Omens
Page 86
Ricky turned back to me, his expression as guileless and friendly as if we hadn’t been interrupted. Before he could say a word, though, we were interrupted by a near-growl from the other direction.
“Olivia . . .”
I glanced over to see Gabriel bearing down, an older blond man beside him, a door closing behind them. The other man was about fifty, clean cut, and dressed in jeans and a golf shirt. From the size of his arms, though, I suspected if he ever swung a club, there was someone on the receiving end.
Gabriel was trying very hard not to scowl.
“Told you I wasn’t supposed to get out of the car,” I whispered to Ricky.
Ricky stepped forward. “Hey, Gabriel. I found Olivia in your Jag. Black car. Sunny day. Didn’t seem healthy. I invited her inside. Insisted on it actually.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel said to Ricky, in a tone that didn’t sound terribly grateful. “I believe it’s time for us to be going.”
“She just got her beer. You want one while you wait?”
Gabriel looked at him. Ricky met his gaze, his expression open, pleasant even, but that steel crept back into his eyes.
Gabriel shot up his sleeve and checked his watch. “Quickly, Olivia.”
The older guy in the golf shirt smiled. He murmured something to Gabriel, then gestured at one of the bikers, and the guy nearly fell out of his chair scrambling to come over. Golf shirt was the boss then.
I looked from the boss to Ricky. Noted the blond hair. The similar facial structure, a little softer in the older man.
Biker gang boss. Biker gang boss’s son. Okay, that explained things.
Ricky suggested we all move into the back room, which we did, to the disappointment of those who’d decided they were suddenly very thirsty and should hang out closer to the bar.
Gabriel introduced me to the guy in the golf shirt—Don Gallagher—and it took only a few minutes of conversation to confirm that I’d been right about his position and his relationship to Ricky. Gallagher and his son were surprisingly good at making small talk. Maybe I shouldn’t say that’s surprising. I guess part of me still lives in Kenilworth and always will.
A guy who runs a biker gang is like a Mafia kingpin. He’s a businessman. Which doesn’t mean he’s really a decent, misunderstood guy, only that he’s risen high enough that he can have others play thug for him. As for Ricky, his dad proudly told me he was working on an MBA at the University of Chicago. Part-time, Ricky said, because he had responsibilities with the family business.
“We should go,” Gabriel said, after Don told his son what Gabriel wanted—someone to persuade Gray’s girlfriend to speak to us. “We have that interview.”
“Right.” I took one last gulp of beer. “We’re ready for that, then?”
He nodded. “Don has agreed to provide us with one of his men, who will speak to Mr. Gray’s girlfriend before we do.”
“I’ll handle it,” Ricky said.
“There’s no need—” Gabriel began.
“I’ve got errands to run in town, and I can probably persuade her better than any of these guys.”
Gabriel didn’t like it, but when Don agreed, there was little he could do. He gave Ricky the address and said we’d follow.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
As we headed out, Ricky walked ahead with me while his father found more he needed to talk to Gabriel about, making them hang back. Ricky mentioned what I’d said about never having been on a bike and offered to rectify that sometime. I said I’d keep that in mind and we bantered a bit before Gabriel caught up and steered me off to the car.
We gave Ricky a head start, since he’d need to speak to Gray’s girlfriend before we arrived.
“A word of advice about Ricky . . .” Gabriel said as he swung his car from the end of the drive.
“Is it going to cost me?” I waved off his answer. “Whatever you’re going to say, save your breath.”
“I overheard him offering you a ride on his motorcycle. I don’t believe you understand what that entails.”
“Grass, gas, or ass. No one rides for free.” I looked over at him. “I’ve seen the T-shirt.”
“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Olivia. Do you know what a one-percenter is?”
I sighed. “Yes, Gabriel. It refers to the portion of bikers who belong to a professional motorcycle club. A gang. Ricky is one. As such, I’m going to guess that the only women who get to ride his bike are also riding him. Am I right?”
His mouth tightened as if he didn’t appreciate the crass phrasing. “I’m afraid you’re under some illusions about Ricky because he does not fit the stereotype.”
“Oh, I’m not fooled. He may appear to be the heir to a criminal empire, but he’s really an undercover cop, working tirelessly to overthrow his father’s evil empire and restore justice and goodness to the land.” I glanced over. “Am I close?”
Not even a hint of a smile.
“Oh, please,” I said. “I know he’s not studying part-time because school interferes with his commitment to Greenpeace. His family business is drugs, with a little murder and mayhem thrown in on the side.”
“No, it is not. Mr. Gallagher runs a legitimate motorcycle club and operates a series of auto repair shops. However, he is constantly under suspicion of criminal activity, which means a relationship with his son would not be wise.”
“Can we skip this conversation? I really don’t think your legal services cover—”
“As representative for both yourself and Don Gallagher, anything between you and his son concerns me. I understand that you’re undergoing a great deal of upheaval in your life. You’ve discovered things about yourself that have thrown your perspective—”
“Stop.”
“—and your sense of identity off balance. You aren’t who you thought you were and that may lead you to consider reckless—”
“Stop. Really. I only rehired you a few hours ago. Since then, you’ve done nothing to make me regret that decision. Quit while you’re ahead.”
“I believe it needs to be said—”
“No, it does not. See this?” I tugged a hank of my hair. “Contrary to popular opinion, blond hair does not feed off brain cells.”
