My bike feels unfamiliar with the weight of someone else on it. I live on my bike more than I do on my own two feet, more often than not, and my bike feels comfortable enough under me that it’s like just another appendage. So having someone hanging on behind me feels as unusual as a new arm.
“Where are we going?” I hear Cherry shout from behind me as I tear through the streets, but I don’t bother trying to answer. The wind would just take the words from me, if she isn’t used to talking on a bike.
Instead, I just nod to the alley I’m about to turn down, and I pull her hands a little tighter around my waist before taking a sharp turn around a corner.
I have to be quick. The local police are probably the only ones who know the back alleys of Bayonne as well as we do, and I don’t know which officers are tailing me. For all I know, it could be some rookie too new to town to know not to answer this call, or it could be a couple of seasoned veterans with an FBI agent right behind them. The wake of a shooting isn’t the time to take those kinds of chances.
Mickey’s isn’t far from the worse-off parts of town, but as I take us through the back alleys and narrow side-streets that make up the older parts of Bayonne, things get a little rougher pretty quickly. We pass by yards with run-down cars in them, a few of them with cinderblocks holding them up where the tires should be. There’s an old American flag waving on tarnished flagpoles over a house with a couple of boarded-up windows. There’s a family with at least ten children holding what looks like a little quinceañera outside, the father wearing tattered overalls and the mother with a tired look on her face as she herds the group around.
This is where most of the workers live, and I know it’s thoroughly our territory. The sooner we can find somewhere to hide out in a place like this, the easier it will be for the two of us to utterly vanish. As we pass by, some of the locals who happen to be in their front yard give us friendly greetings. A young man with arms stained black from working at a repair shop gives us a smile and a wave while he gets his mail as I drive by, and I nod back. An older guy with a limp who I recognize as a local school bus driver does the same as he gets out of his vehicle, just now off work.
A middle-aged woman tending her garden down the road notices us approaching, and she makes her way to the sidewalk and flags us down. I recognize her as one of the workers from the factory a few blocks off the docks; she and her wife have shared a drink with the club more than a few times.
“What’s goin’ on?” she says by way of greeting, giving both of us a curt nod. “Everything alright? Got a new face with you, Prez.” She’s not a club member, but it’s become kind of a town nickname for me. A few people have talked about making me president of the union when we get things back together, but for the time being, I know it’s just a term of endearment.
“Need a place to lay low,” I say, and she gives another sharp nod.
“Say no more. Loretta’s sick inside, otherwise I’d let you crash here, but the Lawrences across the street look like they’ve got doors open to ya.”
I turn my head, and I see the face of the elderly Gerald Lawrence poking out the door of the old brownstone. A smile and give him a nod before turning back to the woman. “‘Preciate it, Jan.”
“Is everyone in town this friendly?” Cherry asks from behind me. Jan laughs back.
“For Prez, yeah. Union boys have given us more of a leg up than all the cops in town put together, chickadee. You’re in good hands.”
Before Cherry can reply, I turn the bike towards the brownstone and pull around the residence, carefully moving my bike around the back where it’ll be at least partially out of sight. In the little strip of land that makes for a backyard, Wanda Lawrence steps out from the backdoor, leaning on her cane and giving us both a loving smile.
“Well look who it is, long time no see, Leon! Come on in, come on in, Gerald says you’d like a place to rest while things settle down outside.”
“Much obliged, Mrs. Lawrence,” I say gratefully while I help Cherry off the bike.
“Are they alright? Are you sure this is safe?” Cherry whispers to me after she takes her helmet off and shakes out her hair. I give her a boyish grin back, unable to keep myself from appreciating how good she looks.
“Relax. These two go way back with me. This is a safe place to lay low for a few hours while the cops buzz off.”
Cherry looks uncertain, but she nods, following me up to the door as Wanda holds it open for us, smiling warmly as we step into the quaint little kitchen. Gerald is standing inside, still casting glances at the front window as he makes his way to the kitchen to give my hand a firm shake.
“Thanks for this,” Cherry says, venturing to break the ice with what were total strangers to her. “We really appreciate it.”
Gerald lets out a hearty laugh. “Oh, you must be new around town — Leon here has more than earned a place here any time. When Wanda had her fall last year, his boys made sure groceries got here every week while I had to run the shop.”
“Not like Anya wouldn’t have done it herself if we didn’t know about it,” I answer with a chuckle, and Gerald nods, a hint of sadness still in his eyes at the mention of the name.
“Why don’t you two get settled in the living room while we make you all some coffee?” Wanda offers, and I give her a nod.
“Thanks, ma’am.” I lead Cherry to the cramped living room, covered in old, musty furniture, the walls invisible under all the pictures of the cute old couple’s family and life together. It’s a quaint little place.
Cherry takes a seat on one of the armchairs across from me. I can tell she looks more than a little uncomfortable, and I can’t really blame her. It’s been a hell of a day for her, to put it lightly.
As the owners head back into the kitchen to give us some privacy, Cherry finally looks me in the eye, chewing her lip a moment before speaking.
“What happened to this place, Leon?”
There it is. The question I knew would be coming from the moment I knew it was Cherry come back to town.
“That’s a big question, Cherry,” I say with a sigh. “Where do you want me to start?”
Cherry seems at a loss for a moment, but then just gestures vaguely outside. “I mean, all this. My school bus dropped kids off in this neighborhood when we were in high school. It wasn’t anything like this back then. I remember green grass and pretty decent houses. I know you see things differently when you’re a kid, but…”
“Things went downhill pretty fast while you were gone,” I say, and the memory of those old times takes me back to a place I hadn’t thought of for a long while. Cherry was having that effect on me in more ways than one, I was starting to realize. “I know your dad didn’t see eye-to-eye with what those of us in the union were doing during the strike, but once the bosses broke us up, it was easy for them to start driving this town into the dirt. Wages dropped, people spent less and worked more, and the only people who kept their pockets lined were the goons up top.”
