car behind me, keeping station. Checking in my mirrors, I could see the guy in the passenger seat talking on a mobile phone. If they were calling in reinforcements I couldn’t afford to delay much longer.
I had to do something, but what?
Then something caught my eye up ahead on my left. Every little roadside shop and store, it seemed, stated their business on a sign about twenty feet up in the air, like all their customers were incredibly tall.
“We service and repair Harleys ,” this one proclaimed in hand-painted letters that were peeling at the edges. “ Bikes bought for cash.”
It struck a chord. I was a dedicated biker myself and had been so for far longer than I’d held a licence to drive a car. If bikers in the US were anything like they were in the UK then I might have found an ally.
I took a flyer, diving across the road and into the parking area without bothering to indicate as I did so. A driver coming the other way blared his horn and shook a desultory fist, but it was more force of habit than passion. The Buick pulled up a little further along on the other side of the road. The two men twisted in their seats and calmly waited to see what I was up to.
The business I’d picked looked run-down and slightly seedy, which was exactly what I’d been hoping for. There was no showroom as such, just a grubby workshop with a huge roller-shutter door to one side, halfway open. Stacks of rusting exhaust pipes decorated the entrance and all the windows had bars on them.
I jumped out of the Mercury and hurried into the workshop. The floor felt sticky underfoot and a hard rock station was playing on a slightly off-tune radio somewhere in the back. Two of the biggest guys I’ve ever seen were working on a stripped-down Electra-Glide with severe front-end damage, while three more blokes of equal size stood around and watched and drank beer.
They were discussing something that involved use of the word “fuck” at least twice every time they opened their mouths, and some of them were being monosyllabic. When they spotted me they shut up fast.
“Oh my God, do you have a phone?” I cried, racking an edge of hysteria into my voice as I rushed forward. “I need to call the cops. Oh God!”
“Yeah, we got a phone,” one of them said slowly, although his manner clearly said that fact didn’t mean I was going to get to use it. The others exchanged nervous glances at any mention of the law. “What’s the trouble?”
“They hit him and just never stopped!” I said, pressing my hands to my face. “I didn’t know what to do, and now I think they’re following me!”
“Who hit who?” asked the biggest guy of the bunch with mild interest, as though any fight he wasn’t personally involved in wasn’t high on his list.
“Two guys in a beige Buick,” I said. “They ran a red light and took out some poor guy on a Harley, just wiped him clean out. And they never even slowed down! I need to call the cops.”
The big guy forgot all about the next mouthful of beer he’d been just about to take from his long-neck bottle of Budweiser. Suddenly I had their utter and complete attention.
“A Harley?” he demanded. “What kinda Harley?”
“I don’t know,” I said, wringing my hands in a suitably girlie way. “It was just one of those big gorgeous bikes, you know?”
“It wasn’t kinda purple was it?” another of the group asked.
I made a show of deep thought, frowning. “Erm, yeah, it might have been.”
“Fuck,” the same man said, taking a step back and shaking his head like a dog coming out of water. “Must be Brad. He left here no more’n five minutes ago.”
“Is that the two sons of bitches over there?” growled the first guy, pointing to the car across the street.
“Oh my God, yes,” I said, feigning terror. “That’s them! They must know I saw the whole thing and I’m going to report
I had to do something, but what?
Then something caught my eye up ahead on my left. Every little roadside shop and store, it seemed, stated their business on a sign about twenty feet up in the air, like all their customers were incredibly tall.
“We service and repair Harleys ,” this one proclaimed in hand-painted letters that were peeling at the edges. “ Bikes bought for cash.”
It struck a chord. I was a dedicated biker myself and had been so for far longer than I’d held a licence to drive a car. If bikers in the US were anything like they were in the UK then I might have found an ally.
I took a flyer, diving across the road and into the parking area without bothering to indicate as I did so. A driver coming the other way blared his horn and shook a desultory fist, but it was more force of habit than passion. The Buick pulled up a little further along on the other side of the road. The two men twisted in their seats and calmly waited to see what I was up to.
The business I’d picked looked run-down and slightly seedy, which was exactly what I’d been hoping for. There was no showroom as such, just a grubby workshop with a huge roller-shutter door to one side, halfway open. Stacks of rusting exhaust pipes decorated the entrance and all the windows had bars on them.
I jumped out of the Mercury and hurried into the workshop. The floor felt sticky underfoot and a hard rock station was playing on a slightly off-tune radio somewhere in the back. Two of the biggest guys I’ve ever seen were working on a stripped-down Electra-Glide with severe front-end damage, while three more blokes of equal size stood around and watched and drank beer.
They were discussing something that involved use of the word “fuck” at least twice every time they opened their mouths, and some of them were being monosyllabic. When they spotted me they shut up fast.
“Oh my God, do you have a phone?” I cried, racking an edge of hysteria into my voice as I rushed forward. “I need to call the cops. Oh God!”
“Yeah, we got a phone,” one of them said slowly, although his manner clearly said that fact didn’t mean I was going to get to use it. The others exchanged nervous glances at any mention of the law. “What’s the trouble?”
“They hit him and just never stopped!” I said, pressing my hands to my face. “I didn’t know what to do, and now I think they’re following me!”
“Who hit who?” asked the biggest guy of the bunch with mild interest, as though any fight he wasn’t personally involved in wasn’t high on his list.
“Two guys in a beige Buick,” I said. “They ran a red light and took out some poor guy on a Harley, just wiped him clean out. And they never even slowed down! I need to call the cops.”
The big guy forgot all about the next mouthful of beer he’d been just about to take from his long-neck bottle of Budweiser. Suddenly I had their utter and complete attention.
“A Harley?” he demanded. “What kinda Harley?”
“I don’t know,” I said, wringing my hands in a suitably girlie way. “It was just one of those big gorgeous bikes, you know?”
“It wasn’t kinda purple was it?” another of the group asked.
I made a show of deep thought, frowning. “Erm, yeah, it might have been.”
“Fuck,” the same man said, taking a step back and shaking his head like a dog coming out of water. “Must be Brad. He left here no more’n five minutes ago.”
“Is that the two sons of bitches over there?” growled the first guy, pointing to the car across the street.
“Oh my God, yes,” I said, feigning terror. “That’s them! They must know I saw the whole thing and I’m going to report
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