"You sure?" he asks.
"I'm sure. There's a lot of people out there and the beans are getting cold. If I don't get back on the line, Sheila's going to have to do it. Her hip is bothering her and she won't admit it."
He looks at me then he nods. He stands up, unfolding all six-five of himself from the kitchen floor, and he looks down at me and his eyes are full of love so fierce.
"I love you, baby," he says. "Let's go feed some bikers. I'm right behind you."
"Let's do it." I turn to the food station, grab a towel and wipe down the counter. I pull fresh containers from the warmer and start loading plates. Brisket, beans, slaw, bread. My hands are still trembling but the muscle memory takes over. Scoop, plate, stack. Scoop, plate, stack. The rhythm steadies me the way it always steadies me. The work is solid and real and mine.
I pick up two plates and walk to the back door. The parking lot is bright and loud and full of people. Somewhere out on the beach road a man in a truck is driving away from this bar, but I'm walking toward it.
"Order up!" I call out. A biker at the nearest table raises his beer, grins and says "there he is, Stormy, where you been?" and I say "making you the best damn brisket in the Panhandle."
I set the plates down and keep moving.
Chapter 32: Tex
Mickey calls before noon on Monday morning.
I'm in the kitchen doing inventory. Counting bottles of barbecue sauce while pretending my brain isn't thinking about the man from Alabama who showed up and smiled at me like we were old friends.
"My guy at the impound lot just called," Mickey says. No greeting. No small talk. Mickey in information mode sounds like Mickey reading a report, clipped and clean. "A man came in this morning asking about a Harley Sportster. Just like we thought he might. Gave the plate number. Asked if they had it. They told him no, they don't have any record of that bike coming through."
"But the tracker's pinging right there."
"Right. So, this asshole is standing in the impound lot looking at his phone telling him his motorcycle is ten feet away, and the clerk is telling him they've never seen it. He didn't lose his temper. Didn't push. Asked a few more questions, thanked the guy, and left."
"Patient guy."
"Apparently. My guy got the truck tag. Alabama plates. Same ones I photographed at your place."
I lean against the kitchen counter. The inventory sheet is in my hand and the numbers on it have stopped meaning anything. "He's still here then, sniffing around."
"Sure is. After he checked out the bar, I figure he spent a couple of nights somewhere, and waited until this morning for the impound lot to open. That tells you about his level of commitment, Tex."
It tells me everything. This is not a man cutting his losses. This is a man working a problem.
"What should I do?" I ask.
"Nothing different. The same thing I told you before. You run your bar. You keep your eyes open. And if he shows up again, you call me."
"And then what?"
"We'll figure out the next step when we get there. But Tex, I'm telling you again and I'm going to keep telling you. Don't do anything stupid. I'm dead serious."
"I never do anything stupid."
"You punched a vending machine at the Texaco in ninth grade because it ate your quarter."
"That was justified. It was my last quarter and I needed those Doritos."
"Call me if you see him."
He hangs up without saying goodbye.
Ron Jackson is still in town.
Stormy is upstairs. He went up after lunch to organize the supply closet on the second floor. A job that doesn't need doing. But it gives his hands a reason to move while his brain does whatever his brain does when the threat level is elevated.
