Chapter One The Theft Sheer tempered steel as sharp as a razor blade spiraled and spun free from the antiquated lathe, slicing Mick's face like wire through cheese. Mick didn't have time to respond, except to attempt to stop the gush of blood flowing with rivulets of sweat down his neck with a soiled shop rag. He cringed. Cutting oil mixed with his seeping blood and penetrated the wound, stinging his five o'clock shadow. As he reached again for the gash, he heard a pop, like a muffled shotgun, then the sound of a motorcycle firing to life. Mick paused at the sound and held his breath as he turned toward the oil-splattered, piss-colored windows that blocked a view of everything except an amber glow from the setting California sun. The sound was unmistakable. It resembled the rumble of a Harley-Davidson. A guttural roar that terrifies old women as bikers thunder past, narrowly missing motorists huddled behind plastic steering wheels. Another snaky razor blade curled free of the spinning machine and flew by his face like the tail of a bullwhip. Mick tried to convince himself that he did not recognize the familiar base tone of a V-twin engine. He stared up at the cylindrical clock hung cockeyed on the shop wall. Even over the defining whirl of the lathes he could hear the seconds tick and feel the jarring motion of the second hand clamoring from one second-hash mark to the next. Only with each snap, the second hand hesitated longer, until it appeared snagged on each slash. His job had become a prison term with an undetermined sentence. Underneath his bib overalls, his powerful arms twitched in anticipation of the slowing time, the sound disappearing outside and what it could represent to Mick. Covered with metal shavings and sweat, Mick's entire body tensed to the thunderous roar of what sounded more and more like his Harley speeding away. Mick shut off the spinning menace of a lathe and dashed toward the window. The clock switched from leaning on every second to snapping through them like spurts from an automatic weapon. It couldn't be happening to him, he thought. He'd had enough bad luck for one year. He wiped away grime from the steel-framed windows and peered outside. It was impossible to discern much through the filmy crud caked on the old building's ancient glass panels. He leaned closer and squinted through the grimy haze, then kicked a crate over to the window and stepped his 6 ft. 2 in. frame onto it quickly for a better look. It was definitely a motorcycle, a Harley, and it was black or a dark color. He couldn't tell. Whatever it was, it rounded the corner and was gone. Mick's mind still wouldn't accept that someone might have stolen his bike. He had owned the 1948 Panhead for 12 years. He had touched, massaged, rebuilt, researched, and repaired every component of the treasured ride. Mick wasn't a machinist, an iron worker or a middle-class laborer; he was a biker. He defined himself by his motorcycle and his ability to build and maintain it. To a lawyer, his sheepskin and passing the bar exam was everything. To Mick and all bikers, their Harleys were their graduation certificates. Without a running motorcycle, a biker is no longer a biker. Mick's Harley was unique to himself; also, it was rare to the breed. This 1948 Panhead was the first model year for that engine configuration. Few were still running examples of a 17-year reign as America's premier big twin. He cherished every nut and bolt and the lifestyle the bike represented. As Mick stepped back from the window, the 5 o'clock whistle blew. He continued to tell himself that no one would take his motorcycle. After all, he knew practically everyone in town who rode bikes. He scratched at the growth on his rugged face and pulled at the dirty blond ponytail at the base of his neck. He was big, had a big heart and a tremendous love for his motorcycle, one of his last possessions. He once had a bank account, a comfortable home, a wife and a growing collection of antique motorcycle memorabilia. It was all gone now, but his demeanor remained stalwart. He had a natural toughness, from his thick, callused hands to the words he spoke. He was direct, brisk and forthright, which annoyed his wife. He lacked the refinements and political savvy of other men, and she found him crude as the relationship wore on. She attacked the very core of what made Mick a leader, and a respected man among his friends. He called a spade a spade, while she preferred that he lie. Rough around the edges, big boned, blue-eyed and a man of beer, motorcycles and football games, Mick was no wimp, slackard or fool. He also never presented himself as something that he wasn't. Mick slung his fleece-lined denim jacket over his broad frame. He shook his long, wavy hair free from his ponytail, grabbed his gauntlet gloves and