scott said. “I’ll have to go to my bank and see what kind of terms I can get for the loan. I think I can …”

“A loan? Who in the hell said anything about a loan? What are you trying to dopiss me off?” Old Ray said. “I ain’t selling it to you; I’m giving it to youlock, stock and barrel. And I ain’t gonna take no for an answer, either! Truth is you’d be a damn fool to refuse. Anyway, it gives me a chance to do something for you and that pretty little fiancée of yours.”

Scott glanced over at the picture of him and Ginny.

“Giving it to me? Come on, Ray! I appreciate what you’re saying more than you’ll ever know. And my own shop is what I’ve always wanted. But I think I should earn it.”

“In my eyes, son, you’ve already earned it,” Ray said. “I mean that.”

“David isn’t going to like any of this,” Scott said.

“You let me worry about that,” Ray said. “In the meantime I’m going to let my lawyer draw up the papers to make it all legalthat is, if you’re with me on this.”

Ray stood, came around the desk, and held out his hand.

His emotions in overdrive, Scott faced him, took the old man’s hand and held it tight.

“I don’t know what to say,” Scott said. “It’s always been my dream. To have it come true is more than I could ever wish for. Ray, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Course I do!” the old man replied. He embraced Scott then, and patted him on the back. “Come on, let’s drink to it!”

Grinning like a child on Christmas morning, Ray went to his desk and produced a bottle of Jack Daniels and two square glasses. He filled each glass to the halfway mark, came back around the desk and offered one to Scott. He raised his glass and said, “Here’s to Scotty’s Big Twin!”

CHAPTER 2

At the breakfast table, Ginny pulled out the dinette chair and winced when she sat down.

“That’s really great news, Scotty. I can’t believe he’s actually giving you the shop. He always seemed like such a gruff old sort to melike a grumpy old hard ass.”

“I know you barely know him, but he’s got a heart of gold, babe. They don’t come any better. He’s always treated me more like a son than an employee, ever since I was a kid. But I have to admit, I never saw it coming. He said he’s going to have his lawyer take care of the paper work. I still can’t believe it.”

“I’m happy for you, Scotty.”

“For us, you mean. Old Ray said he wanted to do something for us.”

Her smile turned to a grimace when she moved in her chair.

“Ooh, my gut.”

“What’s the matter, Gin? Are you all right? Is it happening again?”

“I don’t know. I still get the pains. It’s getting worsea lot worse today. I thought maybe it was my time, you know? But it’s not—it’s different.”

“Maybe from all that shrimp we ate yesterday,” Scott said, not believing it as soon as he said it. “Either that or the beer.”

She forced a smile. “I don’t know—I just don’t feel right. And now my back is hurting again, too.”

Scott got up from his chair and came around the table.

Ginny frowned when he stared at her.

“What?” she said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Your eyes,” he said. “They don’t look right.”

“What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with my eyes.”

Ginny gave him the look, got up, and went to the bathroom. He followed her.

Her inrush of breath proved she saw it as well when she viewed her reflection in the mirror. The whites of her eyes had turned a distinct tinge of yellow.

“Scotty, what’s the matter with me? Look! I didn’t notice it before but my skin isn’t right either!”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t understand it. I think we better take you to the clinic. Better yet, maybe emergency, over at St. Joe’s. Just to be sure. You’ll be fine. It’s probably just something you ate.”

 “I don’t know,” she said. “I think it’s more than that. Something’s wrong with me! For God’s sake Scotty, I’m yellow! I’m nauseous now, too.”

“Let’s go right away, then,” he said. “We better get you checked out.”

“Just give me a minuteI’m going to call my mom first,” she said. “I want to let her know.”

“All right—while you do that I’ll bring the car around and put the bike in the garage.”

In the waiting room at St. Joseph’s hospital, Scott sat the magazine down on the table. Movement from the doorway caught his eye as the nervous, heavy-set woman charged into the room. She spotted him immediately.

“Scott, what did they say?” she said, rapid fire, breathing heavy. “Ginny called me and said you were bringing her here. She didn’t tell me much. They didn’t tell me anything at the front desk, either. Is Ginny all right? Are they going to let her go home?”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Scott said. “They sent for another doctor and she’s in there with her right now. The first guy only told me that they were going to give her some testsI think for her liver because she might have jaundice. Her eyes didn’t look right. Her skin was yellow.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know, Roberta. I don’t know what it means.”

