Page 87 of Money Shot

I shook my head and grinned. “It ain’t stock,” I said.

“Well, Mikuni’s are pretty finicky when it comes to dirt. How long you had the bike?” he asked.

“Long god damned time. Fifteen years,” I said.

“Surprised it’s the first time. Just smack the bottom of the float bowl with a screwdriver. The gas is coming out the overflow hose. It’s like a bowl vent. Smacking it’ll fix it every time. Don’t beat on it, just tap it,” he explained.

“Appreciate it, I really do,” I said.

“No problem. Good looking Shovel, though,” he said.

I nodded my head. “I appreciate it. Let me buy your lunch?”

“No need for that,” he said. “Seen Slice?”

“Axton? Yeah, him, Biscuit, Toad, and the big fucker, Otis. They headed out to Benton to the airport,” I said.

He nodded his head and glanced around the shop.

“So, you’re that fella that got out of the joint a month or so back, huh?” I asked.

“You got it,” he said with a nod. “Still getting used to being out in the free world. Just making decisions on my own seems fucking surreal.”

“How long were you down? Sorry, I missed the trial. Voted for you to get your patch and all, but I wasn’t here when you showed up. I kind of do my own deal, you know,” I said.

“Understand that for sure. Been a little of a lone wolf my entire life. I was locked up ten years on a fucking conspiracy to commit murder charge. Got set up by the ATF. Cocksuckers. Slice’s Ol’ Lady wrote an appeal, got my case reheard, and I’ll be god damned if they didn’t let me go,” he said.

I felt like I was talking to a ghost. My father was charged with a conspiracy to commit murder charge by the DEA, which in my mind, was no different than the ATF. Feds were feds. The odds of his name being Jackson, spending time in prison on a conspiracy to commit murder charge, and then to be set up by the feds just seemed…

It seemed strange to even think it, but it was almost as if he was an angel.

“My pop was in the joint on the same charge, the fucking DEA set him up. It was bullshit. He could have talked, but he sat in there, refused to snitch, and they tried to prove a point by keeping him locked down. Only reason they did it was because he was a biker, and was hanging around a bunch of one percenters. They tried to use him to get to the club,” I paused and shook my head.

“He ever get out?” he asked.

I crossed my arms in front of my chest and shook my head. “Died of pneumonia in the joint. This is his old bike.”

“Cool that you kept it. Your pop sounds like a good solid dude. Respectful what he did,” he said.

“Show respect, get respect,” I said.

He turned toward me and cocked an eyebrow. “You been reading my mail?”

I coughed a laugh. “What?”

“Prison saying. Just seems funny. That’s one of my mottos. Show respect, get respect. Been saying that for a long bit,” he said.

“My Pop’s saying, I got it from him,” I said. “He raised me like that. So many of these young fuckers get patched in and don’t give respect. Then they wonder why no one’ll run with ‘em.”

“Damned truth. You’ll never get it if you don’t give it,” he said.

“So, you want to grab a bite?” I asked.

He grinned, nodded his head, and glanced down at the beer can under my bike. “Remember what I said. Move that fucker out first.”

I looked at the stain on the concrete, the half-full can of gas, and realized had he said nothing, I would have hopped on the bike and started it.

“Appreciate it,” I said with a nod.

“Lead the way?” he asked as he walked away.

I couldn’t believe my ears.

I pushed the bike forward, nodded my head, grinned from ear to ear, and responded.

“Follow me.”