headed resolutely toward the door. As he descended the wood stairs outside, slippery from tracks of cutting oil, he squeezed the railing firmly to brace himself against the adrenaline-charged wrath mounting within him. A mobile construction trailer obstructed his view as he approached the parking lot. Two years prior, he had run into some financial problems when his wife needed an operation, an emergency hysterectomy. He went to his boss, Wes Ferris, the fit, impeccably groomed 48-year-old owner of Ferris Industries with a fuel petcock he had spent years designing, developing, and machining on his own time. Mick had been immensely proud of the outstanding design and its final prototype, which he had painstakingly perfected to fit all Harley models pre-dating the Dyna Glide. His ego was pumped with the well-deserved pride of a hard-earned accomplishment. "I've had designs like this floating around in my mind for years, Mick," Ferris said, swiveling around in his deep leather, high back, office chair. "I've just never had the time to develop it, although I had planned to this year." Mick felt uncomfortable and manipulated in Ferris's presence. It was always no win with Ferris. "This one is complete and tested," said Mick. Ferris looked at the polished product with disdain. He didn't offer Mick a seat in the plush interior of his office; he was made to stand, as if his attire and stature didn't warrant the offer. "The real test is the marketplace, and I would be the one to develop the tooling, marketing and take the risk of putting up a helluva lot of money to promote," Ferris continued, spinning, then tossing the product on his deeply varnished cherry wood desk. "Besides, anytime I need to expend mental energy on a project, it must be considered a substantial investment. You see, Mick, my time is big money. I'll give it some thought and get back to you."Mick knew exactly where Ferris was headed. He nodded again. "In that case, I will try to look at this soon, although I don't think there is much profit in petcocks." Ferris quit looking at the product or Mick, but turned to a separate file and began flipping sheets of paper. Mick left and didn't hear from Ferris again. Mick was in a corner. His wife of five years was hospitalized. When it came to dealing with Ferris, he felt out of his league. But with his wife's hospital bills having depleted the last of his savings, Mick saw no other option than to approach his boss again for a small advance on the petcock design. Ferris was a consummate professional with all the trappings of a self-made pillar of the community. But underneath his polished exterior, Mick suspected, breathed a money-hungry hustler who'd franchise his mother's soul if he thought it would turn a profit. Mick had watched Ferris's blind pursuit of the almighty dollar--no matter who happened to get burned in the process. And although he managed to conceal many of his less than scrupulous methods, especially during his company's lean times, capitalizing on the misfortunes of others had become his undisputed domain. As the weeks passed, Mick became more desperate. He finally asked Ferris's shapely secretary for another appointment. Another week passed before he was granted an opportunity to enter the private sanctum; the meeting was scheduled another week away. His wife had been in the hospital for over a month when he finally saw Ferris. The man in the double-breasted suit, crisp white shirt and silk designer tie acted rushed as Mick entered his office. "What is it, Mick? Shouldn't you be working on the contract for jet valve components?" Ferris asked, his artificially tanned face contorted into a condescending look of concern. Mick looked at the dark, twisted eyebrows and wrinkled brow. "We're way ahead of schedule, and you know why I'm here--the petcock, "Mick said. "Oh that. I don't have time to deal with it. I don't even know where it is, now." He made a cursory glance around his desk. "I don't see any reason to become involved and the inconsequential motorcycle market, and I haven't had time to research it," Ferris said, grabbing his Monte Blanc from his pocket and making a note. Mick scanned Ferris's desk and his eyes came to rest on a file labeled, "PETCOCK." It was an inch thick and he recognized several ads for aftermarket motorcycle distributors sticking out. "Well, I won't take anymore of your time," Mick said, turning to leave. "Listen," Ferris said, not looking up, "I know you're in a bind." His face softened with a look of distant concern. "I probably won't do a damn thing with it. Like I told you before, I designed something similar years ago, but felt the cost of reproduction was prohibitive, based on the market. I don't believe anything has changed. But I will give you some money for it, because of Shiela's condition, but