“Oh, that must have been nice for you.”
“It was,” Maggie says. “He told me he was in love with Mom.”
“I bet he wasn’t the only one,” Sharon says.
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” Maggie says with a head shake. She scans the papers on the table. They aren’t scientific research — they’re bills. “What’s up with this?”
Sharon puts on the half-moon reading glasses again and peers over the top of them. “I’m calculating our financial options.”
“And?”
“And we have to sell the house.”
“Not yet.”
“Mags, it’s just a house. You get that, right? An inanimate object. A corporeal entity. Inert matter. Wood, bricks, mortar. It’s not...”
“Mom and Dad,” she finishes for her sister. “I know. Look, I’m going to New York tomorrow. Let’s talk about it when I get back.”
That gets Sharon’s attention. “What’s in New York?”
Maggie had planned to tell her about Barlow’s invitation, even though Barlow had insisted she not, but now that the moment is here, she is suddenly hesitant. She isn’t worried about betraying Barlow’s trust — her sister trumps an old mentor — but it suddenly feels like the wrong move to drag Sharon into this until she knows more.
Sharon mistakes the pause for something else. “Are you, uh, meeting someone?”
“What? No.”
“It’s okay—”
“Sharon—”
“Okay, never mind. Did you see any guys from your class at this thing?”
“Sleazy Steve.”
Sharon makes a face. “Eww, gross.”
“Right?”
“So why are you going to New York City?”
“To see Porkchop.”
Sharon pins her with a gaze. “What else?”
“What do you mean, what else?”
“It goes without saying that we all love Porkchop,” Sharon says, “but he’d road-trip down here if you need to see him.”
Maggie sighs. “Just... There’s a possible business situation.”
“What kind of business situation?”
“God, you’re nosy.”
“I prefer ‘inquisitive.’”
“Can you be okay with me saying ‘I don’t want to tell you yet’?” Maggie asks.
“If you can be okay with me saying, ‘I worry a little.’”
“Don’t worry.”
“I’d never judge you, Mags.”
“I know.” Then: “Also there’s nothing to judge.”
“What about Trace?”
Maggie feels the cold travel down her spine again. “What about him?”
“Is he back? Will you see him in New York?”
“Trace is still overseas,” she says. “Bangladesh, I think.”
“Trying to resuscitate WorldCures?”
Maggie shakes her head. There is zero chance of resuscitation. Sharon knows that, which makes the comment weird, but Sharon can be that way. Maggie McCabe, the face of WorldCures, is a pariah now. The funding is gone.
“In other news” — Sharon lets loose a deep breath — “I signed up for a dating app.”
“Good for you. About time.”
“The app is called Melody Cupid. It matches you by musical taste.”
Maggie puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh God.”
“What?”
“You have terrible taste in music.”
Chapter Three
When Maggie gets off the Amtrak at New York City’s Moynihan Train Hall, Porkchop is already waiting by the tracks.
Porkchop is not playing with a phone. He’s not shuffling his feet. He just stands there with Zen-like patience, an older version of his surgeon son. Porkchop looks like what he is — a lifelong biker. He’s got the salt-and-pepper beard, green bandana holding back the long hair, leather jacket, faded blue jeans with splashes of motor oil discoloring them. His silver belt buckle is a skull and crossbones. His skin is tan and weathered from years on the road, his face handsome and hard, like something carved into stone.
Porkchop meets her eye and gives the slightest of nods. If he’d been wearing a cowboy hat, he would have tipped it at her. She hurries over, trying not to run, and Porkchop spreads his thick arms wide to welcome her. When he hugs her, she vanishes for a moment. Her eyes close. Porkchop is a big bear of a man. He makes her feel small and safe, and since those feelings don’t come often, Maggie just settles into that for a few moments. He holds her close and stays silent. Porkchop exudes both calm and electricity.
Like his son.
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.
“Since when do you ride a BMW R 18, Porkchop?”
“Since they started sponsoring me.”
“For real?”
Porkchop nods. “I get a free bike, free gas, plus a grand a month.”
“Sweet,” she says.
“I also prefer the BMW’s shaft transmission over the belt transmission of a Harley. Makes for a smoother ride. The BMW has three ride modes — rain, roll, and rock — whereas the Harley only has one.”
“They tell you to say that?”
“And exactly that,” he replies with a grin. “Took me three weeks to memorize it.”
Two young bikers guard the BMW. Both wear a patch with the Serpents and Saints logo on their upper right sleeve. Serpents and Saints is Porkchop’s... She would call it a motorcycle “gang,” but that brought up Hells Angels connotations and that didn’t come close to fitting anymore. Maybe thirty years ago. Not anymore.
The Serpents and Saints logo is a mean-looking, black-and-gold, heavily fanged snake with a halo over its head. Marc had a tattoo of it on his upper right quadriceps, albeit a far more cartoonish version with a goofily smiling serpent who looked about as mean as Snoopy. Instead of black and gold, his Serpent and Saint was garish orange and purple; instead of an intimidating glare, his serpent had a silly, exaggerated wink.