Although the room was cold, Ginny’s mother perspired. She reached into her purse and wiped her face and neck with a handkerchief. Breathing hard, she erupted, “Well, I’m going to the front desk to find out what the hell is going on here!”

Before Roberta got to the lobby door, the thin, pointed nosed doctor entered the waiting room. She’d overheard the comments from the distraught woman.

“Excuse me,” the doctor said, fingering a button on her white smock. “Are you Mrs. Strizic? Virginia’s mother?”

Roberta swung her bulk around and said, “Yes, I’m her mother. Is Ginny all right? Can she go home now?”

“I’m Doctor Weiss,” the doctor said, her eyes magnified by the thick, dark rimmed glasses. “Actually, we’d like Virginia to remain with us for a little while until we have the results of her tests.”

When the doctor noticed the man get to his feet, she seemed unwilling to continue the conversation.

Scott approached and offered his hand. “I’m Scott Conlon, Doctor. I’m Ginny’s fiancé.”

“I see,” the doctor said, satisfied now to speak of Ginny’s condition.

“Virginia has jaundice, which might be caused by a number of …”

“How long does she have to stay here?” Roberta blurted. “I thought she just had a stomach achesomething she ate. There’s nothing wrong with her!”

“Mrs. Strizic, do you know if Virginia has complained of pains in her stomach before today? Perhaps pains in the back? Are you aware if she’s been losing weight?

“No! Not at all! I don’t thinkI mean she hasn’t said anything to me that …”

“Her stomach has been bothering her for weeks,” Scott said. “And lately she’s complained about back pain. I suggested she see a doctor but she refused. Then she’d be all right again, so she didn’t seem overly concerned about it. Ginny’s not a complainer. She has lost some weight latelymaybe six, seven pounds. She’s always on the scale.”

“Virginia’s symptoms indicate a possible pancreatic disorder, as witnessed by the jaundice and masses in the area of the pancreas,” the doctor said. “At this point I believe we can rule out any problems with her liver. Her blood tests reveal anemia and high blood sugar.  I’ve ordered abdominal X-rays and ultrasound tests. We’ll understand more once we have the results of those tests.”

The silence stretched for an eternity.

Roberta stood, eyes staring at the doctor, her mouth open to speak. Nothing was coming out.

Finally, she whispered. “Masses? What do you mean by masses? What kind of masses? What are you saying, doctor? What does it mean?”

“At this point, Mrs. Strizic, I can’t say. As I said, we’ll know more when we get the results of the tests. You’re welcome to stay here with her, of course.”

“Can I see her now?” Roberta asked. “Oh my God, is she going to be all right?”

“You both can see her in a little while, maybe half an hour,” the doctor said. “Wait here and a nurse will come.”

When he walked into the shop, the usual noises came to a halt. Some of the workers nodded to him, while others kept silent, watching. He went to his toolbox then, and opened it. Scott fitted the socket tool onto the air wrench, turned toward the motorcycle on the lift, and began. As he removed the primary cover, the shop sounds returned to normal.  Unaware of his surroundings, he worked automatically, his mind on Ginny.

During the silent lull in the otherwise noisy shop, Old Ray looked up from his desk. With the recent news about Ginny, he hadn’t expected Scott to return to work this soon.

“Scotty how is she?” Ray said when he came over.

“Not good,” Scott said, struggling with the words. “She’s real sick. They did a biopsy right away. It’s not just in the pancreas. The cancer spread.”

“Look, son,” Ray said. “You didn’t have to come in today. You’ve got enough on your mind. Go on. You should be with her. For the time being, Mark can take care of things around here.”

“All right.”

“Did they say anything about her recovery?” Ray asked. “Radiation or Chemo or anything like that? They can do a lot nowadays, you know.”

“At first they were talking about some kind of radical new treatments,” Scott said. “But when they learned the extent of the cancer … well …”

Scott hung his head, unable to continue.

“What is it, Scotty? Tell me.”

“They’re only giving her a few months to live, if that long.”

“There’s always hope, Scotty.”

Uncomfortable, Old Ray searched for something else to say.

“Scotty, you know this. If there’s anything I can doanything at all you just get a hold of me. Call me any time and let me know.”

“I appreciate that, Ray.”

“Maybe this ain’t the time to talk about it,” Ray said, “but I have a meeting with Augustine this afternoon to set up the transferwe have a few details to discuss before we sign. I know how excited Ginny was about you taking over the business. I’m sure she wants that. You know it will make her happy. It might be the spark she needs to turn things around.”