I don't want any partners. If I do something, I will be forced to put all my contacts and money in it. The deal will have to be a buyout." Mick was stuck. He had no choice. "How much?" Mick turned and walked out. He didn't thank Ferris and Ferris didn't care. He had made one helluva deal and Mick knew it. Ferris could sell less than a couple of thousand of the parts and recoup his payment to Mick, as well as his start-up costs. Ferris immediately arranged to have the part manufactured in Taiwan for a fraction of domestic manufacturing cost--and quality. Mick knew the potential of the growing need for new Harley-Davidson aftermarket parts. The factory sold every motorcycle they manufactured in 1994 and the wave hadn't peaked yet. Ferris's overnight success with the design rapidly launched him into the arena of even bigger business. Almost a year later, Mick found out how Ferris know Shiela's first name. Shortly after she returned from the hospital, Mick noticed Shiela's aloof demeanor worsened. For a week or so after the operation, Shiela's slender form lay helpless in their queen-sized bed. Mick sold his antique motorcycle sign and toy collection and anything else he could muster to sell. She respected his efforts while she was weak. At 5 ft. 6 in. tall, and a mere 115 pounds, she was thin, with classic features and long, straight red hair which reflected her hair-trigger temper. As her strength returned, so did her temper and contempt for Mick's lack of material stature in life. "What are you doing?" she demanded one morning while Mick made her breakfast. Mick had made the mistake of telling Ferris that he was having some problems at home and needed some time off to help around the house while his wife was still recovering. Mick had been putting in more than his share of overtime, but Ferris denied his request. He had other plans. "Due to temporary corporate restructuring and increased demand for motorcycle accessories, I can't afford to have any part-time employees." Mick knew it was bullshit, but he was still in hock up to his ears and needed the job. By then, he was too financially and morally defeated to see that Ferris was strategically chipping away at the already badly strained marriage. Ferris had all the right words, toys, and moves. Shortly after Mick left for work, the phone rang beside the bed. "Hello," Shiela said briskly. "We can't pay the bill, so get off our backs." The only calls during the days were creditors demanding word on overdue bills. Mick was making arrangements with them and paying as he could, but Shiela's contempt for their problem was exacerbating the situation. "Shiela, this is Tom Ferris. How are you feeling?" Ferris began. By the time Mick caught wind of his wife's lunch-hour affair, it was too late. Sheila was originally attracted to Mick because of the exciting biker lifestyle, but after a short time, her patience and temper shortened. She left him and moved in with Ferris at his sprawling Oceanside estate. Mick scanned the emptying parking lot. Only a few cars remained. One was a rental car in Ferris's reserved parking space. Mick had always thought it odd that every two weeks Ferris drove a rental to work for a day. The next morning at 10 a.m., Ferris would be back with his XJS Jag. The guys in the shop speculated that the Jag ran poorly and needed constant attention. Mick suspected something else. Mick hoped that Ferris wouldn't come out of his office now. Ferris Industries was expanding its administrative offices and Ferris often liked to be seen at the end of the day rolling up his sleeves with blueprints in hand, consulting with the building contractor. Mick despised every odious bone in the man's body, and he had no desire to involve him in his private affairs--not that Ferris required an invitation. Mick took a deep breath, but all he could smell was the heaviness of cutting oil and smog. He felt the veins in his arms swell like fire hoses, his heart pounding with the force of a piston against a high compression explosion. He knew other motorcycles were often parked where his was. He felt a sudden rush of hope as he rounded the far corner of the building contractor's trailer, but all hope instantly fled when he faced the hollow cavern of the empty parking space. It was a familiar, greasy old section of asphalt where, up until now, his prized possession had always faithfully been waiting. It was gone. As the last of the employees meandered through the parking lot, cheerfully bantering among themselves, Mick didn't know whether to scream, feel embarrassed or kill someone. He numbly watched cars drive away as a few stragglers lingered behind, casually shooting the breeze as they fished for their keys. Mick's daze was broken by the sound of the construction trailer's door creaking open. He turned and saw the