Vasily blinks in confusion, but Anya had been listening in on the conversation. The two of them were truck drivers for the docks before the union got busted and the bosses decided they could pay immigrant workers a third of their wages.
“Yeah,” said Anya, “I remember someone like that stopping by the same gas station Dmitiri and I were refueling at on her way in. I remember her chatting up the old cashier like they’ve known each other for years.”
“What, are you kiddin’ me?” came Rodya’s voice from behind the bar, looking over at all of us with a look of disbelief. Rodya’s an older guy with a good heart who’s lived through the best and worst times, and he’ll do just about anything for the club, but he’s too laid back to want to earn a kutte. “I’d recognize a gal like that anywhere.”
“Got something to say, Rod?” I ask with an arched eyebrow, and Rod laughs at having the upper hand on local intel for once. It’s always been a friendly rivalry between the two of us, seeing who can keep the better ear out for the locals: the bartender or the club president.
“W-well yeah! I mean, I’d think you recognize her, wouldn’t you?”
I stare at him a moment, then gesture for him to keep talking.
“Shit, Prez,” he goes on, “there’s only one gal who knows anyone in town who looks like that. You’re telling me you really don’t remember Cherry?”
The beer can in my hand nearly falls to the ground, and Genn’s eyes widen as he slowly looks to me. Hell, half the bar does.
“Cherry,” I repeat in disbelief, “Cherry LaBeau.”
Out of all I’ve left behind from my old life, that woman is the one thing I wish I could have back.
“Come on,” Rod says with cheerful reminiscence in his voice, “you think I forget anyone who’s tried to buy a drink from me underaged? When you and her were teens, I remember you strutting in here all tough, trying to order her a whisky sour. You’re the only ones I ever did that for anyway, too, you put on such a good show of it.”
Genn bites back a grin, but I chuckle and give him an elbow in the side nonetheless. Cherry had been someone I knew when I was a teenager around here, it was true. But last I’d heard of Cherry, she’d gone up into the city for bigger and brighter things. Fancy college degree, maybe even a career and a metropolitan apartment. She’d always been the type to want to chase after that.
“Cherry LaBeau,” I repeat again, dumbfounded. “Shit, she didn’t recognize me either. Have we really changed that much?”
Genn gives a warm smile and claps me on the shoulder. “It’s been lifetimes, Prez. Hell, look at me, calling you Prez when I remember you so young you hardly came up past my knee.”
I shake my head before downing the rest of my beer and setting it aside.
“Well that tells me something,” I say, authority in my voice as I address the rest of the bar. Everyone’s already paying attention to me, and I speak to them like the leader I have to be.
“First of all, she’s no cop. The Cherry LaBeau I know doesn’t deal with cops. At least, unless she’s fallen a hell of a long way, and I don’t know about you, but I want to find out what the deal is, got it?”
There’s a rousing cheer of agreement before the club settles down and I keep talking. “And one more thing — she’s got the biggest stake of all in chasing after the truth behind John LaBeau’s death,” I say, my voice lowering to a normal speaking voice.
“Because John was Cherry’s father. And the union Club never abandons its own.”
“Hell no!” comes the general consensus from the bar, the men and women of the club exchanging confident looks and looking to me with admiration. Half of them look ready to go round up some crooked cops right now, but as I open my mouth to speak again, the door of the bar swings open. My vice-prez, Eva, a woman with short, black hair and a sharp nose, strides in with two other patch-members flanking her. Since the union was an equal opportunity employer, so is the union Club. Unlike most of the other MCs out there, we allow in women as patch members, and it’s always worked out in our favor.
“Sorry to break up the party, but we’ve got trouble,” she announces, casting a look around the bar as it quiets down before resting her eyes on me.
“Prez, the FBI is back in town.”
4
Cherry
I drive slowly all the way back to town from the coast. Cars pass me every couple of minutes, the drivers glaring back at me like I’m some lunatic for driving under the speed limit. And honestly, any other day I might agree with them. But right now I’m in shock, and I can’t bring myself to drive any faster than thirty-five. My hands have a clawlike vice grip on the steering wheel, and I’m holding on so tightly and rigidly that some part of my brain worries I might end up with carpal tunnel or a sprained wrist. I have to remind myself to blink my eyes every now and then, as I stare glassy-eyed at the road in front of me. I’ve got the Ford rental on cruise control, and my mind is drifting far, far away.