Page 58 of Mouse Trapped

“That’s me,” I say, timidly.

He spurts a string of words so fast I can’t make out any of them.

“I don’t speak Spanish.Yo no hablo Español,” I add in case he doesn’t speak English.

But he does. It seems, surprisingly well. “Your work permit and identity card are here, Miss De Souza. And so is your ride.”

My ride?Does he mean the bus like the others were asking about? Is there somewhere I’ll be staying? A hostel perhaps? For the first time in hours the future doesn’t look quite so bleak. If I’ve got a work permit, maybe there’s a job lined up too.

I start to open my mouth to ask him, when the rugged looking man standing behind him steps up. Opening his wallet, he takes out a wad of cash and hands a large stack of notes over to the man who gave me my papers.

Then the man who’d passed over the money looks at me scornfully, clearly having overheard. “You don’t speak Spanish?”

I shake my head, taking an instant dislike at the sight of him.

“Your father will be disappointed. But perhaps it won’t matter. I doubt he needs you for conversation.”

Chapter 24

Mouse

I was lost, adrift, before I found my place with the Satan’s Devils. Brought up as an all-American boy, then taken to embrace my Navajo heritage, feeling like I had been torn apart, ending up neither one thing nor the other.

To my counterparts at college I was a Native American, to the people on the Rez, I was a white man.

That bike I’d restored so lovingly opened up a new life. Having got a scholarship from the Rez, I’d returned to Tucson to attend college, going back to the place that I’d known, immediately thinking I’d feel at home. But my years on the Rez had changed me, I wasn’t the same person who’d left. I made friends, or rather, acquaintances, as I was out of touch with the life they’d been living. The music, culture, drinking and parties, a far cry from life on the Rez. Starting to prefer my own company, I kept to myself. There were two things I enjoyed far more than socialising: losing myself in code, and riding that rat bike.

I’d been out riding one spring morning, no real destination in mind, when a kid in a souped-up Chevrolet overtook me at speed, cutting in front of me to avoid a group of bikers coming in the other direction riding two up. I had to act fast to avoid him clipping my front tire, braking too quickly and swerving, resulting in me laying my bike down by the side of the road.

As the car disappears into the distance, I lie there, gingerly flexing my muscles and limbs, cataloguing possible injuries. Irealise with relief I’ve done no serious damage, and recovering from being winded, I start to sit up.

“You okay, man?” a gruff voice sounds from above me. Shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun, I look up into concerned eyes, and for the first time notice a group of bikers surrounding me.

You don’t live in Tucson without hearing about the Satan’s Devils, a notorious motorcycle gang who’ve got a nasty reputation. Fuck. I’d gone for a pleasant ride, a chance to clear my head, and karma’s biting me hard. First that fucking car, now who knows what the fuck is going to happen to me. Was I on their turf? Shouldn’t I have been? As all manner of thoughts cross my mind after I’ve seen the patch on the leather jackets they all wear, I realise I haven’t answered the question, when I hear another man say:

“He seems out of it. Think we should call him an ambulance?”

I snap out of it fast, pulling myself into a sitting position. “I’m fine. Bruised, scuffed. But I’ll be alright. Just needed a minute.”

One of them has picked up my bike, and has it leaning on its stand. “Got some scrapes on your ride, man. Shit. Fender’s bent, and has gone into your tire.”

Fuck! As I go to stand up, I gratefully take the hand held out to assist me. Brushing sand off my jacket and jeans, I go to examine my bike. Yeah. Cosmetic damage, that doesn’t bother me much as the bodywork wasn’t that good as it was. But as the biker had said, the tire is a mess.

“I can take it back to our shop, get it fixed up for you.”

Their shop?

“Yeah, Blade. Get a prospect here with the crash truck.”

I eye the half-dozen men standing around me. A couple have lit cigarettes. They look rough, tough. Would they steal my bike?It’s not worth much, except to me, but apart from my computers, it’s about all that I’ve got.

“Thank you, but I’ll get it sorted.” How the fuck, I’ve no idea. It’s not able to be ridden and I’m certainly not a member of the AAA.

The man with the gruff voice looks at me shrewdly. “The name’s Drummer,” he informs me. “I’m the club’s president. I know the rep we’ve got, but we do run an auto-shop for citizens. It’s Blade here’s baby.”

“Tse,” I automatically respond.

The man who’s been eyeing my bike nods over. “You can’t ride it. I’ve got a tire in stock that will sort you, won’t take long. Won’t be pretty, but will get you mobile.”

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