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A roar pierced the quiet of the store. It was a raspy growl that Brody knew intimately.
He dropped the books he’d picked up from another of the cat’s messes and ran toward the front window.
It was a beautiful two-seater chopper. The custom ride was initially built in the 1970s by one of the founding members of the Satan’s Dawgs. A few years ago, it had been rebuilt to restore it to its original glory. A soft-tail frame with ape-hanger bars, it featured a Sportster tank painted black and adorned with an angry, barking dog with devil horns sprouting from its head.
The bike had been his when he was the bookkeeper for the club. Now, Suicide Mike Eslick rode it as if the beauty belonged to him. Mike was designated the club’s dogcatcher. He was the man given the unenviable task of watching the club’s members for any acts of disloyalty or treason, and for some reason, the man relished it. The cops had Internal Affairs. The Satan’s Dawgs had their dogcatcher.
As the chopper stopped at the intersection near his store, Brody felt hate welling up inside him. Not only was Suicide Mike a big reason he was able to be turned by the FBI, but the man was also now riding his bike. He looked at his hands. They weren’t shaking like before when the corporate puke drove through on his shiny Fat Boy.
No, hate was a feeling that Brody knew well, and it warmed him like a blanket on a cold morning.
Suicide Mike was an ugly man, earning his moniker from ramming his first motorcycle into the side of a Honda Civic while running from the cops. When asked why he did it, Mike told the police he’d rather be dead than in handcuffs. The legend stuck, and his moniker was born.
Eslick didn’t wear a helmet, choosing only a pair of leather aviator goggles. His long, dirty hair and scraggly beard jarred with the peaceful nature of the community. Onderdonk was right for making Brody cut his off. The biker stuck out like a teenager’s first zit.
Suicide Mike turned his attention toward The Red Herring, which caused Brody to jump away from the window. He heard his old bike rev several times.
When he peeked out again, Mike was rolling down Main Street. The rider pointed to the left and turned onto Second Avenue, where Il Cuoco Irato was. One thought came to Brody immediately.
Suicide Mike is meeting with Frankie the Dove.
Brody burst through the front door and ran down Main Street. Several people on the sidewalk hurried out of his way. In front of Pleasant Valley Sundae, though, a group of children wandered out from the store. To avoid them, the big man hopped into the street without looking.
A passing Audi angrily honked its horn right before it hit him.
His feet left the ground, and he went spiraling to the pavement.
He rolled several times before coming to a stop. He stood as fast as he could, desperately trying to get his bearings. Woozy from the collision, he stepped back onto the sidewalk. The driver, a middle-aged woman, stared at him with horror, her hands covering her mouth.
Brody waved apologetically to her and was about to turn and run when the children surrounded him, full of questions.
A kid with a flattop haircut tugged on his khakis. “Did you break your noggin?”
“You got hit by a car, mister,” a second kid said, stating the obvious.
Another roar came from up the street. Brody’s head whipped in that direction, causing his world to tilt suddenly. To stabilize himself, he reached out and put his hand on the head of Captain Obvious.
“Are you going to fall down, mister?” a little girl with pigtails asked. She held a melting ice cream cone in her hand.
“Are you going to barf?” the kid under Brody’s hand asked.
Two motorcycles, their engines loudly growling, slowly made their way along Main Street.
The kid with the flattop tugged on Brody’s pants and said, “You should call your mom.”
Brody looked down to see chocolate ice cream smeared on his khakis.
The two bikes continued to crawl toward him. He couldn’t go back toward his store because he would come face-to-face with the riders. If he ran down Main Street, they would see him running.
He had only one choice.
Brody let go of the kid’s head and stepped inside the ice cream shop.
The noise was unbearable as the children screamed and laughed. From a set of speakers hanging in the corner of the store, 1950s Rockabilly music played cheerfully loud.
A single father was leaned over, his head in one hand while the other fiddled with his cell phone. Several hapless mothers looked his way. Brody couldn’t tell if the women were silently begging him for help or if they wanted him to take their children away. Either way, he wasn’t their man.
A kid ran by him, dragging a sticky hand across the knee of his khakis, leaving a mark of melted green ice cream. The kid giggled and ran away.
The big man stepped further into the store.
“Can I help you, sir?” the teenager behind the counter asked.
Brody eyed her for a moment before looking at the ice cream in the chilled counter. “I haven’t decided yet.”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Take your time.”
Two kids ran by him this time, each smacking their hands onto his pants. A couple of mothers yelled, “Hey!” at them, but neither moved to corral the vermin they had birthed. Brody scowled at the women. Both apologetically shrugged as if there was nothing they could do.
He turned to the window as two riders he recognized passed by. The red-haired man was nicknamed Chester after the Cheetos mascot, and the balding man with the long hair was called Skullet. They both rode Sportsters and wore the leather vests known as cuts. Neither had a Satan’s Dawgs patch on the back.
In club vernacular, they were pups—club prospects, not full members. Brody knew their purpose for being in town. They were additional muscle for Suicide Mike.
The group of laughing and screaming kids circling him had grown, each smacking his khaki pants.
Now, four parents were yelling various forms of “Stop it!” to children with names like Aidan, Isabella, Kaylee, and Landon. Again, the adults all remained in their seats, not moving to aid Brody with their hellspawn.
He growled at the children. They paused momentarily, their eyes wide with fear. That made him happy. Finally, someone had shown the children what real authority and respect was.
Then one of the kids squealed with delight, and the game of smearing his pants with ice cream began again.
Several of the parents yelled, “No!” in unison.
Brody grunted something that was the closest thing to an expletive he would allow and headed for the door.
“I guess you don’t want any ice cream,” the teenager said from behind the counter. “Whatever.”