I scoop up a stack of papers and lean back on the couch to look them over, only to hear a strange crinkling noise from underneath me. I wriggle to the side and reach inside the cushions, my fingertips coming in contact with what feels like more papers. But smoother. Slick. Glossy.
Photographs.
I extract them and look through them with a dubious expression. They’re pictures of equipment from his workplace, with names, dates, and notes scribbled on the back. The documents look like health code violation notices, employee complaints, and some handwritten letters. Some of them are in my father’s signature left-handed scrawl, while others I don’t recognize at all.
“What the hell was he doing with all this?” I mumble aloud, shaking my head.
Just then, I hear a strange rumble from outside. I look up in confusion, thinking at first that someone must have pulled into the driveway. But then I realize it’s the combined sounds of several smaller, louder engines. My heart stops for a moment and I jump to my feet, the papers and photographs falling in disarray on the floor.
Motorcycles.
5
Leon
“Mickey Lamar,” I say as I pace around the bar, addressing the gathered men and women. “We owe that son of a bitch a visit. For those of you just getting here, yeah, you heard right,” I state firmly, looking each and every one of them in the eye as I come to a stop in the center of the room, arms crossed. “The FBI is back in town. Eva says intel is still shaky, but if I know the FBI, they’ve sent Doyle and his boys down after us again.”
There’s a general murmur around the bar, and I can tell that some of the newer blood look uneasy, while most of the older patch-members have knit their brows and wear bitter grimaces. Us veterans have sour memories about Agent Charles Doyle and the FBI in general, and I suspect there’ve been rumors trickle down over the years.
That makes today’s visit to Mickey all the more important. A morale booster.
“Alright, none of you get any assumptions in your heads, alright? Stick together and keep your nose out of the dirt, and whatever happens, never talk to any cops if you don’t know where their paycheck is coming from. Got it?”
There’s a shout of agreement from the club, and I give a curt nod.
“Good. Now who knows about this fucker Mickey?”
Lukas, our treasurer, speaks up first. “That the guy who owns Mickey’s North Liquors?”
“You got it,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Mickey’s an older guy, been running that shithole of his for decades. Never met an employee who’s come out of there without getting burned bad. There’ve been rumors about this bastard getting away with anything with his employees. Seventy-hour work weeks, no overtime, weaseling his way out of sick leave. Word through the grapevine at the unemployment office is that Mickey just laid off two of his workers with no notice, no severance, and no prospects. Incidentally, one of ‘em just found out she’s pregnant.”
There’s a chorus of outraged shouts from the club.
“Piece of shit!”
“Typical, fuckin’ fat-cats.”
I wave my hand at all of them to get them to settle down. “Alright, alright. Let’s take that enthusiasm where it matters, alright? Now I don’t know about you, but I think Mickey pulling this shit is a little too well timed to be a coincidence. Are we gonna let the FBI be what sends us running when the worker folks need us?”
There’s a shout to the effect of “Fuck no!”
“I didn’t think so,” I say, striding towards the door. “Now let’s ride.”
Minutes later, the wind whips across my face as our bikes tear through the streets of the city, our line of roaring engines announcing us as we made our way to the outskirts of town, a good ways from The Glass.
The FBI may be in town, but I won’t let that get in the way of business. After all, how can the workers of the city feel protected if we take to the hills the second the suits from Washington show up? The people need someone who will do what needs to be done through thick and thin.
It doesn’t take us long to get to the liquor store. There aren’t many customers around at this time of day, but it’s getting later, and the after-work crowd will roll through before long.
I don’t mind that. It won’t take long to get our message across to Mickey.
Our bikes take up most of the run-down parking lot. It’s a shoddy looking place with a burned-out letter in the grungy sign. Mickey cuts corners wherever he can, either in the employee’s paychecks or the building’s upkeep.
I stride up to the building and see a young man, presumably an employee refilling an ice machine out front. He glances up at me as I approach, then does a double-take as he notices the rest of the club behind me, looking alarmed.