Cole said nothing more. We rode up to the thirtieth floor before the doors opened. At this level, there was only one condo. As Cole raised his electric key to the door, I held my breath, curious to see what level of comfort a man who had ridden a motorcycle all the way out to Santa Maria would live in.
It turned out the answer was “luxury.”
The apartment was shaped like a “U” with the main foyer before us, a bedroom to the right, and what I assumed was more living space to the left. Windows from floor to ceiling showed me a grand view of downtown Albuquerque, a view that I had seen in photos before but never in person. Contemporary furniture, including a long, black couch, filled the room. A TV that had to be at least eighty inches sat in the corner.
And with her back to us, a beautiful woman that looked like she belonged at a southern ball more than a high-rise apartment in New Mexico was cooking some food.
“That’s my girlfriend, Lilly,” Cole said. “Lilly, this is Brock, the guy I told you about.”
“Hi, Brock,” she said. “Welcome.”
She spoke with an ease to her that suggested she had been the one to pick the place. I could not imagine that Cole, as a biker—like myself, I wanted to say—would have ever wanted something this luxurious. Did we want dingy and run-down? No. We just wanted “enough.”
But perhaps the culture of bikers in California—if that was, in fact, where Cole was from—differed from the culture of bikers in New Mexico.
“Come, have a seat,” he said, taking me to a table on the balcony outside.
At this altitude, it was hot, but with the sun halfway below the horizon, we wouldn’t have to wait too much longer before the desert warmth turned into the desert chill. And I liked a bit of warmth; the Bernard Boys had never considered moving someplace colder in the Rust Belt or the Big Sky area.
“I really was just driving through when I came across you at the gas station,” he said. “Riding a bike clears my head. It helps settle me. And even when life is good, I like to ride it for the ease that it gives me. But as I left, I saw some guys running toward the store. I know what trouble looks like. Sure enough, when I drove back, everything looked like it was under chaos, and the two women looked like they were scared for their lives. So, I fired my gun off because I figured it would stop everything. When I saw you bloodied, I knew you were the good guy. But…”
I heard one of the bedroom doors open and close.
“Part of the reason Lilly and I came here was to get away from the danger of our old lives. I felt like I was walking back into a world that I had tried to escape in the first place, and so I took off. But I couldn’t stop thinking about everything I had seen. The two girls there—wasn’t one of them the one you were with tonight?”
Tara.
The one I fought for.
I would protect any woman in danger, but Tara…
“Yes.”
Cole just smiled as I finished my first beer and picked up what was her beer.
“Most guys just cower, they call the police, or—”
“Not possible in Santa Maria.”
Cole nodded.
“It lines up with what I suspected,” he said. “I did my research into the town. Sounds like Santa Maria is a fucked-up world. Tell me about your experience with it.”
I paused, took an enormous gulp of my beer, and sighed.
“Where to begin?”
I started by describing how no one could really depend on Sheriff Davis for anything other than the most heinous of crimes. I explained how the Bandits were a gang that ran freely across town, more or less having their way so long as they didn’t murder or rape—with one notable exception I did not mention. I said that I had tried to rally the boys together…
“But there just seems to be a general sense of hopelessness,” I said. “Mason said the only way we’re ever going to fix shit is if we get outside help, but who the fuck would care about Santa Maria? What happens there doesn’t really spill over here to Albuquerque, we’re too far removed from the city to be a concern. Every time I think we should do something, someone isn’t interested. And when someone else is interested, I just sort of shrug, knowing it won’t last.”
“Well, what do you expect a bunch of ‘boys’ to do?” Cole said with a smirk.
“I don’t need to expect anything,” I said, annoyed at how Cole had said “boys.” “I can just look at the past ten years of failure to know the answer.”
I took another sip as some cars honked on the street below.Santa Maria is our problem. And so was what happened all those years ago…
“Are you familiar with the concept of motorcycle clubs?”
