As Porter lifts his hand to knock, the door cracks open. A goateed African-American man in a tight-fitting red T-shirt pokes his head out. He looks Porter over, eyes zeroing in on Porter’s scars. “Roth?”
“Yeah. You Fast Mike?”
The man’s face softens. “You look like your mama.”
“Thank God. Everyone usually says that about my sister.”
“Never seen her, but my cousin painted that old Thunderbird your mama had.”
“Yeah? She sold that a couple of years ago,” Porter says. “Hated to. She loved that bike.”
Fast Mike looks past Porter and notices me.
“This is Bailey,” Porter says. “The Vespa we’re looking for belongs to her.”
The man blows out a hard breath through his nostrils. He opens the door wider. “Better come inside, then. Got a feeling this isn’t gonna be pretty.”
We follow him through a small office with two tidy desks, a counter, and an old register. No one’s there. Past an old couch and a coffeemaker, another door leads into the garage. Burnt engine oil and old paint fumes hit me as we step onto stained concrete. Seventies rock music plays on a radio on a work bench. Rows of fluorescent lights hum over three drive-in bays, the closest of which is occupied by two motorcycles. The middle bay is empty but for three people, sitting around in folding chairs, talking. But it’s what’s in the far bay that snatches 100 percent of my attention.
One mustard-yellow pickup truck, blue lightning on the side, passenger window covered in a black garbage bag.
And behind the truck: one turquoise Vespa with a leopard-print seat.
I feel like I might pass out. And maybe that’s why it takes my brain a couple of extra seconds to realize that one of the people lounging around in the chairs is Davy. In a way that’s good, because I suddenly feel like committing a wild and vicious attack on him. But in another way, it’s really, really bad, because Porter isn’t dazed like me. Just the opposite, in fact. He’s a laser beam, and he’s headed straight for his former best friend.
The two other seated people scatter. Davy now sees Porter coming and the look on his face is absolute panic. He rushes to leap up, but his foot slips, and he can’t quite stand. Porter lunges with both arms, shoving him with so much unhinged violence that Davy flies backward. Boy and metal both slam against a concrete pylon and slide across the floor.
“You piece of shit,” Porter says, stalking Davy to where he’s now crumpled in a heap by the tire of his truck. “Too much of a coward to steal from me, so you jacked her stuff?”
Davy’s groaning and holding his head in his hand. I’m worried he’s got a concussion, but when he opens his eyes and looks up at Porter, there’s nothing but rage. “I hate you.”
“That makes two of us, junkie.”
Davy cries out, a horrible battle cry that tears through the air and bounces around the garage. In quick succession, he leverages onto his good leg, grabs the folding chair, and swings upward. I scream. The chair bashes into Porter’s face. His head jerks sideways. Blood spatters. The chair leg slips out of Davy’s hands and sails through the air, clanging into his truck.
Porter’s doubled over.
I try to run to him, but strong hands clamp around my arms. “Whoa,” Fast Mike says in my ear. “He’s okay. Let those boys work it out themselves.”
But he’s wrong. Porter’s not okay. When he pulls his hand away from his face, there’s blood all over it. A big gash crosses his cheek. Dumb boy that he is, he just shakes his head like a wet dog and refocuses.
“That’s it,” he growls and slams his fist into Davy’s face. Hard.
After that, the whole thing is a mess. They’re on top of each other, both throwing punches that land God knows where. It’s not like a well-staged boxing match or a movie, it’s just chaotic and weird, and more grappling than anything else. They’re shouting and grunting and slugging each other in the ribs so hard, something’s going to break or get punctured.
This is a nightmare.
I’m terrified they’re actually going to kill each other. These aren’t wimpy kids on the playground, giving each other bloody noses. They’re rabid wolves, straining with muscle, teeth bared. And someone’s going down.
“Let me go,” I tell Fast Mike. I can’t let Porter do this. If he gets seriously hurt, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I can help somehow . . . can’t I? I look around for something to break up the fight. Maybe I can hit Davy on the head with something—
I can hardly believe what I’m seeing. Davy’s grabbing Porter’s hair—his hair! He has a fistful of Porter’s dark curls, and he’s wrenching his head back . . . is he going to bite his face? WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?
Porter’s lower body twists. He gives a powerful back kick to Davy’s bad knee.
A sickening crunch! echoes around the garage.
Davy drops to the floor.
He doesn’t get up. He’s clutching his knee, mouth open. Silent tears begin falling.
Porter’s chest heaves. All the veins stand out on his arms. A thick line of blood flows down his cheek and neck, disappearing into the black of his security guard uniform. “I’m calling your grandma, and I’m gonna tell her what you did today,” Porter says as he stands over his friend, looking down at him. “I’m also telling my folks. I’ve given you so many chances, and you’ve thrown them all in my face. I can’t ever trust you again. We’re done.”
“Love is the only thing that can save this poor creature.”
—Gene Wilder, Young Frankenstein (1974)
16
We load Baby in the back of Porter’s van. Except for the seat lock being popped, she seems to be in one piece. We found my helmet and all my stuff scattered behind the seat of Davy’s truck. We also found my scooter lock hanging off his tailgate; he’d removed it with industrial bolt cutters.
Turns out that one of the two people sitting with Davy when we first walked into the garage was a friend of Davy’s. Seeing how he was planning on helping Davy sell my scooter, I didn’t say anything to the guy, but Porter told him to drive Davy to the hospital. When they left, Davy could walk—barely—but he was going to need X-rays. And probably some pain medication, which was just lovely, considering what I now know about Davy’s history with drugs.
But after all that, Davy didn’t say one word to me. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye or acknowledge I was in the same room. Truth was, I couldn’t really face him, either. It was humiliating for both of us, I guess. And I’m pretty much in such a state of shock over the whole fight that I can barely speak.
When we’re ready to leave, Porter thanks Fast Mike, who advises me on a better-quality scooter lock. Turns out that his motorcycle garage isn’t a chop shop at all; he was seconds away from kicking Davy out before he got the phone call about Porter looking for my Vespa. So once again, my assumptions and I are completely off the mark. He says to Porter, “Tell your mama next time she wants to sell a bike like that, to come to me first. I’ll give her a good deal.”
“You got it,” Porter says, “We owe you big-time. You know anyone that needs a board, come by the shop.”
Fast Mike gives us a wave. We race through the rain and hop inside the van, and then we drive away. The windows are all fogging up, and I’m trying to help, looking for the switch to turn on the defrost, but my hands are shaking. I’m still freaked out. I can’t calm down. “The black button,” Porter says, and I finally find it. I turn the fan all the way up and try to concentrate on making the windshield clear instead of the fact that he’s still bleeding. It works until we come to the end of the dirt road.