Chapter 11 #2
"It's velvet, Knox. Show some appreciation," Darla says.
He opens the basket. Reads the note. His jaw tightens.
"'Ride safe, queen.'" He looks at Maggie. Maggie sips her coffee.
East has been watching Knox's discovery with the grin of a man who thinks he's safe. Then he turns toward the garage.
The grin dies.
He walks to the bay door. Reads the sign. Touches the ribbon. Picks up the ceremonial scissors. Sets them down. Walks inside. Comes back out.
"DARLA."
Darla waves from the picnic table, her hand resting on her belly.
"East's Bike Boutique?" His voice cracks on the word boutique. "There are LAMINATED REVIEWS on my WALL."
"Are there?" Darla says.
"'Manager was professional, kind, and emotionally available.' Who wrote that?"
"It's anonymous, baby. That's how Yelp works."
"There's a CHALKBOARD. It says FULL PRINCESS PACKAGE."
"That's a great deal, honestly," I say. "Tassels, streamers, emotional support. Very competitive pricing."
East turns to Knox. "Did you know about this?"
Knox is still looking at the velvet cushion. "I'm dealing with my own situation."
East looks back at Darla. "How could you? My shop. My space. The one place that's mine."
Darla tilts her head. "You wrapped my car in a six-foot photo of your face and I had to drive around Willowridge for three weeks with a shirtless bobblehead of you on my dashboard while your mother waved at strangers who honked."
East opens his mouth. Closes it. "The bobblehead wasn't centered," he says weakly.
"The bobblehead was CUSTOM MADE, East."
Knox looks at Nash. "You let this happen."
Nash's jaw shifts. "I observed."
"You OBSERVED."
"Wasn't my bike. Wasn't my shop."
I cover my mouth with both hands. Darla is shaking.
Candace has her face buried in her coffee mug.
Sloane is grinning at Knox with the calm serenity of a woman who has won and knows it.
Frankie is laughing into her coffee at the picnic table.
Maggie is shaking her head, but the smile hasn't left her face.
Knox carries the velvet cushion inside without another word.
East stands in front of his garage, reads the chalkboard one more time, and walks inside shaking his head.
Through the bay door, I can see him pull one of the laminated reviews off the wall, read it again, and fight a smile before he crumples it against his chest.
We lose it. I'm laughing so hard I have to grab the picnic table. Darla is wiping her eyes. Candace is doubled over. Sloane is leaning against Candace's shoulder, her whole body shaking. Frankie has given up on the coffee entirely, her head tipped back, laughing.
Then she pushes off the picnic table, swiping at her eyes, and digs her keys out of her pocket. "Forgot my sketchbook in the car. Thirty seconds."
She crosses the lot toward her sedan, walks around to the passenger side, and stops dead.
She doesn't move for a full ten seconds.
I lean toward Candace. "Why is Frankie standing in the middle of the lot like a witch reading the wind?"
"I don't know," Candace says. "But she's not breathing."
Frankie turns. Slowly. Her face is doing something I have never seen on Frankie's face before. The flat, knowing stillness that means somebody is about to die in a creative manner the police will struggle to classify.
"WHO," she says.
We all look at her. Knox stops at the door, sensing predator behavior. East freezes halfway through tearing down a balloon.
Frankie marches back to her sedan and rips something off the passenger side. She holds it up. A massive vinyl magnet. White background, bold black lettering, big enough to read from the picnic table.
FRANKIE'S MOBILE PETTING ZOO. ASK ME ABOUT MY CATS.
A QR code sits printed beneath the words.
"How long," Frankie says. Her voice is the kind of calm that should be illegal in any state with a functioning judiciary. "How long has this been on my car?"
The picnic table goes silent.
East has the specific posture of a man who has just remembered he is mortal.
"Months," Knox says, with the awed reverence of a man witnessing a long-game gambit pay out. "It's been months."
"MONTHS?" Frankie waves the magnet. "I parallel parked in front of the post office YESTERDAY. The clerk made eye contact and asked me a question I thought was about my license plate. Was she scanning the CODE?"
"Probably," Knox says, fully invested now.
"WHAT DOES IT GO TO?"
Knox pulls out his phone. Scans the code. Listens for two seconds, then puts it on speaker.
A purring cat. Loud. Wet. Continuous. The audio quality of a Soviet listening device.
"Ten-hour loop," Knox says. "We're two seconds in."
East is now backing toward the bay door, his hand gripping the handle like a man calculating sprint distances.
"EAST." Frankie's voice could strip paint.
"I would like to invoke my Fifth Amendment rights."
"Your Fifth Amendment rights are not recognized in motorcycle club jurisdiction."
Frankie advances. The magnet is a weapon now. Darla is laughing so hard she's gripping her belly with both hands. Sloane is wheezing into Candace's shoulder. Maggie has produced a cigarette she does not smoke and is watching the proceedings like a Roman patrician at a coliseum.
"I have parked at the GROCERY store," Frankie hisses. "At the JUDGE'S house. I drove this car to the courthouse three weeks ago to renew my business license. The clerk asked if I wanted to update my address. SHE WAS LOOKING AT MY CATS."
"You don't have cats," East says faintly.
"I KNOW I DON'T HAVE CATS. THAT'S MY POINT."
Kyle, who has appeared from somewhere across the lot to enjoy the show from a safe distance, snorts. Frankie's head swivels.
"Inside, Kyle."
Kyle disappears into the clubhouse with the speed of a man fleeing a federal subpoena. East follows him, hands up, walking backwards in the international gestural code for I surrender, I surrender, please don't hex me.
Frankie holds the magnet at her side and turns to Sloane, then Candace, then Darla, then me.
"How long did you know?"
"We didn't." Sloane lifts both hands. "I swear on the witch shelf. The boys did not loop the girls in on this one."
"They go behind your backs?"
"When they want to live."
"I'm filing," Frankie announces to the lot. She holds the magnet aloft. "This is a category eight violation. I want a formal hearing. I want it on the record. I am hexing his tires."
"You can't actually hex his tires," Candace says. "Can you?"
Frankie does not answer.
I'm gripping the picnic table with both hands to keep from sliding off it.
Darla has rolled sideways. Sloane is wiping her eyes.
This is the funniest fucking thing I have ever seen, and Frankie is the one suffering for once.
The natural order of the universe has tilted.
I am going to cherish this moment until the day I die.
Frankie peels the rest of the magnet off her car with the force of a woman performing an exorcism, shoves it in her bag, and returns to the picnic table. Sets her coffee back down. Crosses her arms.
"I want a hearing."
"There's a hearing structure?" Candace says.
"There is now."
I look at Nash.
His mouth is doing the thing. Both corners lifted. Held. He's watching me laugh, and the look on his face is warm enough that my chest aches.
Then it's gone. But I saw it. And he knows I saw it.