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“On Mill Creek Road?”
“Are you new on the job?”
“Yeah. First day.”
“Of course it is,” I scoffed. “You in Kansas or Missouri?”
“Missouri.”
“Well, that’s your problem. I’m in Kansas.”
The line went quiet and was quickly followed by a long, miserable groan. “Fuck me.”
“It’s a common mistake. Don’t get too tore up about it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Look, man. I’m already behind schedule. I’ll have to put it on tomorrow’s route.”
“The hell you will.” I looked up at the clock with aggravation. “I need that part today.”
“I’m already running late.”
“Then, you’re gonna be fifteen minutes later.”
“That’s not really how it works, man. I’ve got a route to…”
“Don’t give a fuck about your route. Get your ass here or today will be your first and last day.”
I hung up before he could respond. I was pissed, but I got it.
Today wasn’t the first time someone had gotten confused by the whole one-city, two-states debacle. It was the only place around where you could cross the state line countless times in a day without even thinking about it.
That’s what happens when you have a city that sits right on the line.
You can be standing in Kansas one minute and back in Missouri before you finish your damn beer. Out-of-towners don’t always get it. Hell, I’ve known people who’ve been here all their lives and don’t get it.
I, on the other hand, could tell which side of the state line I was on with just a look. Clean and pristine? Missouri. A little rougher around the edges? Kansas. That was the thing about KC. It wasn’t just one city. It was two meshed together. One had old brick buildings that were barely holding on, and the other had glass towers that made everything else pale in comparison.
Outsiders usually knew three things about KC: the Chiefs, our barbecue (and yes, it’s better than the shit you get down south), and jazz. They weren’t wrong. We were due the praise, but that’s not all there is to KC.
Not even close.
If you’re looking to move something across the country, chances are you’ll be going straight through the city or damn close to it. If you’re looking to build a business, there’s plenty of money here, and if you’re looking to disappear, there are plenty of places to hide out.
It’s one of the reasons Fury decided to organize a chapter here.
“Lucky!” I called out, and his head popped out from behind the Camaro he was working on. “You finish that front end?”
“Gettin’ there.”
“Getting there isn’t finished,” I barked.
“Ran into some trouble with the alignment.” Lucky was one of the younger brothers. He was a tall, lanky kid with a crew cut and freckles, which for some absurd reason had earned him the road name Lucky. He wiped his hands on a rag as he said, “I’ll have it wrapped up in an hour, tops.”
“Gonna hold you to that.”
He nodded and disappeared back under the hood. I turned and started for the office. The garage was my baby. The club owned it, but I ran it. And I did my best to run it well. On paper, it was a legitimate repair shop that handled anything from an oil change to the occasional custom job. Whatever came through the door.
That part mattered.
