CHAPTER TWENTY
FINN
The day after the scavenger hunt, chaos returns to the block. The protesters are back in their regular positions, reinvigorated after yesterday’s festivities. There are the motorcyclists, of course, but also a steady stream of customers here to support my business and the other local shops, buttressed with a healthy crowd of curious lookie-loos, wandering by to scope out the drama.
It keeps me on my toes all day, which I like. Profits and sales are up, and I’ve seen just about every friend and acquaintance I have in Allentown. But the man from the arts organization was far from impressed by his visit. If I hadn’t intervened by inviting him to the art show, he might have rejected us outright.
Without Riley, it would have been a complete disaster. I haven’t seen him since Sunday, but after our heart-to-heart in the bookstore, it seems like he’s trying to make amends. Not only did he collaborate with the rest of us to make the event a success, he got his mechanics to participate in the fun, and even came to me when he overheard that phone call. All things that I wouldn’t have expected a couple months ago.
Complicating matters, though, I received a formal response from Chase to the letter that the block drafted. Clearly vetted by a lawyer, it explains that Liberty Garage has no obligationto alter their business practice, admits no fault, and will only promise to continue to abide by relevant laws.
It’s a closed door, but I also know they’ve taken some steps to remedy things, and there has been a reduction in the noise. Not enough to return life to normal, but progress nonetheless.
There’s got to be a way to extend this truce, although how to get there with Riley lying low, I’m not sure. He’s become my best connection at the garage.
Not that I should be focusing my attention on him, professionally or personally. Especially when I’ve got a much more promising prospect on the horizon. I’ve agreed to meet NotAnOgre, someone whom I truly like in an uncomplicated, easy way, and the thought makes me flush.
Kenneth and Miranda walk out from the rear of the shop. We’re about to open for the day, and they’re each tying on their aprons.
“Second place again,” Kenneth complains. “I’m going to have to dress as a banana for the rest of my life.”
“Take a cue from my team. We don’t even try to win. Hell, we stopped for lunch on our way to clue three.”
The front door swings open, and Leon, the barber down the block, comes hurrying in.
“Here for an early double scoop?” Miranda asks, but Leon shakes his head.
“I’m afraid not. I have bad news.” He glances at all three of us with concern twisting his features. “We’re starting to look like the bad guys!”
I shake my head. “What are you talking about?” I ask, and he pulls his phone out as he hurries over.
“It’s Liberty Garage. They’ve launched a media campaign. Come to find out they’re not just a bunch of loud jerks. The things those bikers have been through! And despite everythingthey’ve done to the block, now it’s going to look like we’re the insensitive ones.”
When he holds his phone out, a video is playing. Professionally edited, it cuts together the stories of a few mechanics I recognize, each talking about the importance of motorcycles to their lives.
Little Joe: I always struggled in school. I couldn’t sit still, and the lessons stumped me. My teachers made me think I’d grow up to be a failure, but when I found motorcycle culture, I found an outlet for all my troubles. Bikes made sense, and in the garage, my energy was rewarded.
Dolores: My grandma was a biker. She raised me and taught me how to respect a machine. We didn’t have much money, and when I found myself on my own in high school, I didn’t know what to do. The motorcycle community took me in when no one else would.
Pirate Bill: I’ve never been good with people. Always too gruff, standoffish, and defensive. Bikers were the only ones willing to accept me for who I am. Hell, they celebrate me.
Leon closes the video. “It’s a disaster,” he says. “The rest of the gayborhood might think we’ve been bullying them.”
I grimace, my thoughts swirling as I process the video. “We haven’t bullied anyone. But I agree. This complicates things.” I take a deep breath. “This is more reason to bring the feud to a close,” I say, determined.
Something in the window catches my eye, and when I glance, I see a tattooed man glaring at us. He scrunches up his face even more before walking away.
Leon sighs. “This whole thing is going to blow up in our faces.” He shoves his phone back in his pocket. “I’ve got to get back for a shave. But I thought, as our fearless leader, you’d want to know.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I call out after him.
“Damn,” Kenneth says as he looks at his phone. “Those videos are really making numbers.”
The mention of rising numbers worries me, so instead of ruminating over more videos, I grab a sign I’ve printed that advertises our upcoming Pride specials and head outside to hang it. When I step on the street, Nicholas is approaching from down the block with Clay. He’s wearing his standard floral T-shirt and suit jacket, while Clay is dressed for the carpentry crew, his heavy boots thudding on the pavement.
Grateful to see friends, I set the sign down, and we all exchange quick hugs.
“Out for a stroll?” I ask.
