“Grab a truck and I’ll meet you out front in five minutes.”
Portland Motorworks was a boutique auto parts shop that specialized in ‘new old stock’ MoPar and vintage bike parts. Just the kind of hard-to-find inventory our shop needed. We’d done business with Daryl Martin since the day he opened. In fact, the Dogs supplied him with labor during his shop build, as well as using the club’s resources to secure some of the trickier permits he needed in order to do business. In exchange for these favors, Daryl agreed to stock and reserve some of our most used and/or hard to find items. We’d never experienced supply issues in the past, but lately more and more of our orders had been coming in light.
As we entered the Motorworks showroom, we were immediately greeted by a young guy dressed in khakis and a black Motorworks branded polo shirt. He looked more like a guy you’d see working at a cell phone kiosk at the mall rather than a parts shop.
“How can I help you gentlemen today?”
“Is Daryl around?” Dad asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry but Mr. Martin is on a call at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Well, Ben,” Dad said, reading the name tag pinned to the Polo. “You could let him know that Booker is here and needs to talk to him right now.”
“As I said, Mr. Martin is in a teleconference and can’t be disturbed. I’d be happy to assist you, though.”
“Nope,” Dad replied, before turning and heading to Daryl’s office. I followed close behind.
“Excuse me, but—”
Dad raised his hand in the air as we continued walking. “You’re excused.”
“Stop or I’ll call the police,” Ben shouted as we reached the door to Daryl’s office.
I turned around to see Ben holding up his cell phone.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I said, throwing him an icy stare.
“Why’s that?” he challenged, clearly not getting the message.
“Because if you don’t put that fucking phone back in your pocket, the next call you’ll make will be to 911 and you’ll need to dial it with ten broken fingers.”
This time Ben got the message and slid the phone back into the pocket of his khakis.
Dad opened the office door to find Daryl sitting at his desk, pale as a sheet, with a bottle of Old Crow on his desk and a shot glass in his hand.
“Hey Booker,” Daryl said, sheepishly, without looking up.
“What the fuck is goin’ on D?” Dad asked, closing the door behind us.
Daryl pointed to the bottle. “Oh, just having a little lunch break. Ya know.”
“It’s a little early for happy hour, isn’t it?”
Daryl slid the bottle towards us. “Not if you join me.”
“Sorry, D, but I’m not here because I’m happy. I’m rip shit pissed and I want to know why you’ve been shorting me.”
“I told Cash earlier on the phone, I’ve been having some supply chain issues—”
“Bullshit,” Dad barked. “You’ve never had a problem holding up your end of our deal before and I want to know what the fuck is going on.”
Daryl poured a shot and tossed it back. “It’s the Spiders.”
“Whataboutthe Spiders?”
The Gresham Spiders were a local one-percenter club, made up entirely of criminals and dirtbags. Not too long ago, the Dogs had banded together with several other clubs to wipe out the Spiders, but they’d since regrouped and were regainingstrength under the leadership of the Club’s new president, Warlock.
“A couple of months back, three Spiders showed up at my house while me and my family were having dinner,” Daryl said, his voice trembling. “They broke in and tied us all up at gunpoint. Then they beat my wife right in front of me and my children and I was helpless to defend her.” Daryl’s hands shook as he poured another shot. “Then Warlock held a knife to my little girl’s throat, and he told me that Motorworks belonged to him now. He said that the Spiders would cut me in every month if I did as I was told. I was told to reserve my stock for the Spiders, and to begin to cut ties with any and all other area clubs. Warlock said, not to worry, that I’d make more money than I ever had, but that if I made trouble, he’d cut my kids up in front of their mother.”