I can tell Cherry looks a little skeptical. Part of that is her instinct to question, I know. She’s always had that kind of spark to her, came from her father. But I know she probably has a different predisposition to this place than us locals do.
“So what, the union dies and poverty just kind of...happens? I know everyone seems to like you pretty well around here, Leon, but I mean, how bad can they make it? Dad wasn’t big on the unions, and he seemed to do fine after the bust.”
“Lotta the folks who didn’t side with the union came out alright in the aftermath,” I agree with a nod, “but he took a pay cut just like everyone else. You don’t remember him working later nights for the time before you left?”
Cherry furrows her brow, and the pieces begin to fall together in her mind. “He said he was putting aside cash for a college fund when he started moonlighting.”
“A lot of people had to start ‘saving for a special occasion’ after the bust,” I say, a grim smile on my face. “I know your dad didn’t always love what we did, Cherry, but those of us the bosses decided to strike back at felt it hard. Nowadays, this club is the only thing keeping the place together. It’s not like it’s ideal, but until they listen to our demands, it’s what we’re forced to do to survive.”
Cherry looks like she’s starting to understand, but to drive things home, I nod my head up to one of the pictures on the wall. It shows a young man and a woman who looks like she’s got as much Russian in her as all the rest of the immigrants.
“See that? The guy in that photo is Henry Lawrence — Gerald and Wanda’s son. He was one of ours.”
“I didn’t see him at the liquor store,” Cherry says.
“No, but the lady, Anya, pushed past you there,” I point out, and I see recognition in Cherry’s face. “The two of them got hitched a few years back. Real happy couple, both of ‘em.” I smile, remembering the wedding party the two of them had, and it seemed like a lifetime ago.
“The cops brought Henry in a few years ago as a suspect in a robbery. Claimed he was an accomplice of a couple of strangers from out of town who hit a convenience store off the interstate. He just happened to be patrolling in the area, and they took him in.” I pause, my lips tight for a moment. “He died while the police had him. Official story was he was resisting, tried to jump the cops in transit. Everyone who knows Henry knew he couldn’t hurt a fly, but those fuckers…”
Cherry is paying rapt attention, and I lean forward, clasping my hands together.
“Anya was inconsolable for the longest time. She was a nurse back then, but after Henry died, she took his place in the club. Still rides his bike and wears his kutte to this day. Nowadays, she’s our medic. She’ll be making sure those workers back at the liquor store are well taken care of on their way to the hospital. I wouldn’t put it above the cops around here to try and make sure they don’t pull through so they can’t testify to anything in court. As if most of the judges aren’t bought.”
Cherry is quiet for a long time, a thoughtful expression on her features. As I watch her, I realize that while I’ve grown so hard over the years, developed such a thick skin to resist all the constant repression the people of the town face while just trying to scrape by... Cherry hasn’t lost one iota of the youthful energy she had the day she left. She’s as vigorous as she is gorgeous, like a bolt of lightning trying to surge through her old hometown and hitting resistance she wasn’t expecting to find.
I have to admit, jaded as I am, it’s a little inspiring to see. A lot inspiring, actually.
“To say Dad didn’t approve of what you all were doing is putting it lightly,” Cherry says with a small smile. “Especially after the name ‘Union Club’ started cropping up.”
“He always was a straight arrow,” I say with a laugh, shaking my head. “And to be honest, I don’t blame him. It’s a scary thing to see an MC crop up in your front yard, I can understand that.”
“These people really seem to value you, though,” Cherry admits, glancing back to the kitchen, where the smell of fresh coffee has started to waft from. “Hell, maybe…” she pauses, obviously uncomfortable getting her thought out. She opens her mouth to continue, and I suspect I know what she’s going to say, but she lets the words die in her mouth as Wanda comes shuffling into the room with a broad smile on her face.
“Here we are. I hope neither of you wanted decaf.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile, taking the coffee and feeling invigorated by the smell alone as Wanda hands Cherry her mug.
“Now let me tell you, dearie,” Wanda tells Cherry with a grandmotherly smile, “I don’t know how long you’ve been in town, but if you’re riding with Leon here, why, you couldn’t be in better hands.”
“It sounds like it,” Cherry says with a nervous laugh. I can’t help but grin. She seems a little uncomfortable around older people. I forget that living in a city like she has can let you stick to your own age group pretty exclusively.
She and Wanda exchange some brief small-talk about where she’s from and where she’s lived, and while she does, I find myself surprised by an old, familiar feeling in my chest.
I only knew Cherry for the shortest of times when she was in town, sure. But seeing her again has been like seeing the ghost of an old friend. Maybe she just reminds me of the life I used to see in Bayonne, before the bosses had a chance to really dig their claws in. But the more I watch her mannerisms, the way she unconsciously plays with a lock of her hair, the way she talks...I don’t know. I feel like I’m talking to an old sweetheart. I find a smile playing across my face involuntarily, and I’m only snapped back to reality when I feel a hand on my shoulder suddenly.
I jerk my attention up to see Gerald giving me a knowing smile, and I feel color in my face as I give a quiet scoff and focus on my coffee again. I shouldn’t get distracted like this, anyway. We may be out of the frying pan for now, but as the saying goes —
As if on cue, all four of us nearly jump as a loud pounding sound knocks at the door.