“Send me one, too,” Reno said. “I like postcards. I used to get ‘em each year we went on vacation when I was a kid. They’d be on one of those spinning displays in the gas stations. I’ve got a whole box full of ‘em.”
“Add me to the list,” Tito said. “I’ll put them in my scrapbook.”
“Just as well send me one, too,” Baker said.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I complained. “We’re not going to have any money left by the time we get there for all the fucking postcards we’ve got to buy.”
“Other than going on our club road trips and seeing my mother, I ain’t been on a vacation,” Cash said. “Ever.”
“Take one,” I said.
He stared blankly at the floor for a moment, and then looked up. “Don’t know where I’d go.”
I chuckled. “See how that works?”
His eyes narrowed. “Just send the postcard.”
“I’ll send four of them,” Ally said.
The front door buzzer rang, indicating someone was at the street-side entrance.
“Check the monitor, Ally,” Baker said. “Mail’s already been here.”
“It’s a rough-looking guy with a kutte that says President on the patch,” she said. “He’s got a tattoo of a bee on his neck.”
Baker looked at Reno. “Crip?”
“Sounds like it.” Reno went to the monitor. “Yep. It’s Crip.”
“Alone?” Baker asked.
“Looks like it.”
Baker stood. “Buzz him in. Bring him up.”
“Wonder what that fucker’s doing here?” Cash asked
“My guess is he’s got something to say he needs to say in private,” I said.
In a few minutes, Reno and Crip sauntered into the room. Upon seeing Ally, Crip’s approach developed a hesitation. “Just stopped in to give my condolences for your loss,” he said. “It’s been a while since your brother passed, but I thought I’d swing by and say how sorry I was.”
He leaned over Baker’s desk and extended his hand.
He’d already given his condolences, when we were at his shop. Suspecting he was uncomfortable around Ally, I stood.
“She’s one of us,” Baker said before I could speak. “What brings you this far south?”
He gave Ally a solid once-over, and then met Baker’s gaze. “She’s a patched member of your club?”
“She sure is.”
Crip stepped in front of Ally and extended his hand. “Crip. Filthy Fuckers MC.”
She stood, looked him over, and gripped his hand in hers. “Shorty.” She gave a crisp nod. “Devil’s Disciples.”
“Likewise.”
Crip looked at Baker and let out a sigh. “Remember that cop friend I was telling you about?”
Baker nodded. “I remember you saying you had one.”
Crip crossed his arms over his chest. “Fucker stopped in to see me the other day. Guess he’s been investigating a bank robbery or two, and one of them involved a pretty sizeable sum of money.”
“Define sizeable,” Baker said.
“Well, you and I both know what they report to the news media and the insurance isn’t exactly true.” He shrugged. “On the record, it was fifteen million.”
“Did he say where it came from?” Baker asked.
Crip chuckled. “No, but he said where it went.”
“Where’s that?” Baker asked.
Crip nodded toward the elevator. “Right here.”
My heart shot into my throat. I looked at Ally. Stone-faced and emotionless, she waited for Crip to continue.
Baker swallowed hard. He pressed the heels of his palms against his temples. “What’s prevented…” he stammered. “What’s keeping him from…”
“He’s not a typical cop,” Crip said. “I can speak from experience.”
He lowered his hands. “What’s he going to do?”
“Same thing he’s done with my club,” Crip responded. “From time to time, he might want a mess cleaned up. Told me to bring you the word that he wants to meet.”
“I scanned those boxes, Boss,” Tito said. He looked at Crip. “How’d he track the money?’
“Motion-activated GPS,” Crip replied. “They don’t activate until they’re moving.”
Tito’s shoulders slumped. “Son-of-a-bitch.”
“So,” Crip said. “How close was he at the fifteen million mark?”
“Off by roughly eight,” Baker lied.
Crip smirked. “You fuckers don’t play around, do you?”
“Taking ten grand or ten million will get you the same prison sentence,” Baker said. “Just as well take as much as a man can get.”
“Amen to that,” Crip said.
“So, he’s not going to come nosing around?” Baker asked.
“Speaking from experience? He might. But he won’t make a habit of it. He said, at least for now, he’ll talk to me, I’ll talk to you, and you’ll have a meeting,” Crip said. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll report what I find to Brother Reno. He’ll be the pivot point. No offense.”
Crip looked at Ally. “You squeamish?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
He shifted his gaze back to Baker. “Have no idea where this is headed, but to give you an idea, this cop has had us take out a drug dealer or two. We keep the proceeds taken in the process. He’s cleaning up the streets one MS-13 member at a time. It’s possible that’s where this meeting’s headed.”
Baker lifted his head. “That’s not our specialty.”
Crip smirked. “Might know a fella or two that could guide you through it, but it’ll cost you.”
“I think we can afford to pay for a little expertise,” Baker responded.
“Your expertise brought me up the elevator,” Crip said, turning away. “All you need is a few more able bodies.” He raised his right hand in mock wave as he sauntered toward the door. “I’ll be in touch.”
