Holy shit. I completely forgot about him. “You heard what happened, right?” I can’t see how he didn’t. It was all over the local news, and his dad was at the funeral, along with a dozen other bikers. Maybe he was there, too. I didn’t pay much attention to faces.
A solemn look touches his eyes when he nods. “Come on. Open up.”
Reluctantly, I climb to my feet and make my way over to unlock the door. Bobby has to duck to step through the doorway, his heavy boots making the floorboards creak. He’s more than double my size, and I don’t doubt there’s also muscle under all that leather and thick layer of fat. If I hadn’t spent so much time with guys like this, I’d be nervous standing in here alone with him now.
But I see the Harley parked outside and the official death’s hand insignia on his leather vest that marks him as a member of Devil’s Iron, and I’m just plain mad. “The cops said that what happened to Ned may have had something to do with you and your guys. Is that true?” I stare him right in the eye, willing myself to see the truth—or lie—for what it is. Ned was no saint, I know that. I know of a couple instances where some booze and cartons of cigarettes “fell off the back of a truck” and into the hands of guys like Bobby. Ned helped sell some of the inventory through here, to his regulars. People he trusted.
And that’s just what I know about. I have no idea what I don’t know about.
“Me?” Bobby’s hands press against his chest. He looks taken aback.
I nod toward his vest. “You.”
He’s shaking his head even before the words come out. “No, ma’am. We had nothing to do with what happened in here.” His soft blue eyes roam the shop. “Though trust me, the pigs have been poking around the clubhouse, trying to provoke the guys plenty.”
“What have you heard on the street?” It’s a ballsy question, assuming that a biker gang that despises law enforcement would offer information that might help in an official investigation, but it’s worth a shot.
Bobby shakes his head. “All quiet on our front, so far. What do you know?”
I’m not supposed to say anything . . . “Two guys, one named Mario. One with dark hair, muscular, midthirties. That’s all I know.”
He dips his head. “All right. I’ll ask around, and I promise you, if I catch wind of something I’ll pass it along.”
He’s buttering me up, I can just feel it. “And in return you want . . .”
With a sheepish grin, he holds out a thick arm—the same circumference as my thigh—to show me the detailed outline of a zombie bride with playful eyes and long lashes covering his biceps. Crisp, clean lines. Sordid humor. Definitely Ned’s work. “Ned always said you were a close second to him. I’d love it if you could finish this for me.” He peers at me with puppy-dog eyes you wouldn’t expect from a guy with his affiliations.
Ned would hate knowing that a subpar artist—basically anyone else—added ink to his work, and even though he’s six feet under, I owe it to him to finish it. Still . . . “I’ll think about it,” I finally mutter, blowing a strand of long hair that fell across my face off. “But not today. I’m busy.”
“I can see that.” He nods at the chair. “You gettin’ rid of it?”
“Yup.”
“Why? Ned loved that chair.”
And he died in that chair. I restrain myself from being that blunt. “It just needs to go.”
Bobby’s heavy boots clomp across the floor to rescue the wrench from the corner where I threw it. Dropping his massive frame to one knee, he attempts to unfasten the bolt but quits soon after. “It’s seized. You’re going to need a torch for that.”
“Fabulous. Because I have one just lying around.”
“I could bring one by and help you out. Say . . . tomorrow, around three?” His eyes flicker to his arm and then to me, and I see the trade-off for his help. He’s good, I’ll give him that much. I want to say no, but I also don’t know anyone else who owns a torch.
I really do need his help.