young, ivy league assistant contractor step out from the temporary construction office. "Hey, did you see my bike?" Mick inquired, his heart pounding against his chest like a jackhammer. Mick towered over him, close enough to bite his nose off. Mick considered himself to be badly out of shape, but to the average guy on the street, he was no one to mess with. The assistant contractor gulped as he looked up at Mick's face beading with sweat, his powerful neck swelling like a cobra ready to strike. As much as Mick ached for an excuse to unleash his fury, he could think of no reason to suspect that the man standing before him was lying, yet he could swear something in the man's eyes didn't ring true. Confused, and afraid of his own rage, Mick backed off from the frightened assistant contractor and started toward the gas station across the street. A family of Iranians owned and operated the Mobil station and had always treated Mick with respect. He ran into the service station's office, his jacket flapping behind him in the fading sunlight. "Anyone seen my bike?" he shouted as he flew into the station's mini-mart, almost knocking over the spindly little attendants like bowling pins. Detecting the intensity in Mick's voice, the bent and tired, elderly owner looked up from counting bags of potato chips. Several members of the man's family, wearing neatly pressed work clothes, tried to console Mick with their lively chatter. They looked like friendly little gnomes dancing around the rugged prince, trying to dissuade him from annihilating the village. Mick could only think of the motorcycle and how little time he had to recover it. Stolen Harleys weren't sold as whole units. They were wrenched into parts for a thousand inventories, the serial numbered components thrown into the sea along with the identity of the bike. Some riders who were paranoid about thievery engraved numerous parts, but it was a futile effort. If the owner ran across a single component at a swap meet, it didn't mean the seller was the thief, and it certainly wouldn't bring the bike back. Mick pushed through them and broke into a full-tilt run to the Shell station on the opposite corner. A freeway on-ramp separated the two gas stations. With rush hour traffic in full swing, converging rows of cars were impatiently jockeying for launching position onto the crowded freeway. Without breaking stride, Mick crossed the path of a heat-seeking compact Toyota making a bee-line for the on-ramp. At that point, Mick didn't care if the Toyota kept coming or not. The owner honked. Mick ignored him and kept running. "Hey," he yelled at the stout, pimply faced kid in the service station booth. "Did someone just come through here on a Harley?" Stretching out his arms, Mick slammed his palms against the security glass, jarring the entire cubicle. Mick stepped back and tossed his tattered riding jacket aside. "So maybe you stole it, you chubby cocksucker." Mick's chest heaved against the sleeveless khaki shirt he had worn all day. The solid plate of his pecs pressed against the sweat-soaked fabric like two powerful weapons impatient to be released. Mick rounded the tin building and kicked the steel door with his size-13 boot. The building shook violently and rattled. From inside the safely locked door, the teenager grinned and gave Mick the finger. Mick slammed his fist against the door and it sprung open, knocking the punk off his stool and onto a pile of cigarette cartons. Mick stormed inside, grabbed the startled kid by his shirt and shook him like a piece of string. The kid broke free, scurried outside and stumbled onto the slippery pavement. Mick charged after him, pulled him up by his collar and hurled him into the isle between the pumps. Without the protection of the locked booth, the kid's blond, half-cropped hair stood straight up, his frightened eyes as wide as freeway signs. His quivering mouth began sputtering any words he could muster in his defense, "I didn't see anything!" His hands worked feverishly against the oily pavement, scrambling desperately to put distance between himself and the storming biker. Mick looked at the pathetic, fear-stricken kid and felt ashamed. It wasn't the punk's fault. Mick could see right through his hollow, transparent soul. He knew nothing about the bike, about life, hard work or caring. He might never understand what it means to own and ride his own Harley, to live a lifestyle on the edge, or fight for his life. And the kid had no way of knowing what it was like to have the only thing in life that has any meaning suddenly ripped out from under you. But Mick did, and he was going to do something about it. The thought of getting my bike stolen makes my palms wet, my knees shake and my trigger finger itch. |
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