As soon as they walked in the bar they were given a chorus of greetings. Chelsea took Elias' arm, still not use to such warm greetings from so many people, but she smiled and nodded to the few that she knew. Larry, the attorney—who looked more like a brawler—was one of them. John, the president—who looked like a leather armored bear—was another.
John was talking to a beautiful and amazingly alluring Mexican woman, who was probably close to forty-five but, with a little makeup, could have passed for thirty. Chelsea silently prayed that at forty-five she would look so good. Elias guided her toward the two of them and then introduced her to Mary "Doc" Maynard.
"You're a doctor?"
"Psychiatrist," she told Chelsea.
"Wow," Chelsea replied. "This club has some serious brain power."
"You're on the arm of one of the brightest," Mary told her, and then leaned forward and gave Elias a kiss on each cheek in European fashion. "How you doing, big boy?"
"Good. You riding with us?"
"I thought it would be good to get out of the house for a while. I've been stewing in my own shit too much lately."
"Don't be too hard on yourself; we all miss him," Elias told her.
"Miss who?" Chelsea asked.
"My husband. He passed away six months ago. He was a patch holder in the club. Treasurer."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Chelsea said, suddenly feeling guilty for asking.
Doc shrugged. "We had twenty-three beautiful years together. Most people can't claim half of that."
Chelsea bet that didn't make it any easier. In fact, that felt like it would be even worse, but she kept her thoughts to herself. "Are you riding your own bike?"
"No, I thought I would hitch a ride with John since he offered. You riding your own?"
"Thanks to Duffy." Chelsea smiled. "And by the way, where is Duffy? I would like to meet him," she asked, looking around and trying to spot someone who looked like they walked hand-in-hand with the gods of chaos and karma.
"There he is," John pointed, and then called out for Duffy to come over and introduce himself.
The man that turned, and hopped off the bar stool looked like a large, over-sized gnome. He had a bald head, a large gray and brown beard, and wore gold wire spectacles that he blinked behind. He was at least five inches taller than she was, so that put him at probably five-eleven. His shoulders were broad, but his arms were thin and wired with apparently strong muscles and painted with several tattoos. He had a paunch of a belly, and was slightly bowlegged.
"You must be Chelsea," he said with the heaviest Texan accent Chelsea had ever heard—and since they were in Houston, that was saying something.
"I guess I will be, then," she said with a smile, and then gave him a hug. "Thanks so much for letting me borrow the Sportster."
"You know, I have your Shelby at the garage," he told her.
"I know, but can I please keep borrowing the Sporty? I love riding it."
"I can do without it for another couple of weeks, but don't get any ideas about trying to keep her. I like that little bike. It's got style, and grace."
"Yes it does." Chelsea nodded. "Maybe you could keep a look out for a bike that I can buy?"
"I would love to help get you saddled up," he replied. "You got the money?"
"I could afford probably ten grand, but not much more than that," she offered.
"Ten will get you a real nice used Sporty," Duffy told her. "I'll send out the hounds and see what comes back."
"Good, that would be so nice. Do you think you could also help me sell the Shelby?" she asked.
"Oh hell, I could have that sold by the end of the day. I can't tell you how many offers I've already gotten for it. That's a sweet ride, if you are into that sort of thing."
"I was, but I'm thinking bikes are much more fun."
"That's the way of it alright," he agreed. "What you wanting for it?"
"As much as you can get, and then take twenty percent for your effort."
"Won't be any effort at all. Hell, the thing has sold itself at least fifteen times since it arrived on Monday."
"The pink and registration are in the glove box, already signed," she told him.
"That's kind of dangerous, isn't it?"
"Well, I honestly didn't think I would ever see her again. I figured someone should have her," she sighed.
Duffy nodded. "Yeah, I've heard part of the story, and filled in some of the rest with what I heard about that feller coming by here to give you a hassle. The one Elias shot the shit out of the doorjamb because of. Some kind of detective, wasn't he? They're all assholes. Especially those narcs."
Chelsea smiled, having heard that Duffy dabbled in drug running and had been arrested several times by those assholes, although nothing ever stuck on him. Something always happened to mess up the case. Evidence would go missing, reports got screwed up—it was weird but apparently consistent. Elias told her that, despite it all, Duffy still had a clean record.
The five of them got a table together and ordered breakfast. A few minutes later, Larry, who got the restraining order and the lawsuit filed for her against Tomas, came over and sat with them. "Hey all, how's the world treating you folks?"
"Very good, thank you," Chelsea told him with a grin. "And how is my favorite lawyer today?"
"Splendid. My bike is running beautifully, thanks to the Duff, and my back feels great, and I'm looking forward to riding through some scenic views."
"What happen to your back?" she asked, concerned.
"He tried to date a nineteen-year-old college girl, and she rode him near to death," Duffy laughed.
"That's not true," Larry barked, but Chelsea was sure she caught the hint of a blush around the lawyer's cheeks.
"The hell it ain't," Duffy cackled. "Where is that filly? Let's ask her."
"She's with her mom this weekend, down in Freeport," Larry sighed. "But I injured my back digging out that stump in my backyard."
"Right," Duffy agreed, much too humorously.