“You don’t,” she said. “But you do for commerce. Why don’t we go chat about that in my office while these nice folks enjoy their track time?”
The man hesitated. For a second, Hank’s muscles coiled, waiting for the wrong choice.
Then the vendor shrugged, all easy charm again. “Sure,” he said. “Can’t say no to an invitation from law enforcement.”
As he moved away with Diaz and her partner, he glanced back once. The look he sent Hank was pure calculation.
Message received. You’re in this.
One of the younger riders cleared his throat. “So, uh,” he said. “Those things really that bad?”
Hank considered his answer. He could scare them. Lecture them. Or he could tell the truth in a way that might stick.
“I’ve seen what happens when they go wrong,” he said quietly. “I’ve held helmets that were still warm. There’s no podium worth that. You want to get faster? I’ll walk your line with you. I’ll look at your setup. Hell, I’ll introduce you to Colby and Brian. They’ll find you a tenth in your suspension before you ever need a bottle.”
Brian nodded. “We’ll look at your bikes,” he said. “Free. No strings. You show up with those kits on your machines, though, we’re out. And I will personally tell Diaz you’ve got a death wish.”
The kids looked at each other. Slowly, a few nodded.
“Yeah,” one said. “Okay. I’d rather not die for a trophy.”
Hank clapped him on the shoulder. “Good call,” he said.
By late afternoon, his head buzzed with numbers, forms, and the echo of engines.
Back at the warehouse, Bree stood in the front bay with a clipboard, talking to the café owner from Main and the antique shop couple, a petite woman and a tall man with a collection of pens in his pocket. The marina manager leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.
“…we’d host open studio nights,” Bree was saying. “Live painting, maybe a local musician, nothing wild. We’re talking nine o’clock end times, not midnight ragers. And the shop side closes earlier than that. We want this block to feel safe. Alive, but safe.”
The café owner, Lila, nodded. “More foot traffic’s good for me,” she said. “If people are coming down for your events, they’ll want coffee and dessert. I’m on board.”
The marina manager shrugged. “As long as your events don’t block the boat ramps, I don’t care,” he said. “I’ll sign whatever Liz wants.”
The antique shop owner’s husband adjusted his glasses. “My only concern is parking,” he said. “We already get the overflow from the ice cream place on busy nights.”
“We’ve been talking about partnering with the civic center lot,” Bree said. “Most nights after six, it sits half empty. If we can get signage and a shuttle going on event nights, it should ease some of that.”
“And I’ll put parking management in the application addendum,” Hank added, stepping up. “We’ll have clear hours, clear capacity limits. You’ll have all of that in writing.”
The man studied them for a moment, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “We’ll support you. A little noise’s better than another empty storefront.”
Relief softened Bree’s shoulders.
As they trickled out, promising to email letters to Liz’s office, Hank caught her eye.
“How’d it go?” she asked softly. “At the track?”
He told her the condensed version: the van, the vendor, Diaz stepping in.
“Any trouble?” she asked.
“Not today,” he said. “But that guy knows we’re not just going to look away. So do the kids he was trying to hook.”
Bree’s expression was steady. “Good,” she said. “Let him know Copper Moon isn’t an easy mark.”
He looked at her, at the smudge of primer on her wrist, the clip holding back her hair, the clipboard full of signatures. She’d spent the day convincing neighbors, calling in favors, and building support. While he’d been on familiar terrain with engines and bad actors, she’d been on a different kind of front line.
“You did good today,” he said.
