Some nights in bed, in the dark, I feel him tense beside me and I know he's not sleeping. I know he's listening for an engine in the lot, footsteps on the stairs, the sound of a door. I pull him closer and eventually his breathing evens out and he sleeps. And I lie there for another hour, staring at the ceiling, listening to the same silence he was listening to, hearing nothing, which is somehow worse.
Friday comes, slow and gold, the light starting to change, the angle of it lower, casting longer shadows across the parking lot by five o'clock. I fire up Big Bertha at four. Start the coals. Check the brisket I've had in the smoker since midnight. The meat is perfect, the bark dark and cracked, the internal temp holding, and I wrap it in butcher paper and set it in the cooler to rest.
Stormy is inside setting up the serving station. Sheila is behind the bar running through the Friday checklist. The lot is empty, but it won't be for long. By seven the bikes will start rolling in. By nine the lot will be full.
My phone rings.Denny.This can't be good.I step away from the grill and answer.
"Your guy's in town," Denny says. No greeting. Denny doesn't do greetings. Denny does information. "Walked into Coastal Cycle about an hour ago. Asked about a black Sportster, said it was stolen. Showed them a photo. The owner called me as soon as he left."
"Did he get a look at his truck?" I ask.
"Alabama plates. Eddie got a partial license. Enough to match what you gave me."
"Did he say where he was heading next?"
"Didn't say. But Eddie said he had a list on a piece of paper. Like he was working through shops. He'll probablyhit Panhandle Customs next, then maybe a parts place. He's making rounds."
"How did he seem?"
"Friendly. The kind of guy you'd help without thinking twice." Denny pauses. "Eddie said he smiled a lot."
"Yeah, he does that. I appreciate this, Denny."
"Whatever you need, Tex. You know that. We go way back."
He hangs up and I text Mickey.
Me:Ron Jackson is in Panama City. Spotted at Coastal Cycle about an hour ago. Making rounds of bike shops. Coming our way.
Mickey:I'm on shift tonight. I'll be close. Text me the second you see him.
Me:I'll call. One ring then I'll hang up.
Mickey:Don't accidentally butt dial me then. One ring and I'm there.
I go inside to tell Stormy. He's at the serving station, lining up bottles of barbecue sauce in the order he's determined is optimal—sweet, tangy, hot, Carolina, Alabama white—and his hands are steady.
I don't tell him.
I stand there for three seconds, maybe four, weighing it. The deal has always been honesty. I don't keep things from him. That's the line. But I look at his hands, steady on the sauce bottles, and I look at his face, calm and happy, and I think about what happens when I tell him Ron is in town.
The shaking will come back. The scanning will intensify. The fear will pour through the crack like water through a levee.I'll spend the next four hours watching him try to function while his survival instinct is screaming at him to run.
Or I can wait until I know more. Until Ron actually shows up or doesn't show up. Until the threat is real and present.
I'll tell him tonight. When the bar is closed and we're upstairs, and I can hold him while I say it. That's not a lie. That's just better timing.
"Brisket's resting," I say. "Should be ready to slice by seven."
"I figured," he says without looking up. "I can smell it from here. You nailed it on that one."
"I always nail it."
"You burned two racks of ribs last Saturday."
"Those were sacrificial ribs. Offered to the grill gods for a good season. Don't you know the grill gods require tribute, Stormy? This is ancient barbecue tradition. You burn the first offering, you say a prayer, and in return Big Bertha gives you perfect bark for the rest of the month. It's in the Bible. Barbecue Leviticus. Look it up."
"They burned because you were arguing with a man about motorcycle oil and forgot what you were doing."