With those words, he got on the elevator.
“Holy shit,” I said. “Did that just happen?”
Baker exhaled a mile-long breath. “It sure did.”
“I should have known they’d be motion-activated,” Tito said.
“I know enough to know that cop he’s talking about let’s them get away with murder,” Reno said. “Hell, that bank job was more than a month ago, He’s been looking into this and sitting on it for six weeks. That cop ain’t gonna do shit. He’s gonna use us for his dirty work, and that’ll be that.”
“My experience with that is this,” Baker said. “It never ends.”
I’d heard all I was willing to listen to. I felt slightly uneasy about us being under the thumb of a crooked cop. Reno had a good point, though. If he wanted to arrest us, he would have arrested us six weeks prior.
I tightened the laces of my boots, got Ally’s attention, and tilted my head toward the door. “I’m headed out fellas. Not going to sit here and bump my gums about the what-ifs. See you in two weeks. Sounds like we might be busy when I get back.”
Ally and I hugged our way out of there and got on the elevator together. When we reached the garage, we put on our helmets and I started the bike.
When Ally and I met, I laughed at her old-school approach to life. After being around her for several months, I realized most of the amenities that she’d relinquished weren’t, by any means, necessary.
I now felt like she was one step ahead of the population with her system of beliefs.
As the motorcycle’s engine was coming up to operating temperature, I walked to the trash can. After taking my phone out of my pocket, I paused.
I looked at Ally. “You ready to go on vacation?”
“I sure am.” Her eyes narrowed in wonder. “Are you?”
I tossed the phone in the trash. “I am now.”
Epilogue
I was witnessing nothing short of a miracle. We’d been on the road for seven days, with no plan—that I knew of, anyway—of where we were going, or what we were going to do w
hen we got there.
It was the best vacation I’d ever been on.
The unbelievable part?
Goose was driving a cage.
A red cage.
“This fucker’s actually fun to drive,” he said. “Plenty of power, handles good, and is pretty responsive. It’s like driving a four-wheeled motorcycle.”
I rubbed my eyes and gazed out the window. “Where are we now?”
“In the mountains,” he said. “If you wouldn’t have been sleeping, you’d know.”
I reached for the navigation button to activate the map. He slapped my hand before I touched it. “Keep your hands off my buttons. You’ll know where we are when I stop.”
I pulled my hand away. “I love you, too.”
“We’ll be there in an hour,” he said.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. “Are we staying all night, or just eating dinner and leaving?’
“Depends, I suppose.”
“On what?’
“If you want to stay, or if you want to go.”
“So, I get to decide?” I asked.
“Suppose so.”
I rubbed my eyes. “I stayed up too late last night.”
“That movie was good, though.”
“The Hustler is an awesome movie,” I said. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen it.”
“Wasn’t as good as that one we watched the other day. The boxer that testified against that guy? What was it? The Waterfront?”
“On the Waterfront,” I said. “That was Marlon Brando.”
“I like that one. Movies like that make you think. Made me think, anyway.”
“About what?”
“Life. Been thinking a lot, lately. Since Ghost’s death, anyway. And, since meeting you.”
“Good things, or bad things?” I asked.
“Both.” He glanced over his right shoulder. “I don’t want to die like this.”
“Like what?”
“With unfinished business. I want my life to be in order when I die.”
“You’re not planning on—”
“No. It’s not like that,” he said. “It’s just. I don’t know.”
I gazed out the window, wondering what unfinished business he had—other than the mess back in San Diego with the crooked cop. After a few miles of grassy green fields rushed past, a big sign on the side of the road let me know where we were going.
It took a moment to register.
I turned in my seat to face him. “Are we going where I think we’re going?”
With his eyes straight ahead, he grinned. “Depends. Where do you think we’re going?”
I grew excited and anxiously hesitant at the same time. “My stomach feels flippy-floppy.”
“You can add me to that list,” he said. “Mine’s been doing backflips all morning.”
“How long have you been planning this?” I asked.
“I don’t know that I’ve been planning it,” he said. “But I really started thinking about it when you said everyone deserves a second chance. It got me to thinking.”
“What if this isn’t what you think? I asked. “If everything’s the same?”
“We leave.”
I tried to wrap my head around everything that he might be going through and couldn’t make sense of it all. His situation was unique. All that mattered, I decided, was that I was there for him regardless of what he needed or wanted.
Before I finished my thoughts, he turned down a county road. There were hills, views of the beautiful mountains in the distance, and rolling fields of the greenest grass, but Goose paid no attention.
None of it seemed to matter.
The vehicle slowed. He looked off to his left. “Cleaned the place up a little.”
We rolled past a mailbox marked PEARCE.
I swallowed heavily. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do that’ll make me ready.”
“You sure you want to—”
He nodded. “I’m sure.”
The home was what I would have pictured as a typical Montana farm home—a two-story house with upstairs dormer windows and a full front porch. The brick red paint with white trim suited it well.
The surrounding acreage was well-trimmed. The landscape around the home was manicured to a greater degree of perfection than I would have expected to see on any farm.
