by Sharp, Tracy
When Buddy and I came back into the house, I could see the message light blinking on my answering machine. Hoping it was news about what the police found, I quickly pushed the play button. The voice on the message made me take a step back.
“Hello, Leah. Thanks for sending the cops down to check things out for me to make sure everything is safe and sound. They didn’t find anything wrong at my house on Jarrett Street, but it was awfully nice of them to come just the same.”
My jaw dropped open. They didn’t find anything? How could that be? Callahan and I had sat there for hours watching that house.
“Sweet of you to keep watch on the house like that for me, too. My neighbors mentioned that you spent a lot of time sitting in that car, keeping a lookout. That was really sweet, Leah. I’ll be sure to return the favor. Say, how is your brother Jesse doing? Really handy with computers, I hear. I understand he’s in the same prison as a lot of my friends. That’s really neat. I’ll have to tell them to introduce themselves to him. Wouldn’t want him to get lonely in there. Everyone can use a few special friends. Bye for now.”
My heart drummed against my ribcage as I grabbed my car keys and headed for the door. It was time to go see an old friend of mine.
I’d done my damnedest to stay away from any contacts from my old life, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
It was time to go talk to Jack.
* * *
“Whoa. Now there’s a blast from the past.”
I grinned down at Jack who had glanced up from the eight ball long enough to see who it was standing at the other end of the pool table watching him. He put the eight ball into the right corner pocket and straightened up, giving me a beaming smile. “To what do I owe the honor?”
I was glad to see Jack. He was a big, scary-looking guy. Broad shoulders, huge chest. He stood six-foot-six and his arms and legs were like tree trunks. He still wore his red hair in a ponytail even though that look had really gone out in the nineties. His green eyes flashed as he watched me for an answer.
“Jesse’s in trouble.”
“Yeah, I heard. Isn’t he in Upstate Federal?” He motioned to the bar and we both grabbed a stool.
I ordered vodka straight-up and he ordered the same.
“Yeah, he is. He’s in more trouble now because of me.” I told him about my career change which had put me into Woodard’s bad books. About all the pies Woodard had his fingers in. The drugs, pimping, smuggling. I didn’t tell him who Woodard was. I didn’t tell him that Woodard was Sebastian Blacklock, the fifteen year old who had tried to rape me several times in juvie. If it weren’t for Jack, I’d have been in real trouble. I held back on telling him. If I revealed who Woodard really was, there’d be no way Jack would stand back and let me deal with him. I’d drag yet another person I cared about into a mess I’d created. So I’d leave him out of it. I’d call on him if it turned really bad.
Still, his eyes darkened. A slime ball is still a slime ball, by any other name.
“He’s threatening to send some of his friends after Jesse in prison.”
“Scare tactics. Jesse’s in a federal prison. Any friends of this Woodard asshole would probably be in a state prison. Or in maximum security.”
I thought about this, and fear turned into relief. “You’re right.” I nodded. “I should’ve thought of that.” It was as if my ability to reason logically had flown out the window when Jesse’s life had been threatened. That wasn’t good. I prided myself on my ability to stay calm under pressure.
He shrugged. “You panicked. Natural reaction.”
I sat back and exhaled a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding. “Sorry.”
“Hey, nothing to be sorry about. It’s nice to see you. It’s been too long.”
I smiled. “It’s great to see you. You understand why I had to stay away.”
Jack nodded. “Sure. I know. It’s cool.”
“How’s life been treating you?”
“I’ve cut back a lot on my contact with the criminal element myself. Got myself my own business now.”
“Really? Finally got your own tattoo shop?”
“Better. Custom bike shop.”
“Motorcycles?”
“Yeah. Blue Lightning Bikes,” he said with a proud tilt of his chin and wide smile on his face.
I felt a grin creep across my own face. “You don’t say.”
* * *
Jack’s shop was in the nastier end of Troy. It was converted from a large old warehouse he’d snagged after it had been repossessed. He was comfortable in this area of town, having grown up in a foster home just a few blocks away from his shop. Once he’d reached sixteen years old he’d moved into his first apartment in a house just down the street.
I’d always known that Jack would do something cool with his life. He possessed a razor-sharp intelligence and could figure out how to do just about anything. This could’ve made him a pretty dangerous criminal, but Jack was a good guy at heart. He’d only dabbled in low end crime here and there for the thrill of it.
I’d met Jack in juvenile detention. We were both fourteen years old and in for stealing cars. We’d grown to be close friends during our time in juvie. We’d also met many like-minded teenagers at the detention center. By the time we were released, we’d all pooled our knowledge and talents and had come out much better criminals than we’d been when we’d gone in.
We pulled up in front of his shop and I smiled at the large sign that covered half the side of the building. Blue Lightning Bikes, it read. The letters were formed into silvery-blue lightning bolts. He unlocked the door and held it open for me.
“This is fantastic, Jack!” I walked around the large space. Several gleaming motorcycles were lined up along one end of the room. Metal shelves lined the circumference of the place, holding neatly organized bits and tools of every variety. The rest of the space consisted of a long metal table, two motorcycle lifts, a drafting table, a belt sander, a dye sander and several other tools the likes of which I’d never used.
