And he'd seen them hand out $20 bills to the elderly woman who sold flowers on the corner. They didn't care about city ordinances or loitering laws. They cared about their territory, and Miller Park was their territory.
Leo took a deep breath, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He adjusted the straps of his worn backpack, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and walked straight toward the center table. The bikers went quiet as he approached. Twenty pairs of eyes hardened by the road and the life locked onto him. The man at the head of the table was Jax.
He had a gray-streaked beard and eyes that looked like they were made of flint. He watched Leo approach with a neutral, unblinking stare. "You lost, son?" Jax asked, his voice a low rumble that felt like an idling engine.
Leo didn't ask for change. He didn't ask for a sandwich. He leaned over the table, his voice a sharp, urgent whisper that cut through the noise of the street. "That black SUV, no plates.
This is the fifth time it circled the playground. They're looking for a kid, Jax. The cops won't listen to me, but I'm telling you, they're hunting."
Jax didn't move for three seconds. He didn't laugh. He didn't dismiss the homeless kid. He followed Leo's gaze toward the corner of the park. Just as he looked, the Suburban appeared again, its tires crunching slowly on the gravel.