When we turned into the driveway, I noticed wooden flowerpots along the porch. “What are those yellow flowers on the porch?”
He grinned. “Yellow Bells.”
With my stomach in a knot, we idled along the winding entrance until we reached the home. When we came to a stop, Goose exhaled a long breath.
He leaned to the side and kissed me. “C’mon, I’m not doing this alone.”
“I wouldn’t let you do it alone.”
We walked hand in hand toward the house. The front door opened before we reached the porch. A man dressed in a short-sleeved blue and white plaid shirt, jeans, and boots stood in the opening. He looked just like Goose, only twenty years older. He wore his salt and pepper hair cut short, like his son’s.
His skin was tan. Slight wrinkles were visible at the corners of his narrow eyes. He was strikingly handsome. A hint at what I had to look forward to in twenty years. He took a step into the porch, and then another.
His bottom lip quivered.
The totality of what was happening hit me like a ton of bricks.
“Maggie!” he yelled. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“You look good, Pop,” Goose said, stepping onto the porch. “You look healthy.”
The man pursed his lips and gave a nod. It was easy to see that he was on the verge of tears. “Eighteen…” He swallowed heavily. “Eighteen years, two months, and four days,” he said. “One day at a time.”
“Since what?” Goose asked.
I didn’t have to ask. I knew. My father had been in and out of Alcoholics Anonymous his entire life.
“Since I had a drink,” the man said.
Goose gulped. “What about Ma?”
“Eighteen years, two months, and a week. She dragged me in there against my will. Ended up being the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“I’m proud of you, Pop.”
His father pursed his lips and gave a slight nod.
“Pop, I want you to meet someone,” Goose said.
I stepped onto the porch. My heart was aflutter. I extended a shaking hand. “Ally. Ally Ferretti.”
“Gordon Pearce.” A tear rolled along his cheek. “Senior.”
A woman nudged her way past Gordon Senior, all but knocking him down. She blew past me with a flash and landed against Goose’s chest with open arms. After a tear-filled hug, she leaned away and gave him a good look-over.
“You’re late,” she blubbered.
Goose wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm. “For what?”
She steadied her quivering lips. “Dinner.”
The three of them shed a tear together. Eighteen years of missed birthdays, lonely holidays, and the grueling process of maintaining sobriety trickled down their cheeks.
I joined them in their tears. Not out of sorrow, but out of joy. For what the future held. When the tears finally faded, Goose gestured in my direction.
“Ma, this is Ally,” Goose said. “We’re uhhm…”
He didn’t finish his thought.
I offered my hand, nonetheless. She hugged me instead, holding me tight against her. Being held in a woman’s arms was a feeling I’d never known. It felt all too natural.
While the three people surrounding me nursed their drying tears, another rolled down my cheek.
She released me, and then hugged me again, taking my breath from me when she did.
If Goose had been gone eighteen years, and his parents had been sober eighteen years, they’d sobered up just as soon as he left. I felt sad and happy at the same time. The look on Goose’s face told me he
was elated to see them. The tears in their eyes let me know they felt the same way.
Shaking with excitement, his mother gestured toward the door. “Come in.” She reached for Goose’s hand with her left, and my hand with her right. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
Hand-in-hand, we followed her into the home. We stayed for a dinner of pot roast, carrots, and potatoes. Afterward, we all had a slice of apple pie.
We sat around the table discussing Southern California’s weather and drinking coffee. There hadn’t been any apologies offered, nor were there any questions asked. Everyone simply picked up the pieces of what they had in front of them and put them together.
His mother, a petite blonde woman with freckled skin, sipped her coffee. “So, how did you meet?”
“We met at Porter’s funeral,” Goose said.
“We were sorry to hear about that,” she said. “It was an awful thing. We’d have sent flowers, but—”
“Erin tell you about it?” Goose asked.
“We talk to her every chance we get,” She said with a nod. “It’s the only way we knew how to keep up.”
Goose nodded.
“Did you get the letters we sent?” she asked.
“Cash—Brock gave ‘em to me,” Goose said. “Never opened ‘em. Hard to explain.”
“No need,” his father said.
I felt so sad for what they’d all gone through. I hoped when considering their sobriety—and their love for him—that Goose could truly forgive them for what they’d done.
“Ever think about coming to California?” he asked. “To visit?”
His mother smiled. “You know, I’ve never been out of this state.”
“Would you consider it?” he asked.
“I’d love to come down there,” she said with a smile. “I’m so tired of the winters here.”
“What about you, Pop? Would you come down?”
“I’d enjoy that,” His father said. “Always wanted to see the ocean.”
Goose smiled a prideful smile. “It’s a long story, but Porter left me a home on the beach. The ocean’s in my back yard.”
“Oh my,” his mother gasped. “That’s exciting.”
“The sunsets are phenomenal,” Goose said.
“Maybe around Christmas,” she said.
“I was thinking June,” Goose said.
“Oh, I don’t know about coming in the summer,” she said. “It would be so hot.”
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