“Thanks. It pays the rent.”
“How many employees do you have?”
“Three. You remember Patrick Thompson?”
How could I forget? Patrick was with us at juvie all those years ago. The three of us were quite the nuisance for several owners of rather expensive vehicles back in the day. “Yeah! He works for you?”
Jack nodded. “Yup. He’s pretty good with his hands. And Sharon Laporte?”
I remembered Sharon. Her father ran a convenience store down the hill from my house. She’d always been quiet. I remembered her as a tiny, pixie-like girl with dark hair and huge blue eyes. She’d been in an abusive relationship with a guy whose face Jack rearranged for him.
“Sure. How’s she doing?”
“She’s great. She helps me around here. Orders parts and takes care of the comings and goings. She’s doing real good.” His eyes flicked away and he stroked his chin. “Oh, and Sean Graham.”
“Sean? No shit.” My heart skipped a beat. Sean had always been in trouble. He’d been in and out of juvie and then jail for most of his life. He was too cocky and emotional to be a good criminal. You needed to keep a cool head. Sean never could. I still remembered him fondly. I wondered if he still had that head of curly, blond hair and those same dreamy grey eyes. Sean was a good talker. He could talk a girl into just about anything. I knew this to be true from first hand experience. I drifted off for a moment, remembering certain experiences I’d shared with Sean. I was particularly fond of one involving the cab of his pick-up and the stars winking down at us.
Jack’s gruff voice brought me back.
“Yeah. The boy is good at building bikes. He’s got a real flair for it.” He wore a funny little smile, like he knew what I was thinking.
I chose my words carefully, hoping they sounded casual. “I’m glad he’s finally found something he’s good at besides sweet-talking.”
“Oh, he still does plenty of that. I’ve gotta yell
at him every day to get off the damn phone. The ladies call all day long and he’s usually got one waiting for him after his shift.” He shook his head. “Some things never change.” He went over to a back room and emerged with two beers. “So,” he began as he twisted the caps off the bottles. “Why this sudden interest in motorcycles? I saw a light bulb going on in your head when I mentioned that bikes are what I do now.” He handed me a beer.
“Well, Woodard isn’t the only enemy I’ve made as of late. I also managed to piss off members of a certain motorcycle gang. You know, one of the gangs that aren’t into raising money for the less fortunate and that have no desire to better the community.”
His eyes widened as he shook his head slowly. “Oh, Leah.”
I held up a hand. “I know, I know. I’m aware of the seriousness of the situation. Believe me.”
He let out a low, long whistle. “The Coffin Nails. How do you do it? You never could stay out of trouble for long, could you?”
“Nope. I guess I’m just a crazy adrenalin freak.” I was putting on more bravado than I was feeling and I knew that Jack knew it. I took a long pull on my beer.
“So you repo’d one of their bikes?” His face was serious.
“I repo’d the bike of a kid who is trying to become a member. I don’t think they’ve accepted him, though. He’s a bored rich kid who wants to become a bad-ass. I’m pretty sure the bike I repo’d was one of yours.”
“No shit.”
“It’s a beauty, Jack. You’ve got talent.”
He reddened a little. “Thanks, Leah. I appreciate that.”
“It’s a really intense blue with ghosted flames—”
“And a skull and crossbones stitched into the seat.” He nodded. “I remember that kid. Snotty, arrogant little shit. Kept tellin’ me that I’d better do a good job on it or else he’d get the Coffin Nails after me. I figured it was bullshit. The Coffin Nails would never take that guy in. They need guys who won’t talk under the gun.” He barked out a short laugh. “He’d get caught so fast. Then he’d burst into tears within seconds of being arrested and then serve the Coffin Nails up to the cops. He’d get dead pretty quickly.”
Jack tilted his bottle back and took a swig of his beer. “But I finally got fed up anyway and told him that if he threatened me one more time he wasn’t gonna make it out of the shop to tell the Coffin Nails. Said he’d simply disappear and nobody would ever find him.” Jack laughed at the memory. “Scared the livin’ shit out of him. He was shaking when he came to pick the bike up. I almost threw it at him but didn’t wanna damage the bike. It was too nice.”
“I can’t believe they even let him hang around.”
“It’s amusing them for the moment. I wouldn’t want to be him. You don’t want to be friendly with the Coffin Nails. You don’t even want them knowing you exist.”
“Oh, they know I exist, all right.”
“They came after you for taking that little puke’s bike because you took it on their turf. To them, that’s not cool. It’s disrespectful.”
“Well, sue me.” I threw my arms in the air. “I was doing my damned job.”
“You’re lucky. I happen to be on good terms with them. I’ve built a few bikes for them. They’ve brought me a lot of business. Word of mouth really is the best method of advertisement.” He cracked a grin.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Thought you said it wasn’t a good idea to be friendly with them.”
“I’m not just anybody. Besides, if they kill my ass, whose gonna build the bikes they like so much?”
“I wasn’t coming to you for help for myself,” I said to him, keeping my voice even. I didn’t want him to hear the panic crouching below the surface. “It was for Jesse.”
