Redwood Nine Ch. 06

"Yeah, maybe you're right, Jake, you too, JT. I just like the old girl, she's a sweet ride. Got me everywhere I had to go and back....but.....I admit, the trips weren't always that long, like you said."

They looked at the Thunderbird and the opposing twin cylinders of the 650cc engine, showing signs of oil leaking from seals and a couple of drips on the ground below, had more evidence of leakage.

"There's your proof right there boys. That much oil coming out like that, over a couple of hundred miles, that bike might as well be left where it is, because the engine will be seized solid. Ride over."

With no dripping or seepage from the Indian, or Harley present, Clay had to come to reason with the facts.

"Okay, the Thunderbird goes, but it's going to take some time to find another bike I can afford. Not like the Army is releasing me with a severance package of several grand. Keep an eye out for one for me and if you can sell my bike while I'm over there, I can use that money as well to buy one."

"Okay, that's doable. Just sign the paperwork and if we see a bike that you'd like, we'll put something down on it to hold it for you."

"Hey, that's great JT, thanks a million, buddy."

"No probs, man, but don't thank me yet. You got to get your ass back here to ride it. Don't screw me over and leave me with some bike and you go get your ass shot up over their."

"Hey, I'll do my best not to."

"So what do you think of the club and the clubhouse, Clay."

Clay looked at the dirty, dingy building, as many lights working as not, the smell of neglect still lingering in the air.

"I like it. This place is going to be fantastic, if it turns out like you say it will. I can't wait to put on a jacket with the crest on it and join you guys."

"We won't have jackets. We'll have 'cuts' that we wear."

"Cuts?"

"Jean jacket with the sleeves cut off. Goes over your riding jacket, shirt, or just it alone."

"Okay, I can dig that. So what does Jake say about all of it?"

"What do you mean? Jake's been behind us and this, since the beginning."

"He has? Funny. He always told me he wouldn't have anything to do with clubs and riding ever again."

"Yeah, he told us about half the guys getting killed that time down in Gilroy, that fucking sucks."

"Yeah. Plus the other time in Berkeley, when his friend was shot. That was it. He said never again will he put a patch of any kind on his back. Said it was just a target for idiots to shoot at."

"Wait, he never said anything about a friend getting shot. When did that happen?"

Before Clay could answer, Jake walked around the corner and into the building.

"Three years ago. Coming out of a store we just bought smokes and a drink in. Guy rolled up, pulled out a 45 and put two into my friend, Oscar, right in his chest. Dropped the poor guy dead. Turns out, it was a mistaken identity. The guy was looking for some rider from another club and mistook Oscar's patch for the other guy's patch, he was looking for. Mistake or not, Oscar was dead and it was all because he had a patch on his back. The asshole shot at me too, but I dove down and hid under the front of a car. He wasn't after me, so he left after he knew Oscar was dead. I lay on the ground looking at him, blood trailing out of him and there was nothing I could do. Swore then and there, that I'd never patch in again with a club."

The guys looked at Jake, seeing the memories flood over him, taking him back to a place he didn't want to go to. The horrors of reality, of what was supposed to be, the American Dream.