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Chapter Twenty-One
Nick
Standing in the clubhouse parking lot, I stared at my bike and tried to imagine it with paint on it. “I don’t think the fucker will look any better. It’ll just look different.”
Pee Bee cocked his head the side and studied the rusty gas tank. “Up to you. Been lookin’ like shit as long as I’ve known ya. Don’t know why you’re wantin’ to paint it now.”
I shrugged. “Just thinking about making a change.”
“Changin’ your bike ain’t gonna change anything, Crip. When you get done, your life’s still gonna be here.”
“Well holy fucking shit. Listen to you. What? You a certified fucking therapist now?”
“No.”
“So why you trying to tell me how to live my life?”
“I’m not.”
I lifted my leg over the seat, sat down, and draped my arms over the handlebars. “Sure sounds like it.”
“I don’t like it, either, motherfucker. Not even a little bit. But I can’t fuckin’ change it. Only thing we can do is keep on keepin’ on. That’s it.”
“Thanks for the words of wisdom, Peeb.”
“Whatever I can do to help, asshole.”
I gazed toward the street, not really focusing on anything. The building we used for a clubhouse was in Oceanside, twenty miles north of San Diego. The city was the home for many Marines stationed in Camp Pendleton, which was a few miles north. Along with the neighboring cities of Carlsbad and Vista, the overall population was about 200,000.
Our location was on a street that had minimal traffic, making passing cars something of an oddity. The unmarked police car that was approaching stood out like a dick on a wedding cake.
“Fucking hell.”
Pee Bee’s eyes widened. “What?”
“My three o’clock. Cop.”
“No shit?”
He turned toward the street. “Looks like your fuckin’ buddy.”
He was right. The car and the driver looked pretty god damned familiar. It was none other than detective shit-for-brains, the man who arrested me in the shop.
“Here he comes,” I said.
He pulled in the lot, rolled up alongside us, and came to a stop.
He rolled down the window and poked his head out. “You know, on some days, I wish I didn’t have to work,” he said. “I could just hang around, sit on my motorcycle and look mean. Wouldn’t that be the life?”
“Only a couple of problems with that, detective.”
He lowered his sunglasses and peered over the top of the frames. “You know I’ve got to ask. The problems? What are they, Navarro?”
I stepped off my bike, folded my arms in front of my chest, and flexed my biceps. “You don’t have a motorcycle, and you look like a pussy.”
He laughed a sarcastic laugh, opened the car door, and stepped out. He removed his mirrored cop glasses and hung them on the collar of his police-issue polo shirt. “That’s funny.”
“I’m the club joker. Jokes? I got a million of ‘em. Something I can help you with, detective?”
