Most of the bikers I have known are parents of the nurturing, neighborhood variety, so here is my biased storey. I suspect somewhere in the vacinity was a member of this man’s family, probably someone as demure as the yellow bike. There was an incident involving his out of commission bike of the motorized variety and an offer of the use of the other. After some jolly laughter he took the offer and rode down the street to acquire the flower(s) as a thanks for the thought.

I imagine this to be a recurring action.

I imagine a father, riding his child’s bicycle, carrying his child’s flowers, to his child’s grave.

I imagine the sorrow, and hope my imagination is awry.

“Happy thirteenth birthday, sweetie!” Dad looked like he hadn’t slept for ten years as he sat down at the table with me. I smiled the best I could with a mouth full of corn flakes. “Sorry it got so late, but we had a couple of troublemakers this morning. Police and everything, and you know how they like to take their sweet time.” I knew, and I had already guess that, worrying that he wouldn’t make it back in time for me to head off to school. “I wasn’t worried.” It was only a slight lie. “You always keep your promises, because you’re the best Dad!” That was the truth, and it brought out that little shy smile on his face. I loved him.

Since Mom went “on vacation” two years ago, he was doing the best he could. Parenting was never his thing, but his love was always true and there was never any doubt that he would go through fire for me. Behind that tough and rugged exterior, a kind and sensitive man was always ready to listen to my sorrows and give advice, sometimes awkward, but other times surprisingly profound and wise and empathetic. It was just the same that they’d taken Mom away; she never were any good for him. I didn’t like her – hadn’t for a long time. She changed, and I noticed, although he didn’t seem to. When she stabbed her store manager in the chest for having the audacity to ask that she put back the bottle of liquor hidden in her backpack, for the second time that week, it had completely blown him away. Me? I saw it coming for quite a while and praised my guardian angel for keeping Dad and me safe from her craziness.

I pushed the thought away and got Grandma’s crystal vase out of the cupboard and filled it. “They smell really sweet – thanks, Dad!” The lillies he had brought home for me were bent and slightly limp from his all too firm grip, but it was the thought that counted. “Did my bike run okay?” He grinned at my sarcasm and uttered a disapproving grunt. “Yeah, and I got it back for you in time. Can I have my jacket, now?” I knew it; he left without it on purpose, last night, knowing how I liked to sneak out at night and grab it from the hanger in the hallway and sleep with it wrapped around me. It smelled like him, and the scent of old, worn leather made me feel safe. “It’s on the rack where you left it,” I retorted, and added: “Are you going to get your own bike fixed?” “Yeah, I’ll get the new fuel pump before you come back from school. I’ll just take the bus.”

At a quarter to ten, last night, he had been storming up the stairs to the apartment, sweating and glowing red from ear to ear. He looked at me, hesitated, then swallowed his pride. “Honey, can I borrow your bicycle? I think the fuel pump just died on the Triumph.” That old Thunderbird was his pride, and it wasn’t so much having to borrow my bicycle as the fact that he hadn’t been mechanic enough to keep the machinery in working order that bothered him. “Of course, Dad. Just remember I have to leave at eight in the morning. Here’s the key for the lock.” It had amused me, picturing him huffing and puffing along the highway on his way to the club. He’d be late, but that would be alright. Harry liked Dad a lot, and had even helped us out with extra money after Mom left. Dad always said we were lucky there are people like Harry in the world. Life was good. I was thirteeen today, and Dad was taking me to the beach, this weekend.

Crud. You beat me to it before I had time to finish my little story. It’s amazing, though, how everyone had the same thoughts.

No shit, there I was. Five guys - big ones, with chains and clubs and other assorted implements of unhappiness - and me standing there empty-handed. It was a seriously fucked up situation. The sort of thing I generally try to avoid except on very special occasions.

This was one of those occasions.



I shouldn’t have answered the phone in the first place. I knew it was a mistake as soon as I heard that god-awful sandpaper-meets-chalkboard voice on the other end. Rory had a job.

“Just a little one,” he’d said. “In the city.”

