I look like a piece of beef jerky left in the sun. It's the desert. It dries you out. Dutch smiled. A real smile this time.
It made his eyes crinkle and softened the hard map of his face. "You're alive. That's a hell of a lot better than most of the people we ran with back then." "That's a low bar," Amelia replied. She took a sip of the coffee.
It was fresh, hot. It burned the roof of her mouth in a good way. Why'd you disappear? Dutch asked. His tone wasn't accusatory.
It was genuinely curious. After Cal's funeral, you just vanished. The club looked for you. We wanted to make sure you were taken care of. Cal was our brother.
You were our sister. Amelia looked out the window, watching the heat waves ripple off the asphalt. I didn't want to be taken care of, Dutch, she said softly. I didn't want the envelope of cash every month. I didn't want to sit in the clubhouse and listen to the guys talk about how brave he was, how he went out like a warrior.
It was all [ __ ]. Dutch didn't flinch, but his grip on the coffee mug tightened. He saved us, Amelia. That's not [ __ ]. He took three shotgun slugs to the chest because someone tipped off the ATF, and the Mongols used the raid as cover to hit the property.
Amelia said, her voice was flat, devoid of the emotion she had bled out decades ago. He didn't save you because it was a noble crusade. He did it because he was standing in front of the door and he was too stubborn to move. And he left me. Dutch slowly nodded.
He didn't argue. He had been there. He knew the difference between the legend they told the young guys and the bloody screaming reality of that night. I couldn't stay. Amelia continued, turning her eyes back to Dutch.
Every time I looked at a leather vest, every time I heard a shovelhead kick over, I smelled cordite and cheap beer. I saw him bleeding out on the pool table. The club was his whole life. But when he died, he died. I realized it wasn't mine.
I was just a passenger. You weren't a passenger, Dutch said firmly. You rode shotgun. You took the risks. And I paid the toll," Amelia said, tapping her right arm where the tattoo rested beneath the flannel.
"This ink, when I got it, I thought it was an honor. I thought it meant I belonged to something bigger than myself." "Property? That's what it says. Property of Cal."
She traced the rim of her coffee mug with a calloused finger. But when they put him in the ground, I realized what it really meant. It meant I was a monument, a walking tombstone for a dead man. If I stayed in Oakland, I would have just been Cal's widow for the rest of my life. A ghost haunting the bar stools.
She looked at Dutch. Her eyes were clear, piercing. So, I got in my car and I drove east. I didn't have a plan. I just kept driving until the transmission blew out 50 mi outside of Vegas.
I got a job waiting tables. Then, I managed a motel. I built a quiet, boring life where nobody gives a [ __ ] about 1973. Dutch leaned back against the vinyl. He pulled a pack of Malber from his shirt pocket, tapped one out, and lit it with a battered Zippo.
He didn't ask if she minded. She didn't. The smell of the smoke was intensely nostalgic, dragging her back to a crowded, smoky garage in the Bay Area. It's a good life, Dutch said, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. Quiet is good.
Most of the guys, the ones who didn't die in 73 or 81 or during the Quebec Biker Wars, they're doing life in Pelican Bay, or they drank themselves to death. Me and Grady and the boys outside. We're the last of the dinosaurs just wandering around trying to make sure the kids don't burn down the house we built. Kids like Jacks, Amelia said, Dutch scowlled. Yeah, kids like Jacks.
They watch television shows. They read books written by cops. They think wearing the patch makes them kings. They don't know what it costs. They haven't paid the price.
You were going to kill him, Dutch. Amelia said quietly. If he hadn't cut it off, you would have killed him right there on the floor. Dutch looked at her. His ice blue eyes were completely unreadable.
He touched you, Amelia. Your cals, your Oakland. That's a line nobody crosses. Not even time. The diner was quiet again, settling back into its oppressive midday rhythm.
Outside, a longhaul truck roared past on the highway, shaking the front windows, breaking the spell of the past. Dutch reached into his denim vest. From an inside pocket, he pulled out a thick manila envelope. It was folded in half, bound with a rubber band. It was heavy.
He placed it on the table and slid it across the formah toward her. "What's this?" Amelia asked, though she already knew. Back pay. Dutch said widows fund.
We never stopped collecting for Cal's share, Amelia. We just didn't know where to send it. It's a lot. Enough to buy a house out here or move somewhere greener. Amelia looked at the envelope.
It was thick. Decades of dirty money collected from dues, protection, runs, and whatever else the club was involved in now. It was blood money. She reached out and put her index finger on the center of the envelope. She pushed it back across the table.
No, Amelia said. Dutch frowned. Amelia, be reasonable. You're working out here in the middle of nowhere. This is yours.
Cal earned it. Cal is dead. Amelia said firmly. And I don't need it. I have a house.
It's a double wide trailer about 10 mi from here, and the roof leaks when it rains. But it's mine. I own it. I paid for it by changing sheets and pouring coffee. Nobody bled for it.
Pride is a luxury, Amelia. It's the only thing I have left. She counted. You take that money, Dutch. You put it in a college fund for one of the brothers kids.