“Didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
Jason left the window, and sat at a scarred, wooden table. The floor beneath his feet was old, the windows behind him dirty glass in metal frames with peeling paint. The room had been an office once, with views down on to a factory floor where they’d made phone books back in the forties and fifties. Some hard-ass bikers owned it now, a club moving south from Jersey, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. Pagans. They’d turned the factory into a private club with garages in back and rooms upstairs to crash. They had members, cash, credibility.
“Is your old man going to be a problem?”
The biker’s name was Darius Simms, a chapter president with ties running all the way back to the club’s early days in Prince George’s County, Maryland. He crossed his arms, and blue ink bulged on his biceps, the Argo tattoo as ubiquitous to Pagans as the patches on their denim cuts.
Jason said, “No. No problem.”
“As long as that’s true, our deal stands. The room. The privileges. But no one here likes cops with a reason to show up, unexpected.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Make sure it doesn’t.”
The biker clumped back down the stairs, and Jason moved to the big, interior window with views on to the old factory floor. The machines had been removed years ago. Now a bar ran along two sides, with booths and tables in the center. The crowd was not too big, maybe twenty bikers and twice as many women. A 1946 Flathead hung from the ceiling on chains. The lighting was poor. Gray smoke made a haze.
“Hey, baby. Are we doing this or not?”
Jason had almost forgotten about the woman, half-reclined on the low, long sofa. “What was your name again?”
“Angel.”
“How old are you, Angel?”
“Twenty-five.”
“I’m thinking nineteen.”
“Twenty-five. Nineteen. Does it matter?”
Jason studied her from across the room, the short skirt and tall boots. The red hair was nice. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t do that anymore.”
“Don’t do what? Pretty girls? I have friends who say different. They say Jason French always has the dope, and that he screws like a rock star, too.”
Jason looked away from the smile she’d conjured like a two-bit magic trick.
“Come on, baby doll.” She swung her feet to the floor, revealing more of her long, pale thighs. “Can’t you help a girl out?”
“Here.” Jason put a bottle on the table. “Go crazy.”
“Johnnie Walker?”
“That’s Johnnie Walker Blue.”
“This wasn’t the deal.”
“What deal? You knocked on my door. You came inside.”
“If you’re not dealing, why does the club let you stay here?”
Jason shrugged. “That’s between me and the club.”
She tried again, soot-eyed and willing and far too young. “You don’t think I’m pretty enough?”
“I think you’re beautiful.”
She stood, half-pouting and half-angry. “You could have stopped me at the door, you know.”
“I should have done that. You’re right.”
“You’re being a real jerk face.”
Jason could barely hide the smile. “No one has ever called me that, but yes. I suppose I can be a real jerk face.”
“What do I tell my friends?”
Jason glanced down into the club, and saw her friends at the bar, four or five pretty girls, jaded, no doubt, but not one over nineteen. “I think you and your friends can find a better place to party.”
* * *
Dinner that night was no better than the last. Dad didn’t show up. Mom asked enough questions to make sure I’d not been with Jason. Afterward, in my room, I read of war and communism and riots in a northern prison. It was a bad night, a lonesome one. That changed when the doorbell rang.
“Gibby.” My mother called up the stairs. “You have a visitor.”
I went down barefoot, in jeans. My mother, at the open door, said, “Not too long,” then ghosted away with a frown on her face.
“Sara.” I stepped outside, closing the door. “What are you doing here?”
“Hey, I’m sorry to show up like this. I tried to call all afternoon.”
“My mother.” I waved off the apology. “Sometimes she answers. Sometimes she doesn’t. Do you want to come inside?”
“Maybe we could talk out here.”
“Sure.” I followed her off the porch and into the night air. She wore cutoff jeans, sandals, and a white top that tied behind her neck and left her shoulder blades exposed. “How’d you find me?”
“There are only three listings for French in the book. I thought I’d take a chance.”
“I’m glad you did.” We stood on the walk as moths flickered in the lights behind us. Sara looked lovely but vulnerable, her arms squeezed so tightly beneath her breasts I wondered if she was cold. “Would you like a jacket?” I asked.
“No, no. It’s nothing. Listen, um … Do you mind if we take a drive or something?”
She nodded toward a window, and I saw my mother inside, watching us through the glass. The frown had deepened. She tapped her watch. I said, “Yeah, sure. Understandable.”
We walked to the driveway, and I recognized Tyra’s Mercedes, still battered and scraped. I hesitated, but Sara understood. “It’s part of the reason I came.”
“The car?”
“The car. Tyra.”
I glanced at the house. My mother stood in the open door. “We should go,” I said. Sara slid behind the wheel, and I got in the other side. My mother moved onto the porch, then the walk. “We should go quickly.”
Sara reversed down the drive, and I half-expected to see my mother running after us. She didn’t. The car shuddered as we rocked onto the road, but steadied once we started moving. The top was down. Wind took Sara’s hair, and she looked sideways with an amused smile. “Is your mother always like that?”
“Pretty much.”
“It could be worse.” She raised a narrow shoulder. “I don’t talk to my mother.”
“Not ever?”
“Not for eight years.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so we drove in silence as buildings rose, and city lights climbed higher. Sara fiddled with her hair, chewed her bottom lip. When she spoke at last, we were at a stoplight with cars lined up across the road, their headlights on her face. “Have you seen Jason?” she asked.
“I thought this was about Tyra.”
“I was hoping they might be together.”
“I saw him today. He was alone.”
“Did he mention her?”
“Not really.”
She smoothed hair away from her eyes, and when the light turned, she drove faster, the little car tilting on the curves. A mile later, I recognized the street. “This is where you live.” She nodded, and I thought maybe she was crying. I didn’t know what to say or do, or how to help. She was a grown woman; I wasn’t even wearing shoes. In the driveway, I asked her, “Sara, what’s going on?”