"Coffee," he barked.
Brenda hurried toward the counter.
The bikers filled the diner.
Two of them took the trucker's booth without asking.
The trucker looked at the men, looked at the door, and decided he had somewhere else to be.
He left a five-dollar bill on the table and walked out.
Robert continued eating.
He didn't look up.
One of the bikers noticed him.
A wiry man named Grady stood near the front window.
He had a jagged scar running down one cheek.
He looked outside.
Then he laughed.
"Hey, Deek."
Deacon turned.
"Look at this piece of shit."
Several men followed him toward the window.
Robert continued eating.
Outside, parked beside a row of expensive custom motorcycles, sat Robert's machine.
To the untrained eye, it was embarrassing.
The frame was oxidized.
The paint had long since disappeared.
The gas tank was dented and held together in places with faded duct tape.
The seat was torn.
The foam underneath had turned yellow with age.
The exhaust pipes were wrapped in blackened fiberglass.
There was almost no chrome.
No fancy paint.
No digital display.
No obvious sign that the motorcycle had ever belonged to anyone who cared about appearances.
Deacon laughed.
"What in meth-head scrapyard is that?"
Nobody answered.
Then Deacon looked at Robert.
"Hey, old-timer."
Robert kept eating.
"That's your garbage can out there?"
The diner became silent.
Robert placed his fork on the plate.
Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill.
He smoothed it against the table.
He finished his coffee.
Then he looked at Deacon.
"It gets me from point A to point B."
His voice was quiet.
Gravelly.
No fear.
Grady laughed.
"Looks like it'll give you tetanus if you sneeze on it, Pops."
Robert stood.
His knees cracked.
He slipped into his canvas jacket.
Then he walked toward the door.
Deacon stepped into the aisle.
He blocked him.
The difference between them was almost comical.
Deacon was massive.
Robert was old and lean.
"You ought to call a tow truck, Grandpa," Deacon said. "Leave the riding to real men before you snap a hip."
Robert looked at the spiderweb tattoo on his throat.
Then into his eyes.
"Excuse me."
Two words.
Nothing more.
Deacon expected fear.
He found none.
Robert's eyes were gray and still.
They had the emptiness of a man who had already lost things worth fearing.
For three long seconds, neither man moved.
Then Deacon stepped aside.
Robert walked out.
But Deacon was not finished.
He followed.
Six of his men came with him.
And none of them understood that they had just stepped into a story whose ending had already been written.
The Motorcycle Nobody Understood
The heat outside was brutal.
Robert welcomed it.
The warmth eased the stiffness in his knees.
He walked across the dirt toward his motorcycle.
Behind him, boots crunched over gravel.
Deacon caught up.
He walked around Robert and stopped beside the motorcycle.
Then he leaned against it.
That was deliberate.
In the world of motorcycles, touching another man's machine without permission was disrespectful.
Deacon knew it.
Robert knew it.
The others knew it.
Deacon did it anyway.
Robert stopped ten feet away.
"Move."
Deacon smiled.
"Just admiring the craftsmanship."
He patted the dented gas tank.
Rust flakes fell onto the dirt.
Then he pointed toward his own motorcycle.
It was a spectacular custom bagger.
Deep metallic cherry paint.
Chrome everywhere.
A massive front wheel.
Digital instrumentation.
Expensive accessories.
The machine looked like it belonged in a showroom.
"See that?" Deacon said. "S&S 114. One hundred ten horsepower at the rear wheel. Cost me more than your house."
Robert glanced at it.
"It's very shiny."
The bikers laughed.
Deacon's smile disappeared for half a second.
"It's a beast."
Robert looked at his own motorcycle.
"She's reliable."
Grady laughed.
"She?"
Robert ignored him.
Deacon kicked the front tire of the old motorcycle.
"This is an insult to the road."
Robert's expression changed slightly.
Not anger.
Something colder.
"Don't kick her."
Deacon grinned.
"Or what?"
Robert took one step forward.
"Move."
Deacon crossed his arms.
"You going to fight six men?"
"No."
"Then what?"
Robert reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a heavy brass key.
"I'm going to start it."
The laughter became louder.
Deacon shook his head.
"Fifty bucks says that rust bucket doesn't even turn over."
Robert looked at the motorcycle.
The men were laughing because they saw rust.
They saw duct tape.
They saw an old man.
They saw everything except the details.
They didn't see the fresh welds beneath the oxidation.
They didn't see how perfectly stacked those welds were.
They didn't notice the reinforced swingarm.
They didn't notice the oversized rear drag slick.
They didn't understand why a supposedly worthless motorcycle had a rear tire designed for a machine capable of generating enormous acceleration.
They didn't know what sat beneath the battered sheet metal.
Robert did.
He had spent five years building it.
The engine was a heavily modified 143-cubic-inch V-twin.
The exterior was painted black with high-temperature coating.
Two high-flow carburetors sat behind a false air-cleaner cover.
The exhaust system had been modified for maximum airflow.