Page 22 of Being Lost

When I joined the MC and put on my leather, I thought I was done with the corporate world. When I was voted in as VP, I found I had not. Now I’m the prez, I’ve almost as much dealings as I had in my previous life. But my suit-wearing days are long behind me, thank fuck. I don’t even possess businessman attire.

An hour later, Bones and I are walking into a glass and chrome building, looking out of place in our t-shirts and worn leather cuts. The man we meet is dressed in smart pants, his short-sleeved button-down has the top button open, and he’s wearing no tie. I want to laugh, remembering that’s exactly how I used to dress.

The expression of distaste that covers his face is wiped so fast, I could have imagined it was ever there.

“So, Mr Holmes, Mr Kirk. You’re here to discuss the renewal quote we recently sent to you.” While speaking, he waves us to the seats in front of him and retakes his own behind his desk.

I’d bristled at the use of my government name. Being called Conan Holmes always leaves a bad taste in my mouth, wanting to disassociate myself with anything that man had ever done. I allow myself a moment of internal delight knowing Bones, orJerome,will be equally, if not more, discombobulated by the use of his legal name. He hates being called Jerome, Jerry, or any other derivative with a passion, as many a man has found out to his cost. I can only hope the insurance salesman doesn’t try to get on a first name basis, else I’ll end up apologising for the blood coming from his mouth.

I jerk my chin at Bones and sit back, letting him as club treasurer take the lead.

He sniffs, takes out the cloth he uses as a handkerchief and rubs at his nose, then, without ado he starts, “Got the renewal quote, but we were disappointed to see the premium has more than doubled and I fail to see why. We’ve had no claims for the past three years that we’ve been dealing with your company.”

The man, Ken Smart, unless the name plate in front of him is lying, half smirks and launches into an explanation full of complicated words which no doubt he thinks will go straight over two ignorant bikers’ heads. I listen with a straight face as he basically tells us they’ve introduced a new computer system which has a different way of calculating risk. I let him continue his spiel until he runs out of steam and sits back with a satisfied look on his face. “So, therefore, there’s nothing I can do.” He shrugs, giving a smile which reveals all his glowing white and probably expensively straightened teeth.

Bones sniffs and clears his throat, and I send him a look,I’ve got this.

It’s my turn now. Throwing quick fire questions at Ken, I address him in his language, asking about the parameters of the algorithm they use, what factors they’ve taken into account, and disputing his assessment of the demographics our businesses operate in. Everything he throws back, I counter.

He pulls at the neck of his shirt, his face glowing pink and then red. When finally he runs out of arguments, I finish with my punchline.

“If there’s nothing you can do to come up with a more reasonable figure, we’ll take our business elsewhere.”

His eyes widen as he blusters, “Er, no. I’m sure we can sort something out. I’ll run the figures again and see if there’s any leeway or room for adjustment.”

I’ve half started to rise, then I sit back down. “Not been here long, have you?”

He doesn’t need to reply as he enters data on his keyboard. I’d figured him out when I’d entered the room. He wants to impress his new boss by putting one over on bikers who have no idea of how things work. Instead, he almost did the opposite, coming close to losing an account.

When Bones and I emerge into the sunlight, it’s with a quote that’s actually lower than what we paid last year.

Bones goes to his bike, then turns to me, shaking his head. “Fuck, Prez. Glad you’re on our side and not theirs.”

My shoulders rise and fall as I physically and mentally shrug off his words. “I speak the language, that’s all.”

“Whatever,” Bones says. “He’d lost me with his explanation, but you beat him at his own game.” He huffs a laugh. “Did you see his fuckin’ face?”

I shake my head. I had. But I’ve had experience of dealing with assholes like the insurance man—trying to take advantage by getting something over on people who in his view were too stupid to understand. We might have a reputation, but our money’s just as good as the next man’s, and exactly the same colour.

Chapter Eight

Lost

“Bones is still singing your praises.” Dart raises a bottle of beer toward me as if in salute.

I ignore him, wishing the treasurer would stop repeating that story now that it’s been a week since we sorted the insurance out. Seven days which have passed without incident. I’d updated the club about what had gone on, and other than increasing the drive-bys we’d agreed to leave things as they stand unless either we get contacted again, or Patsy or Dan need help. Demon hadn’t been pleased someone knew their whereabouts and had a few choice words to use about how Patsy had fucked up. But after we’d talked it out, like me, he thought wait and see was all we could do for now. All Alder could know was a call had been made from San Diego. Patsy and Dan could be anywhere in the state, hell, the country and could have been just passing through. Demon too agreed it could be an attempt to smoke them out, and we could lead him straight to them if we gave them our protection openly.

Token had looked into the list of names which Dan had prepared but found nothing that rang any alarms. Most of those named were bit players, who had all been rounded up and were now inside or awaiting trial. Certainly no one with the reach finding Dan would require.

On my part, I’d consciously tried to put the woman and her son to the back of my mind and concentrate on the business of the club.

“How are the two new guys working out in the shop?”

Dart grins, knowing how uncomfortable I am with mis-assigned praise and that I’m changing the subject. “They’re good. Fit in well. Niran’s idea is proving to be solid.”

Yeah, it had been Niran who’d come up with the idea of us making a point to take vets on. He, himself, being one and having been discharged on medical grounds. He knew how it felt to be stateside and find yourself changed, unable to do what you wanted to anymore. Suddenly, you’re alone with no team around you and amongst folks who’ve no idea of what you’ve been through. Some men join an MC like ours, needing to find a new family. Others drift, not getting the help or support they deserve.

Ex-servicemen often have a trade we can use, or, a genuine desire to learn. We have a few vets working in our auto-shop now, and the bar’s staff are all ex-soldiers from one service or another. It works well, and best, they form a team. If they need time to go to the VA, or just simply to sort themselves out, we let them take what they need. In return, they give us loyalty.

---