“Ray, I …”

“Dammit, don’t give up hope, son! Believe in miracles. They do happen. Now you get your ass out of here and go see to your woman! In the meantime we’re all going to pray that she gets better! If I need you, I’ll call you. Now git!”

CHAPTER 3

In the parking lot of the hi-rise condo complex on Fort Myers Beach, David Thomas hit the crack pipe, inhaled sharply, and let the drug pound into his brain. He laid back in the passenger’s seat and felt the rush waterfall down his body.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Mother-fuckin’ ay. Oh, yeah.”

The man behind the wheel heard nothing, the jarring hip-hop drowning out any words from the mouth of the junkie. The tinted windows of the pearl-white Lexus allowed no view inside from curious eyes.

Later, the driver turned the music down and said, “Hey D-man, what time did you say you have to go to the hearing?”

“Three this afternoon, man.”

“Old Ray gonna be there?”

“My old man?” David said. “My old man is always there. He doesn’t like it much but he puts up the cash. Augustine said because of the plea-bargain I’ll get probation again. It’s already arranged. All I have to do is show up.”

“Augustine?” the driver asked.

“Our lawyer,” David replied. “My old man told me he had to go to a meeting with him firstover some real estate deal or some shit. But he said they’d be there on time.”

“You said he made a deal for probation. They say how long it was for?”

“Three years,” David said. “At least this time there ain’t any jail time.”

“That means you’re still going to have to do the random testingwhenever they fuckin’ feel like it.”

“I can deal with it. Beats the hell out of sitting in the slammer.”

“Yeah, I suppose it does. I wouldn’t know.”

“But you do know how the courts are,” David said. “It’s all about putting the money in the right pocket.”

“Speaking of money, do you still want to make the buy?” the dealer asked.

“Damn straight, I want to make the buy.”

“They’re going to want cash.”

“I’ll have the money just like I said. I promised my old man I was going to change this time. He believes in me. And he’s generous. But I need you to front it to me firstI don’t’ have the cash on me. You know I’m good for it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the driver said, unable to conceal his irritation. “I thought you might pull that again, so I brought enough cash to cover. But I’m not shittin’ when I tell you I’d rather have the money up front. I ain’t running a bank here.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your fuckin’ money.”

“You know what?” the dealer said, his voice rising. “I’m starting to not like your attitude. Maybe I should just drop you off.”

David quickly said, “Hey, take it easy, cabron. I didn’t mean nothing by it. I just want my stuff.”

The driver was tense. “I have to do the deal over in Lehigh.”

“Do you think you’ll still be able to get me to the courthouse on time?” David asked, pushing it.

Unexpectedly, the driver thawed, and then grinned. “In this car? Are you shitting me?”

“I’m going to have to get me one like this,” David said. “Soon as I get my driving privileges back.”

This jarred the driver’s funny bone, and he laughed outright.

“Yeah, right. That’ll be the day. Anywaydo you want to do a little more of this?” the dealer said, offering the bag.

“Thought you’d never ask. What about you? Come on. Are you going to do some for a change? It’s good. You know it’s good.”

“Nah. You know I did my share and then some. It’s been over two yearsI can’t believe I’ve been clean that long.”

“So why stay connected?” David asked. “Why not go completely legit and get the dream house and the 3.2 kids and the trophy wife and all the rest of that shit?”

“It’s coming. HeyI’m making a shit-pot full of money. I’m almost where I want to be. Another year or so, and I’ll be out of it completely.”

“Yeahwell maybe then, you’ll have enough to buy a car that has some balls.”

The driver grinned. “Is that right? Hang on to your hat, amigo.”

The driver of the UPS delivery truck was unable to stop the slow motion clip as time moved forward, frame by frame. He saw the accident coming before it happened. Later, when he related his observations to the police, he’d forgotten that at the instant of impact, like a child on a monster roller coaster, he had screamed at the top of his lungs.

At the intersection, from the turning lane he waited for the green arrow to make his left turn. On the passenger’s side mirror, he saw the white car speeding up behind him in the next lane, pacing the light. From his left, the motorcycle was already in the intersection, doing at least 40 miles per hour.

The delivery driver traveled through this crossroad many times each week, and knew that the main traffic red lights remained on until the arrow traffic cleared the intersection.

Until the last split second, the pony tailed, white-bearded man on the full dress Harley never saw the speeding Lexus until the final smashing jolt ended his life.

When the driver of the Lexus lost control after slamming broadside into the bike, the car veered to the left over the median, collided with an oncoming vehicle, and came to a screeching, shattering halt.