“I know. You never would go to anyone for help for yourself.” His gaze was penetrating. “But trust me, Leah. Take it this time. I think Jesse would like to have you around when he’s released.”
I looked down at the floor. He had a point. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“In the meantime, you watch your back with this Woodard guy.”
I picked at the label on the beer bottle. “He can’t get me if I get him first.” I looked up at him to see his reaction.
He watched me for a moment. “You alone in this?”
“I’ve got a friend helping me.” I didn’t know if this was really true or not. I didn’t know how far Callahan would go to help me get Woodard off the streets.
He kept watching me, his eyes squinting slightly. “You remember everything I taught you?”
I nodded. I sure hoped so, but I didn’t say that. Instead I said, “Most of it. I guess it’s like riding a bike. It’ll all come back to me when I need it.” I placed the bottle on the counter top.
Without warning, he lunged in front of me and went for my throat with both hands. Without thinking, I brought my arms up between his hands and threw them out to the sides, effectively diffusing his intended choke hold, and then brought my knee up between his legs.
But I didn’t make contact.
We stood eye to eye, panting and grinning.
“You do remember.” His face was a mix of surprise and amusement. “Good girl.”
“See? Told ya. It’s like breathing now. Don’t you worry about me.”
“You need me, you just let me know,” he said. “I mean it.” He stepped back but rubbed my arm. “Don’t even hesitate.”
“I won’t. I promise to holler if I need you.”
“Good.” He landed a playful punch to my arm. “Tough girl.”
I’m tough, but I knew that I was already in way over my head. I had a feeling that I might be hollering soon.
Chapter Fourteen
The first time I ever laid eyes on Jack, he was sitting on top of a picnic table during visiting hours on a Saturday. It was my fourteenth birthday and I wanted to see Jesse and my father so badly. I kept telling myself that surely my father would come on my birthday. That at the very least, he’d bring Jesse to see me on that day. I waited. And as I waited, I watched a tall, gangly kid who sat alone on top of the picnic table, sketching.
It was sunny that day and there was a warm breeze shifting gently around the tables. I sat facing the parking lot, watching the road beyond, thinking that any moment my father’s old red Buick would turn the corner and head into the parking lot. In reality, I knew it wouldn’t be. My father wouldn’t come.
I’d been at Southside Juvenile Detention Center for one month of a six month sentence. It had been my first offense. So they’d been lenient on me. My father hadn’t shown up for any of the visiting days so far. He hadn’t called either. I’d shamed him beyond words and apparently beyond forgiveness.
His rejection of me burned in my stomach. It burned so badly that I had trouble keeping food down. I had trouble keeping my own saliva down. Dry heaving had become a regular part of my morning routine. The facility doctor said I had the beginnings of an ulcer. That I should avoid spicy and fried foods, alcohol and cigarettes. Well, I ate what the facility gave us. Alcohol was available through certain less than legal means, but I could live without it. Cigarettes I wouldn’t live without. I was a nervous wreck and I needed something to do with my hands.
Once again, visiting hours were over. I lit a cigarette and drew on it long and hard, sucking the smoke deep into my lungs and holding it there for a long moment before letting it go. The slight pain in my chest from holding the smoke in felt good. It distracted me from the other pain in my chest. The dull ache which always seemed to be there, but was stronger at the moment, sharpened by disappointment and longing.
I looked around. Everyone had gone except for me and the gangly kid with the red hair. He hadn’t once looked up from his sketch pad the entire hour we’d been out there and I marveled at how the sun glinted off his head, making his hair look like flames. Nobody had come to see him either.
Unable to bear the ache in my chest a moment longer, I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned my wrist facing up
wards. I pressed my cigarette against my skin, closing my eyes as I listened to the sizzle. I lifted the cigarette and without looking, lowered it again.
“Don’t do that.”
I jumped and opened my eyes to see him standing over me. The sun was behind him, so it was hard to see his face, but his hair was glowing beneath the sunlight. I almost smiled because he looked like an angel standing like that, the gleam from his hair like a halo.
“Why not?” I tried to make my voice sound forceful, and sat up straight, shoulders squared. “What do you care?”
“I don’t really. I just think it’s stupid.”
I stared at him, mouth open. “What do you know about it?”
“Look, if you’re going to scar yourself, why not get a tattoo? It hurts just as much, plus you’ll have something cool to look at when it’s done.” He sat down beside me and gestured to my cigarette package. “Those are gross.” He took the cigarette from me and put it out on his tongue.
I gaped at him.
“So what do you think? Want a tattoo?”
“Who would do it?”
“I can do it,” he said. “I can draw.”
I nodded my head toward his sketch pad. “Can I see?”
Without hesitation, he slid the sketch pad to me.
I was awed. The kid could really draw. There were cars, trucks, motorcycles, people, fantasy pictures of nude women riding winged creatures. One was on an enormous bat, some were on giant birds. One on a jet.
“You’re really good,” I said to him. “Really good.
“So? Tattoo?”
I nodded. “Okay.”
We went to the room I shared with three other girls and sat on my bed. Nobody was in the room and he had his special tattoo ink and gun he’d gotten from an uncle who was a tattoo artist and owned his own shop.
