They filed the application with Liz’s assistant, a woman with a perpetually frazzled bun and a stack of color-coded folders. Papers were stamped, signatures collected. A date was set for the hearing. Two weeks. Not long, but not immediate either. Enough time for worry to find footholds.
As they stepped back out into the sunlight, Liz caught up with them, breath puffing a little.
“I talked to a couple of the board members this morning,” she said. “Unofficially. One’s worried about parking, the other’s worried about noise. If you can get written support from the café, the marina, and the antique shop, it’ll help. They’re the ones who usually complain.”
“I’ll go by this afternoon,” Bree said.
“I’ll go with you,” Hank added.
Liz smiled. “That’s the spirit,” she said. “And Hank? Diaz mentioned the situation at the bike shop. You going out there?”
He blinked. “Word travels fast.”
“In a town this size?” Liz said. “It’s practically a sport. Be careful. I’d rather not hold a memorial next to a zoning hearing.”
“I plan on avoiding both,” he said.
The beach felt different without the Cup banners.
Quieter, for one. The grandstands had been removed, and people walked with their toes in the sand. The air held the familiar overlay of fuel and rubber, but the buzz of big-race tension was gone, replaced by the more relaxed energy.
At the bike shop, local riders wheeled bikes out of pickups and battered trailers; some wore full pro gear, others mismatched leathers. A handwritten sign at the entrance read TEST DAY – SIGN WAIVER INSIDE.
Hank and Brian signed in with an attendant who looked vaguely starstruck but managed to keep the squeaking to a minimum. Hank kept his helmet in his hand, resisting the urge to turn the day into a full-on practice session. They were here to watch, not set lap records.
“There,” Brian murmured.
Near the far end of the lot, a small knot of riders had gathered around a van with out-of-state plates. The van’s back doors stood open, revealing shelves of neatly lined boxes. A man in a branded jacket leaned against the bumper, talking animatedly, hands moving like punctuation.
Hank’s pulse ticked up.
“See the logo?” Brian asked under his breath. “Different from Einstein’s guys, but same vibe.”
“Yeah,” Hank said. “And look at the plates.”
Diaz had texted him a partial plate to watch for. The state matched. So did the first three characters.
He felt eyes on him before he saw Diaz.
She stood near the concession stand, plainclothes, hair pulled back. Sunglasses hid her eyes, but the tilt of her head told him she’d clocked the van too. Another man leaned casually beside her, pretending to be absorbed in his phone. Backup.
“You want to ride or work?” Brian asked.
“Work,” Hank said.
They walked toward the cluster like they had every right to be there. Because they did.
The man in the jacket noticed them at once; his smile brightened, shark-quick.
“Well, well,” he said. “Celebrity drop-in. Hank James, right? Hell of a race last weekend.”
Hank gave him a polite nod. “Appreciate it,” he said.
“Come to see what the grassroots scene is doing?” the guy asked. His accent had a hint of Northeast, flattened by time. “We’re helping some of these kids find a little extra power on a budget.”
“On a budget,” Brian repeated, tone mild.
“Factory support’s expensive,” the man said. “We offer alternatives.” He flipped open one of the boxes for the riders’ benefit. Inside sat a series of glossy brochures and a small metal canister with a generic label.
