The supplier'sname is Gerry, and he's a wiry, nervous man in his fifties who runs a parts distribution warehouse out of a converted barn on a farm road that nobody uses in winter. I'm there at six forty-five the next morning when he's loading his first truck. He doesn't hear my bike until I've already cut the engine and I'm standing between him and the truck door.
He startles. He nearly drops the box he's carrying. Then he sees my cut and the box comes down to his side carefully.
"Morning," I say.
He swallows. "Morning."
I put my hands in my jacket pockets and look around at the barn, the trucks, the yard. "Nice operation you've got here."
"Thank you."
"Be a shame to have any trouble with it."
The box goes down on the ground entirely now. Gerry straightens up. He's nervous, but he's not stupid. He can see exactly what this is. "I've been meaning to square up," he says. "Things got tight over the summer and I moved some numbers around without thinking it through."
"Without thinking it through," I repeat. "I can see how that happens. Fortunately for you, we're not unreasonable people."
"No. No, I know that. The Saints have always been fair."
"We have." I meet his eyes and I let the silence run just long enough that we both understand exactly where this conversation stands. "So let's get this squared up this morning. The full amount, plus twenty percent for the inconvenience of one of our people having to drive out here. And then we don't need to have this conversation again."
Gerry nods rapidly. "Of course. Absolutely. I've got the cash in the office."
"Good." I step back and let him lead the way. "After you."
He walks fast and I walk easy. I keep my eyes on everything around me without making it look like I'm watching anything at all. By seven fifteen I'm back on my bike with a sealed envelope in my inside pocket and Gerry standing in his doorway with the expression of a man who's just had a very educational morning.
I don't gun the engine when I leave. I just ride, and the road is empty all the way back.
Razor isin the garage when I get back, which surprises me. He doesn't usually work the floor anymore, but he's leaning over the open hood of a '68 Chevelle that some townie brought in last week and he's got grease on his forearms and a look on his face that says he's actually enjoying himself. He sees me come in, wipes his hands on a rag, and holds his hand out.
I put the envelope in it.
He doesn't open it. He weighs it in his palm for a moment and then tucks it into his chest pocket. "Any trouble?"
"No, Prez."
"Apology?"
"He was very apologetic."
Razor's mouth curves. "Good man." He turns back to the Chevelle. "Get changed. Church at noon."
I stop. "Church?"
"You heard me." He doesn't look up from the engine.
I stand there for another second with everything inside me very quiet, and then I go.
Church at noon.
I'm clean and changed and standing outside the church room at eleven fifty-five with my hands in my pockets and my pulse doing something embarrassing. Seb finds me there and looks at my face and raises his eyebrows. "What's happening?"
"Church."
"You're not a patched member."
"I know that."