“I never suggested—”
“Olivia . . .”
I glanced over to see Gabriel bearing down, an older blond man beside him, a door closing behind them. The other man was about fifty, clean cut, and dressed in jeans and a golf shirt. From the size of his arms, though, I suspected if he ever swung a club, there was someone on the receiving end.
Gabriel was trying very hard not to scowl.
“Told you I wasn’t supposed to get out of the car,” I whispered to Ricky.
Ricky stepped forward. “Hey, Gabriel. I found Olivia in your Jag. Black car. Sunny day. Didn’t seem healthy. I invited her inside. Insisted on it actually.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel said to Ricky, in a tone that didn’t sound terribly grateful. “I believe it’s time for us to be going.”
“She just got her beer. You want one while you wait?”
Gabriel looked at him. Ricky met his gaze, his expression open, pleasant even, but that steel crept back into his eyes.
Gabriel shot up his sleeve and checked his watch. “Quickly, Olivia.”
The older guy in the golf shirt smiled. He murmured something to Gabriel, then gestured at one of the bikers, and the guy nearly fell out of his chair scrambling to come over. Golf shirt was the boss then.
I looked from the boss to Ricky. Noted the blond hair. The similar facial structure, a little softer in the older man.
Biker gang boss. Biker gang boss’s son. Okay, that explained things.
Ricky suggested we all move into the back room, which we did, to the disappointment of those who’d decided they were suddenly very thirsty and should hang out closer to the bar.
Gabriel introduced me to the guy in the golf shirt—Don Gallagher—and it took only a few minutes of conversation to confirm that I’d been right about his position and his relationship to Ricky. Gallagher and his son were surprisingly good at making small talk. Maybe I shouldn’t say that’s surprising. I guess part of me still lives in Kenilworth and always will.
A guy who runs a biker gang is like a Mafia kingpin. He’s a businessman. Which doesn’t mean he’s really a decent, misunderstood guy, only that he’s risen high enough that he can have others play thug for him. As for Ricky, his dad proudly told me he was working on an MBA at the University of Chicago. Part-time, Ricky said, because he had responsibilities with the family business.
“We should go,” Gabriel said, after Don told his son what Gabriel wanted—someone to persuade Gray’s girlfriend to speak to us. “We have that interview.”
“Right.” I took one last gulp of beer. “We’re ready for that, then?”
He nodded. “Don has agreed to provide us with one of his men, who will speak to Mr. Gray’s girlfriend before we do.”
“I’ll handle it,” Ricky said.
“There’s no need—” Gabriel began.
“I’ve got errands to run in town, and I can probably persuade her better than any of these guys.”
Gabriel didn’t like it, but when Don agreed, there was little he could do. He gave Ricky the address and said we’d follow.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
As we headed out, Ricky walked ahead with me while his father found more he needed to talk to Gabriel about, making them hang back. Ricky mentioned what I’d said about never having been on a bike and offered to rectify that sometime. I said I’d keep that in mind and we bantered a bit before Gabriel caught up and steered me off to the car.
We gave Ricky a head start, since he’d need to speak to Gray’s girlfriend before we arrived.
“A word of advice about Ricky . . .” Gabriel said as he swung his car from the end of the drive.
“Is it going to cost me?” I waved off his answer. “Whatever you’re going to say, save your breath.”
“I overheard him offering you a ride on his motorcycle. I don’t believe you understand what that entails.”
“Grass, gas, or ass. No one rides for free.” I looked over at him. “I’ve seen the T-shirt.”
“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Olivia. Do you know what a one-percenter is?”
I sighed. “Yes, Gabriel. It refers to the portion of bikers who belong to a professional motorcycle club. A gang. Ricky is one. As such, I’m going to guess that the only women who get to ride his bike are also riding him. Am I right?”
His mouth tightened as if he didn’t appreciate the crass phrasing. “I’m afraid you’re under some illusions about Ricky because he does not fit the stereotype.”
“Oh, I’m not fooled. He may appear to be the heir to a criminal empire, but he’s really an undercover cop, working tirelessly to overthrow his father’s evil empire and restore justice and goodness to the land.” I glanced over. “Am I close?”
Not even a hint of a smile.
“Oh, please,” I said. “I know he’s not studying part-time because school interferes with his commitment to Greenpeace. His family business is drugs, with a little murder and mayhem thrown in on the side.”
“No, it is not. Mr. Gallagher runs a legitimate motorcycle club and operates a series of auto repair shops. However, he is constantly under suspicion of criminal activity, which means a relationship with his son would not be wise.”
“Can we skip this conversation? I really don’t think your legal services cover—”
“As representative for both yourself and Don Gallagher, anything between you and his son concerns me. I understand that you’re undergoing a great deal of upheaval in your life. You’ve discovered things about yourself that have thrown your perspective—”
“Stop.”
“—and your sense of identity off balance. You aren’t who you thought you were and that may lead you to consider reckless—”
“Stop. Really. I only rehired you a few hours ago. Since then, you’ve done nothing to make me regret that decision. Quit while you’re ahead.”
“I believe it needs to be said—”
“No, it does not. See this?” I tugged a hank of my hair. “Contrary to popular opinion, blond hair does not feed off brain cells.”
“I never suggested—”
