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.”
27
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.
Back to the parking lot miles behind me.
Back to the man with the flashing green eyes and the wicked, damning half-smile.
Something about him awakens a long-buried sentiment deep in my soul, sunken under over a decade of memories. When he grasped my wrists, when he pulled me out of that squad car, I felt a disturbing sense of deja vu. Like he’s done it before.
But that’s insane. I’ve never been anywhere near a situation like this before, and I certainly don’t know who the guy really is. In fact, all I do know about him is that he’s dangerous. He’s got some kind of motorcycle group and he’s got at least one crooked cop on his side. I also know that he is willing to chain a guy to the filthy floor of an abandoned warehouse — and murder scene — to interrogate him mercilessly.
So, no. I don’t think I know him. There’s no way.
But then why does he feel familiar?
It’s not a conscious recognition. More like a soft, subtle stirring of a strained memory from another lifetime, as though he’s stepped into my world from a parallel universe. Like he’s an acquaintance of some other Cherry LaBeau, a version of myself I wouldn’t recognize today.
I drive the Focus into town, intending to head for the hotel to check in, recuperate and change into some different shoes. But after zoning out for a while, lost in my thoughts, I suddenly realize with a startle that I’m not driving toward the hotel. In fact, I’m on the other side of town entirely, en route to a destination I can find on autopilot, even after all these years.
My dad’s old place. My childhood home.
I haven’t been back there since my father’s death. The funeral was held a few days ago, in a church just outside of town. Even after the service, I returned to my hotel room in Newark, not wanting to commit to a night in Bayonne just yet. It was too close. I couldn’t take it.
But today I’m supposed to check into an inn on the west side of town. After all, I didn’t leave New York just to hide out in Newark while the mystery of my father’s death festers and runs cold in my hometown. I force myself to rip my gaze off the road for a second to check the time. Just after half-past-two. Still early in the afternoon. I suppose since my automatic instincts have guided me back toward home — my old home — I might as well oblige them and go ahead.