Page 18 of Gone Before Goodbye
There is the faint whiff of Marlboros—Porkchop has always been a smoker—and here that familiar smell deepens her comfort. She almost asks him for a cigarette, even though she hasn’t smoked in ten years.
Once they step back, Porkchop asks, “Where are you staying?”
There is no reason for the normal “how are you, how was the trip” type pleasantries with Porkchop; the embrace took care of those.
“Aman hotel.”
“Whoa. Classy.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were broke.”
“I’m not paying for it.”
Porkchop arches an eyebrow, and she sees the echo of his son when he does. “Oh?”
“It’s a business proposition,” she says.
“Oh?”
“Stop that.”
Porkchop grabs her overnight bag, and they start for the door. “Want to tell me about it?”
“I do not,” Maggie says.
“Then should we head to Vipers?”
“It’s a little early, no?”
“We do a nice brunch now.”
“Seriously?”
“Tourist trade, my dear. The gang is anxious to see you.”
Vipers for Bikers is partially what it sounds like—a biker bar located in the shadow of MetLife Stadium off Route 17. Back in the day, it was a hardcore biker bar/strip joint with the moniker, written out in neon flickering script, Hotties on Hogs. Porkchop had bought Hotties when it went bankrupt eight years ago and gentrified it into a touristy cosplay biker bar/restaurant called Vipers for Bikers.
“That’s nice,” Maggie says. “And I want to see everyone.” Then she puts her hand on Porkchop’s arm. “But I need to stop at Trace’s apartment before we go.”
She waits for Porkchop’s reaction, but she doesn’t get much of one.
“Why?”
“Because I always do that when I’m in the city.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And maybe we can get a beat on where he is.”
“Bangladesh.”
“Do we still believe that?” Maggie asks.
Porkchop doesn’t reply.
They exit the station onto a packed Eighth Avenue. Madison Square Garden in all its coliseum-like splendor is across the street. Porkchop’s bike is parked on the corner of 31st Street. Maggie is surprised when she sees it isn’t a Harley-Davidson.