The UPS man jumped out of his truck, and came around the front.

 Launched into the air when the vehicles collided, the dead motorcyclist lay in the right lane of traffic, his body twisted at impossible angles.

Within minutes police cruisers and an emergency squad arrived at the scene. The driver’s door of the Lexus opened, and the man got out. When he staggered, he held his arm out, his hand grasping the roofline, until he lost his grip. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground. After a few seconds, he came to a sitting position.

The belted, uninjured passenger leaned back on the head rest in a drug induced stupor, barely aware of what had occurred, the deflated air bags having done their job.

Scott stood at the back of the funeral parlor in the long line of people, waiting to view the deceased. In the front, David Thomas stood beside the casket, greeting another of the hundreds of people who had come to pay their final respects.

When it was learned that David had been a passenger in the car involved in the terrible accident that killed his father Old Ray, the outpouring of pity for the son knew no bounds. The family tragedy was an impossible, shocking coincidence, and the packed house grieved Old Ray’s passing.

When questioned, the confused driver of the Lexus claimed that he believed the light had turned green, and that he never saw the motorcycle. At the scene, controlled substance tests proved that the driver was unimpaired, the driver readily submitting to the police request. The investigators determined that neither alcohol nor drugs were involved, and by David’s luck, chance, or police ineptitude, none were recovered from the Lexus. Later, the official ruling determined the fatal accident to be a sad case of misjudgment by a motorist driving too fast for conditions, and failing to stop at a red light.

While he waited in line, Scott nodded to people he knew, occasionally shaking hands. A man came up to him and extended his hand, and introduced himself as Tim Augustine.

“Pleased to meet you—I’m Scott Conlon. I’m surprised we never meet before.”

“I recognized you from the pictures,” Augustine said, gesturing to the framed picture collages lining the sides of the parlor room. “Ray always spoke very highly of you.”

“He was a good friend,” Scott said.

Augustine said, “Yes, he was. Ray and I went back a long way. I still can’t believe it. Ah … Mr. Conlon, before you go, if you have a minute I have something I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Sure, no problem,” Scott said.

“I’ll be in the front lobby, then.”

“All right.”

The line snaked forward, until Scott came face to face with David Thomas. When he shook hands with him, David said, “I never knew about the deal cooking between you and the old man until Augustine told me. You know that isn’t going to happen. I already have a buyer for the propertya condo developer. Augustine set it up.”

“And the shop?” Scott asked. “What about that?”

“There isn’t going to be any shop. Your termination notices and severance pay will be in the mail next week. All legal, just like the old man wanted it. I want all your personal stuff out of there by next Friday—you and all the others who were on the old man’s gravy train. Looks like things didn’t work out the way you wanted, did they Conlon? Well—too bad, so sad.”

Ignoring him now, David acknowledged the woman next in line.

Scott gazed at the body of his friend. When he paid his final respects to Old Ray, he turned to David.

Interrupting the conversation with the woman, Scott said, “It should have been a closed casket.”

“What do you mean?” David said.

“You’re not worthy to look at his face, you bag of shit,” Scott said. On impulse, he delivered an adrenalin-charged fist to the side of David’s head. “You didn’t deserve a father like him,” Scott said as David crumpled to the floor. “You were the biggest disappointment of his life.”

When Scott made his way through the crowd in the lobby, he felt the hand on his arm. When he didn’t respond, the lawyer followed him out to the parking lot.

“Mr. Conlon! I wanted to let you know that I’m sorry, but the deal is…”

When Scott turned, the lawyer saw the menacing look.

Augustine was no fool.

He knew enough to say no more.

CHAPTER 4

Three months after Old Ray’s burial, Scott Conlon stood in a hospital room, stunned, again overcome with heartbreak. As tough as Ray’s passing had been, this time the loss, magnified many times over, threatened to put him over the edge.

Roberta, seated at the bedside, struggled to maintain her composure. When she let out such a cry that two duty nurses hurried into the room, Scott went to the grief stricken woman and held her, helpless to assuage her sorrow.

Ginny lay at final rest on the hospital bed, the pancreatic cancer having ravaged her skeletal body. The deafening flat line noise continued unabated, the solid, unrelenting tone of the impartial machine reverberating in the room of death. 

Scott went to Ginny then, and whispered his goodbyes.

Roberta wept. After twenty minutes, she whispered, “Scott, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone with Ginny for a little while.”

“I understand.”