“Rory, I fucking hate the city.”

“Six grand.”

“Six?”

“Six. Just a quick pickup. Nothing more.”

“Who pays six for a pickup?”

“I do.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t worry about it. Light. Five pounds, tops.”

I turned it over in my head. Six thousand was a lot of money for me. And for such a simple job. But there had to be a catch.

“Rory? You wouldn’t fuck me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, man.”

“Details.”

“5 am. Parking garage on 1st and Front. Go to the third level, park, and wait. The guy’ll find you and give you the package.”

“What guy?”

“The guy.”

*

I put on my best t-shirt and hopped on my bike. Pointed it east, towards the city.

I fucking hate the city.

Took me ten minutes to get there. Traffic was light that early in the morning. Plus I like to drive fast.

It was still dark. The parking garage was mostly empty. I parked on the third level and waited, like Rory had said.

At 5:00, on the dot, a car pulled in, parked. The driver got out. Small guy. Asian. Suit. Tie. Smug little bastard.

He walked over to me, handed me a briefcase and a slip of paper, walked back to the car, drove off. Didn’t say a goddamn thing. The slip of paper had an address on it.

They hit me as soon as I left the garage. A Chevy Suburban, out of nowhere, coming right at me. I dumped the bike and tried to jump, but they were coming too fast. I bounced off the hood, smacked my head on the windshield and rolled to the ground, dazed.

My eyes didn’t work for a moment. Everything sounded tinny and far away. Someone stepped on my throat. That brought me right back.

There was a boot on my throat and a gun in my face. I took care of the gun first. Gave it a nice good whack with my forehead, sending it clattering to the ground. I wrapped my arms around the boot and wrenched, felt something give, heard someone scream. The boot stopped being a problem.

I stood up, brushed myself off. Five guys poured out of the Suburban.

No shit, there I was. In the fucking city, standing over the twisted remains of my motorcycle, with a painful-ass lump on my head and a briefcase containing God knows what at my feet. And it wasn’t even 5:30 fucking AM. I was feeling a mite twitchy.

Thug number one came at me with a bat while number two swung a chain at my feet. I decided to dodge the bat. The chain whipped around my legs and pulled them out from under me. I fell on the gun, which did me no good. It’s damn hard to fire a gun when you’re lying on it. Someone kicked me in the back. I rolled, grabbed the chain with both hands, gave it a good hard tug.

Chain-boy lost his balance and fell into my elbow. That calmed him down a bit. Bat-boy took another swing, narrowly missing my left ear, while the other three grabbed me from behind.

I bit a nasty chunk of flesh out of someone’s arm, stomped on someone else’s foot, and head-butted the third guy in the nose. The painful-ass lump got a little more painful. I lunged at bat-boy, caught him by the throat. He tried to pummel my back with the bat, but he had no room to swing. I squeezed until his face turned red, then kneed him in the groin and smashed his head in the open door of the Suburban.

I picked up the gun, waved it at the four guys who were still conscious. Broken-nose didn’t quite get the meaning of the gesture. He took a step forward, so I had to shoot him in the face. That got the point across. The other three ran, two of them hobbling awkwardly.

I’d have chased them, but I don’t like running.

The briefcase lay at my feet. I bent down and examined it. Locked.

Fuck that.

I opened the lock with the gun. Took a few shots, but it was a big gun and the briefcase wasn’t bulletproof.

There were flowers inside. Two of them.

Flowers.

Rory had set me up. He must have gotten scared. Must’ve thought I was becoming too dangerous.

Fucking flowers.

I grabbed the flowers, jumped into the Suburban. Pointed it west, towards Rory.

**

The Suburban died halfway there. Overheated. Radiator must’ve been damaged in the crash.

I left it in someone’s driveway and borrowed their bicycle. I don’t like running.

I rode that bike, nice and slow, all the way to Rory. It was 8:30 by the time I got there. Rory answered the door in a bathrobe, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

I tossed him the flowers.

“I fucking hate the city, Rory.”