I pulled it into the garage that was my workshop, and under the bright lights, now that it was clean, the damage was more apparent.
I’d have to cut the engine loose from the messed-up frame, and there wouldn’t be any way to save the wiring harness while doing that.
In the end, it would make a beautiful and powerful bike. This one would be mine when it was done. Three cylinders was odd, but there was no arguing with the beauty of the machine, nor its power. It would make one hell of a statement: three cylinders of roaring muscle. Don’t mess with Luke or his bike.
Spencer, the president of the Howlers, had admitted in a rare moment of candor that he’d test-ridden a Rocket Three once and thought it was a great bike, but its English nameplate would be a non-starter in his club. They rode Harleys exclusively.
“Carver.” Jason Nesbit walked up the drive. He never used my first name—a power-trip thing. “Got a minute?” It wasn’t meant as a request.
I nodded. The less I said to my parole officer, the better. Surprise inspections were his prerogative.
He held up a small plastic jar. “Time for a sample and a quick look around.”
I took the jar from him. “Again?”
Peeing in a cup on demand was a parole condition. I hadn’t been sent up on drug charges. Hell, I hadn’t done anything since some pot in high school. I just had to avoid the poppy seed bagels at the diner to have a clean result. Alcohol was allowed, and I indulged in plenty of that. But the humiliation was part of his power trip.
“Keeping you honest,” he’d said the first time, although we both knew I hadn’t been sent up for being dishonest or a druggie.
“It’s one of the conditions.” He followed me to the house.
I held the door open politely for the asswipe and smiled. It took enormous willpower to not kick his ass all the way to the state line, but he held all the cards, and we both knew it. Acting subservient tasted bad, but was the smart move.
He started his inspection by checking drawers and cupboards in the kitchen.
I headed to the bathroom.
“No,” he said. “Out here where I can see, so I know it’s yours.” The bastard took a perverse pleasure in degrading all of his cases.
Another guy I knew had gotten bent out of shape at the abuse, and had tossed the full cup back at Nesbit. That got him violated back to the pen for assault.
I was smarter than that. Two more years of this asshole—I had to endure. Unzipping in front of him, I filled his stupid cup and tightened the lid.
He spent another fifteen minutes rummaging around, while I held my phone at my side and secretly recorded his search.
My place was clean. No contraband anywhere, anytime was my rule. Taking chances with hiding shit was for idiots, and idiots got sent back up. Some guys couldn’t hack it on the outside. They would violate parole to get sent back to prison, where they got fed and knew how to operate. It was better than getting arrested for a new crime and risking ending up in a different facility where they had to rebuild their rep.
Building a rep as someone not to mess with was the first lesson I’d learned on the inside. I’d accomplished it with only a few wounds, some bruises and one broken tooth. Breaking the finger of one guy and arm of another had made my time after that easier. Nobody cut in front of me in the food line or gave me any lip. Inside, I’d had status. Out here, I was a nobody, which was fine by me.
“Travel?” Nesbit asked.
I handed over my travel authorization and log. Not being able to travel freely out of state without his approval was another condition I had to live with for the next two years.
“Baltimore, huh? What was that for?”
I didn’t offer any more than necessary. “Picking up a wreck to work on.”
“Where is it?”
“Garage. You want to see it?” For a moment, I regretted having cleaned it off this morning. Seeing Nesbit puke his guts out at the smell would have been worth it.
He waved his arm for me to lead the way. All he needed was to catch me in one violation or a lie to gain the leverage I knew he wanted.
I led the way to the garage and pointed to the lump that used to be a fine piece of British motorcycle engineering. “It was pretty gross—blood and shit everywhere. The guy should have worn a better helmet. I had to clean brain matter off the instruments.” I looked over and smiled at him.
Nesbit held his hand over his mouth and retreated to the house. For a guy working in the criminal justice system, he had a weak stomach.
I followed him into the kitchen. “I had to untangle a bit of intestine from the handlebars. The guy shouldn’t have eaten corn.”
He wretched into my kitchen sink and held up a hand to stop me from saying more.
If I needed retribution, I’d remember what this did to him for later.
He didn’t waste any more of my time, and I got back to my project after he left.
By the end of the day, I’d labeled all the wiring and cut away the frame to get at the engine and transmission of the Triumph. Even after I lifted it onto a workbench to get it to a good working height, my back was sore from constantly leaning over to inspect this beauty. I followed another pair of Advil with some water before I washed up for the day.
Debbie
That afternoon at the Minimart, I looked over each time the door chime sounded, but still no Luke today.
Annie was in the back, pulling cases of soda to restock the refrigerator, when bad news came in—over three hundred pounds of angry man with a scar on his cheek.
Scarface had been in before, and never with a good attitude. Today the mustard stain on the front of his shirt said he’d recently lost a battle with a hot dog or two.
After a trip down the aisle, he came to the register with a twelve-pack of beer, a box of Ritz crackers, and a jar of peanut butter.
“Will that be all?” I asked. Treat all customers with respect and a good attitude, I’d been taught.
Annie came from the back with three cases on the hand truck.
“Yeah,” he grunted.
I rang his items up.
Scarface pulled a SNAP food stamp card from his wallet.
“You can’t buy beer with that. Sorry,” I told him.
His eyes narrowed. “Yes, I can.”
Annie rushed over.
“The rules say no alcohol,” I told him.
His face twisted up in anger that made the scar look even meaner. “Just do it.”
“Sure,” Annie told him, reaching over to hit the button on my register. She shot me a don’t-ask-questions-just-do-it look.
The reader beeped after a few seconds, and he retrieved his card.
I bagged the crackers and peanut butter for him with a smile he didn’t deserve, and he lugged his purchases away.
After the door closed behind him, I turned to Annie. “What the hell?”
“He’s bad news.”
“That doesn’t change the rules.”
Annie went back to the hand truck. “It’s no big deal.”
“Bullpucky.”
“Mama Garcetti doesn’t like arguments in the store.”
“It’s still not right,” I insisted.
Chapter 4
(Three weeks later)