Leaving her to be with her daughter, he walked down the hall in ICU, through the double doors, and into the waiting room. A man stood up from his chair. The familiar face of his old Army buddy looked grim, and sad.

Mitchell Gates held out his hand. When Scott took it, the men embraced.

“She’s gone,” Scott said. “I can’t believe she’s not here anymore. It just isn’t right.”

Gates expected the news. After his recent long distance phone conversation with Scott, he knew Ginny’s end was near.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Scott. It’s a tragedy. She was a beautiful girl. I wish I could bring her back.”

“You flew all the way down here?” Scott asked. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Tough times, buddy. Shouldn’t have to go through them alone.”

“Thanks for coming, Mitch. It means a lot to me.”

“I wanted to be here,” Gates said. “I wanted to pay my respects to her.”

 “She would have liked that, Mitch. I mean that. Ginny thought the world of you.  Hey—I shouldn’t have to tell you—while you’re here you can stay at my place.”

“I don’t want to impose, Scott. Besides, I reserved a room at Mantanza’s,” Gates said.

“Come on, Mitch. I insist.”

“All right. I’ll cancel it.”

Scott mixed the drinks and brought them out to the deck. On the inland waterway, a big cabin cruiser laid a blast on its horn. From the other side of the channel a group of people waved.

“Here you go, Mitch. Rum and coke.”

“Thanks,” he said. “You know Scott, I think I wouldn’t mind living down here. I’d like a place like this, right on the waterway. It’s cold as hell back home right now. I should talk to the office about a transfer.”

“Hell, I wish this place was mine,” Scott said. “Ginny and I rented. We couldn’t afford our own placenot with the cost of the housing down here. We talked about buying a place, when we thought the cycle shop deal was going to happen. Now? To tell you the truth I really don’t want to live here any more. It’ll never be the same. Too many memories.”

 “Ray’s Big Twin,” Gates said. “How did that end up? You never did tell me.”

“Ray’s lawyer was forever trying to get him to sell the gulf frontage property to the land developers. When Ray’s piece of shit son got the inheritance, he sold it for the land. They’re going to build condos there.”

“But wasn’t his son in some kind of drug trouble?”

“The lawyer got him off. The regular local bullshit politics. They greased the right palms.”

Gates nodded. “It’s that way everywhere.”

They passed a few moments in silence.

Finally, Gates said, “Ray was really going to give you the place, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah, he was. But even if it had happened that way, it still wouldn’t be the same without Ginny. Like I said, I don’t even want to be here anymore.”

Distracted, Gates paused to admire the vision. Down the boardwalk beside the water, two high-breasted young beauties strutted by in bikinis, the swimsuits leaving little to the imagination.

Gates raised his glass in their direction and said; “You won’t see that this time of year in Wisconsin.”

“If you wanted to move down here, does the FBI allow you to transfer?” Scott asked. “Can you pick your duty station?”

“Nah, actually they appoint you. They send you where they want you. I’d probably have a snowball’s chance in hell to get stationed down here. The reality is I’ll probably be in Wisconsin for a long time. Hey—what about you? Did you mean it?”

“Did I mean what?”

“That you want to leave here?”

For a moment, the vision of Ginny standing on the deck in her red top and white shorts, laughing, and singing along with the radio seemed as real as if she were still alive. Again, he felt the razor-sharp serrated knife enter his heart when he remembered her love, and her passion.

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“Why not come up to Milwaukee, then?” Gates said.

“And do what?”

“What you do best. Build motorcycles.”

“You know what, Mitch? I just might do that.”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah. I think I do.”

CHAPTER 5

The plows had done their job, proven by the huge white mountain at the north end of the lot. Despite the many vehicles parked above lane markers made invisible by the packed snow, Scott found a spot in the second row.

For a moment he remained in the truck as a biker and his woman, huddled together in the sub-zero January wind, emerged from the doorway of the single-level stone building. Above them, the big illuminated sign bordered in black and orange informed customers that they were entering the premises of Waddy’s Custom Cycle.

Scott braced for the bitter arctic blast. For some reason, he didn’t mind. Florida and warm weather would always remind him of her. Although Ginny was always with him now, she’d receded to her permanent, cherished place in his memory.

The want ad in the local Sunday paper for an experienced motorcycle mechanic and builder advised interested parties to call for an appointment. Before doing so, Scott decided to view the shop operation first-hand. When he opened the door to enter, the angel bells suspended from the ceiling caused the bikers at the counters to turn and look. Seeing he was one of their own kind, they returned to their business.

The custom bikes on display immediately drew his attention, where they leaned on their kickstands in three neat rows. Interspersed here and there were stock motorcycles as well as some old, restored iron. All were beautiful specimens of the biker’s art, in particular the rigid framed Knucklehead at the far end. Scott wandered across the room to take a closer look. On the Knuck, the small blue and silver sticker on the oil tank, in old German script, read Support your local Skuldmen MC.

Engrossed in the lines of the classic engine, and how the builder had fit the gleaming knuckle mill into the handmade frame, Scott failed to notice when the wiry man entered the shop. The man gave a cursory look around the showroom floor. When he saw Scott, he hesitated a moment, and then approached him with a purpose.

Scott felt the man’s presence behind him. The voice said, “She’s a beaut, ain’t she?”

The man was intense, his eyes gleaming. He seemed to be moving in ten different directions at once, even though he was standing still.

“I have to tip my hat to whoever put this one together,” Scott said, still on his haunches, looking over his shoulder. “I don’t recall ever seeing a Knuckle like this.”

“Built her myself,” the man said. His shoulders twitched once, then again.

Disbelieving, concealing his amusement, Scott said, “You said it yourself, she’s a beaut.”

The man challenged, “Damn new-leather wobblers wouldn’t know what to do with a tricked out machine like this—what do you think?”

“I expect not.”

Satisfied, the man thrust out his hand. The gray at the sides of his once black hair might put him in his early fifties.

“The name is Waddsworth. John Waddsworth.”

Waddy’s Custom Cycle? This is the owner, Scott thought. It has to be.

Scott stood up to his full height, offered his hand and said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Waddsworth. I’m Scott Conlon.”

For a spare, thin man, Waddsworth’s grip was like a steel trap.

His hand jerked to his throat, as if checking for something missing.

“Mister Waddsworth? What the fuck! Am I wearing a suit and tie?”

Scott smiled. It was hard to tell if the man was joking or not. And it was hard not to like the fellow.

 “They call me Waddy,” the man said, his nervous attempt at a grin making it look almost painful. “Seeing as you like my work so much, it’s Waddy to you too. By now you probably figured out this is my place.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“You ain’t from around here, are you?” Waddy asked. “Sounds like a southern accent to me.”

“South Florida.”

“South Florida? Why in the fuck would somebody want to come here from South Florida, especially this time of year?”

“I guess these days I like the cold.”

This struck Waddsworth as probably the finest joke he’d ever heard before or since, and he slapped his hand against his thigh and brayed like a donkey.

He was finally able to spit, “Well then, my friend, you came to the right place!”

Scott smiled again. “Guess I did.”

“Well, nice to meet you,” Waddy said, turning to go.

He stopped short when Scott asked, “For the ‘47, did you go with the 1.75’s or did you do the upgrade with the 1.95 high performance heads? Can’t tell from the outside.”

“I went with the 1.95’s,” Waddy said, studying Scott as if seeing him for the first time. “Sounds to me like maybe you’ve put together a Knuckle.”

“A few.”

“Anything else?” Waddy asked.

“Just about any kind of HD,” Scott said. “I don’t bother with the other shit.”

Waddsworth’s shoulder twitched. “You any good?”

“I’d like to think so.”

“I’m looking for somebody who knows how to put together a motorcycle—and not just the new ones, either.”

“I know,” Scott said. “I saw the ad. That’s why I stopped by.”

Waddy grinned. Somehow, he knew he’d found his man.

“Well, Mr. Conlon, why don’t you come out back and take a look-see?”

“No suit and tie here either, Waddy. Call me Scott.”

“All right, Scott it is. Come on then, I’ll show you around.”

It didn’t take long for John Waddsworth of Waddy’s Custom Cycle to realize he had a gem in his latest hire. The new guy was able to handle any job thrown at him, and he was better than good. Although tentative at first, the others in the shop eventually accepted him as well. The fact that Scott was an expert pipe welder was a bonus, and allowed Waddy to expand his custom frame business.

Scott had settled in to a single-family rental, a few miles from Waddy’s, and kept in close touch with his service buddy Mitchell Gates. Someone had once said that when a person saves your life, you’re forever linked to him or her, no matter where you are or how much time passes. Scott knew exactly what it meantknew it for a factever since Gates had saved his ass over in Iraq. Mitchell Gates had dragged his unconscious body a good 50 meters just before the second roadside bomb went off killing three more soldiers and wounding seven.

As the winter slowly gave way to spring, Scott decided he liked Milwaukee enough to stay. If he ever entertained thoughts of moving back to Florida, they disappeared the day he met Isela.

The warm springtime weather brought out the bikers in force, everyone wanting their motorcycle worked on at once, and Waddy’s became swamped with business. Waddy’s crew began to put in the long hours, working many days from morning until night, barely keeping up with the demand.

“Fuckin’ Larry called in again this morning!” Waddy hissed that day at no one in particular. He smeared an oily wrist over his bandana. “I want this fuckin’ Road King done and out of here!”

When the counter buzzer rang, Waddy raised his voice up a notch.

“And where in the fuck is that goddam Tony?”

“I’ll take care of it, Waddy,” Scott said, setting the air tool on the tray. “Be right back.”

He saw her before he was halfway to the counter window. She was turned to the right, her profile accented by the upswept hair and ear pendant. The exotic woman had dark brown hair, her skin a light tan. When she turned and smiled, he might have been smacked right between the horns with a steel pipe. She was a stunner, and he immediately knew that other than Ginny, he had never seen anyone more beautiful in his entire life. Nearly gaping, Scott grinned at her like a slack jawed fool, until he noticed the man beside her.

The big Hispanic biker beside her glared at him, the challenging look ugly. The man parted his hair in the middle, Indian fashion, and wore a long, black ponytail. Tattoos graced his fingers, hands, and wrists, the long sleeved denim shirt covering the rest.

A glance toward the showroom revealed why Tony wasn’t at the counter. An interested customer looked serious about buying a bike off the floor. Tony was good—Waddy had a running joke that Tony had already sold his two sisters, his mother and was working on the grandmother.

Scott turned on the southern drawl. Knowing not to pay too much attention to the woman with her man standing right there, he said, “Something I can do for you folks?”

The biker growled, “I need a rectifier for a ’95 Softail Custom. Evo.”

“Coming right up,” Scott said. When he went to the aisle for the electrical parts, the bells rang when another customer entered the store. A few seconds later, he heard a voice call out, “Hey, T-Bone! Long time no see!”

When Scott looked up, the rectifier in hand, he saw that the biker had turned away from the counter, and was in a conversation. The girl, however, was staring at him. When their eyes met, she smiled. At first he thought she brought up her hand to cover her smile. Then, when she wriggled her fingers, he realized that she was showing something else; she didn’t have a ring.

For a brief moment, the loss of Ginny came flooding back like a giant, unstoppable wave—and when he returned to the counter, the woman sensed the change.

Scott ignored her, which seemed to placate the man beside her; the man the other customer had called T-Bone.

After T-Bone paid his bill, Scott forced the monotone, “Anything else I can do for you today?”

“Waddy around?” T-Bone asked.

“He’s busy but I can get him,” Scott said.

“It’s not a big thing,” the biker said. “I’ll talk to him later.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Scott said. When he stole a glance at the woman, the smile was gone. She ignored him and followed T-Bone out the door.

After Scott took care of the other customer, he returned to the back.

“Where the hell was Tony?” Waddy demanded.

“Busy selling a Panhead,” Scott said.

“No shit? The ‘59?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s got the knack, I’ll give him that,” Waddy said.

“Yeah,”

“And what’s your problem all the sudden?” Waddy prodded. “You look like somebody stole your fuckin’ lunch money.”

“Ah, nothing. I’ll get over it.” Scott said. “Oh by the way, a customer asked if you were here. I told him you were busy.”

“My ESP ain’t working so good today. This guy got a name, or you want me to start guessing?”

“Somebody called him T-Bone. He had his woman with him.”

“His woman?” Waddy asked. “Which one? The blonde-haired one with the big tits?”

“No. She looked like she might have been Hispanic. A real looker,” Scott said.

“You must mean Isela. About so high?”

“Yeah.”

“Isela’s his sister.”

When Scott thought of the enchanting smile hidden behind the fingers devoid of rings, his heart raced. “Is she single?”

“Far as I know, she is. I haven’t heard anything different. She finally divorced her asshole husband. Why? You interested?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Dangerous ground, pardner. I don’t think you want to go there. I’m serious,” Waddy said.

“That’s probably good advice,” Scott agreed.

“That it is,” Waddy said. “But I have to agree with you on one thing. That is one fine looking young lady.”

“Thanks again for coming all the way in to pick me up from work, Ramon,” Isela said.

“No problem. When did they say your car’s gonna be done?”

“They said they’d have the window in by tomorrow,” she said.

“Give ‘em a call. Maybe it’s done now.”

“All right.”

After calling on her cell, she said, “Hey, they’re done with it already! I can’t believe it! Do you think …?”

“Sure—I’ll take you there, no problem.”

She rewarded him with a smile that could light up a room.

Ramon “T-Bone” Lopez could never say no to his kid sister, especially considering what she’d been through with her ex-husband Fernando, a handsome con man with a smooth line of bullshit. Just after she’d divorced him, Fernando and an accomplice had pulled an armed robbery at a tavern down in the barrio neighborhoods.  Facing multiple charges, he’d been convicted and sent, under a State placement agreement, to serve his time in a Tennessee prison. Fernando would be an old man before ever seeing the light of freedom again. Ramon was glad to be rid of him. He was even happier for his sister.

“What are you going to do for supper?” she asked. “I can cook something up if you want to stay over and eat.”

“Thanks anyway, but I want to get my bike going—put this rectifier on.”

“Okay.”

Isela thought about it for a moment. Maybe Ramon wouldn’t like it. She decided to broach the subject anyway.

“That guy working at Waddy’s that took care of us,” Isela began. “Do you know him?”

“I heard about him. I don’t know. I might have seen him once before. Why do you want to know about that guy?”

“Oh—I don’t know—I just wondered if …”

Ramon interrupted, “I don’t like the way he looked at you.”

She rolled her eyes and looked out the side window. “Whatmy big brother’s going to take care of me now? I just wondered if you knew anything about him, that’s all. He’s got an accent. It sounds like he’s from the south.”

“He’s from Floridaand that’s about all I know of him, other than they say he’s a pretty good mechanic.”

“Who says?” she asked.

“Well, Tony … and Waddy. They like him.”

“I think I like him too.”

“Isela, you don’t even know him!”

“There’s something about himI don’t know. I think I want to meet him.”

Ramon protested, “But I thought you were going out with Jaime Hernandez! He’s got a good job! He comes from a good family!”

“There’s nothing between me and Jaime!” she said. “We’re just friends! What! You already have me married? If Mama was alive …”

“If Mama was alive she’d agree with me!” Ramon said.

Not allowing her brother to have the last word, Isela said, “Mama would like him too.”

“Jaime?”

“No. You know who I mean.”

CHAPTER 6

At 10:00 PM, the temperature remained as warm as it had been at midday. Scott, the last one to leave for the night, armed the alarm circuits and hit the switch that turned off the lights. Except for the dim night-lights in the showroom and the LED’s on the alarm modules, the building plunged into darkness.

Scott hurried to his pick-up truck as Tony, who had left just before him, pulled out of the lot. Two vehicles remainedhis truck and the car parked next to it on the driver’s side. The car headlights turned on, partially blinding him as he approached. Ignoring the vehicle, he reached for his keys.

“Hey! Wait!” the woman’s voice said. “Don’t go.”

When the dome light in the car turned on, he saw that it was Isela.

“Come on. Get in,” she said.

The car was cool inside. She waited, silent. Scott didn’t know what to make of it. She’s not saying anything—she’s waiting for me to say something first. What does she want? He wondered. What do I say?

After a few moments, when the hint of her fragrance teased his senses and his pulse began to race, he heard himself say, “When I first saw you today, I mean, I would have liked to talk to you but I thought you …”

“You thought my brother was my boyfriend,” she said.

“I did. Waddy told me who you were.”

She thought about that for a while.

“You asked Waddy about me?”

“I wanted to know who you were,” he said.

She toyed with him. “Why do you want to know who I am?”

“Why did you come here, Isela?”

“My name is Isela,” she said with the proper pronunciation. Coming from her lips, the musical, lilting voice formed the sound ‘ees-say-lah’.

“Isela,” he repeated.

“That’s right,” she said. “I came here because I wanted to see you again.”

“You wanted to see me? Well—I’m glad you did. I’m ScottScott Conlon.”

When he offered his hand, she stifled a laugh, and held his fingers for a moment.

“Scott Conlon from Florida?” she said.

“So you know about me, too,” he said.

“A little,” she admitted. “Do you like me, Scott Conlon?”

“Yes. I do.”

“It shows,” she said. When she smiled, he was stunned again with her presence. 

“I’d like to do something,” he said, throwing caution to the wind.

“You’d like to do something? Really? Something like what?”

“I’d like to kiss you,” he said, just above a whisper.

“What changed you?” she asked.

“Changed? What do you mean?”