Save Me from Dangerous Men (Nikki Griffin #1)(39)

Eventually, we reached a point where we understood each other.

The divorce went through, Buster’s retirement got pushed back by a few years, and doubtless he started working the chop shop harder than ever to make up for the financial hit. According to him, he’d also sworn off marriage and gotten a vasectomy, but he sometimes exaggerated. There was no way to tell for sure if Buster’s pipes still worked.

He lit another cigarette and topped off our cups. “What do you need?”

“Weekend getaway package.”

“We can do that.”

“I’m seeing the neon letters,” I said, gesturing with both arms. “Buster’s World Class Travel Agency. Getting Places in Style.”

“I like that. Wheels are spinning. You wanna invest? You can be the silent partner.”

“You got something comfortable for me? Not sure how far I’ll be going.”

“Harley do ya?”

“Sure.” I smiled affectionately. “I’ve always wanted to feel like a fat middle-aged man.”

Buster shook his head. “Trust me, the novelty wears off after the first ten years.” He pushed his chair back and lumbered to his feet. “Let’s go take a look.”

We headed back into the garage. There were three different Harleys. An older Softail, one of the massive Street Glides, and a Fat Boy S. The pipes blacked out, matte black paint, no chrome, big engine. I nodded to the Fat Boy. “True love, Buster. It exists after all.”

He shook his head dismissively. “Say that until you get married.”

“I can take it?”

He nodded. “Guy dropped it off last week for a tune-up that it didn’t need. A doctor who does the weekend warrior shit. Get it back by Friday and we’re good.”

There were times when the Aprilia was too distinctive or I didn’t want to be seen twice by the same person. Sometimes I didn’t want anyone to get a license plate or describe a motorcycle that could be traced back to me. Buster’s was a sort of library. He constantly had new motorcycles coming in for repairs. I’d borrow one, here and there. Untraceable. Owners didn’t notice an extra few miles on the odometer.

“Here.” I handed him an envelope. There were five hundred-dollar bills inside.

“Not needed. Haven’t you ever heard of comps?”

“Got an expense account this time.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” The envelope vanished. I got onto the Harley. It had a different feel from the Aprilia. The handlebars tilted back, the front tire angled out, the seat much closer to the road.

“This work for you?” Buster asked.

I nodded. “This works. How’s the leg holding up?”

“Eh, it’s fine. Feel it when it rains, is all.”

“Lucky you don’t live in Seattle.”

He laughed again. “No shit. Look what it did to Cobain. And that sonofabitch had a hell of a lot more to be happy about than I do.”

When I’d come to the garage after hours to deliver the bad news that he wouldn’t be able to fight his divorce in court after all, Buster hadn’t been happy.

Not at all happy.

The divorce had stressed him out, he’d explained later. Lawyers stressed him out. The prospect of losing a lot of money stressed him out. His about-to-be-ex-wife stressed him out. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Plus, he’d always had a temper problem. Which was why he’d pulled a big stainless steel .357 revolver, pointed it, and given me five seconds to leave his garage.

I gave him a big spiel about not wanting to shoot the messenger, but it hadn’t dissuaded him.

He’d started counting.

Since then, he’d always been grateful that I’d only shot him in the leg. Considerately avoiding bones and arteries and instead putting a bullet through the fleshy part of his ample left thigh. It was true. I had done Buster a favor. He’d pulled a gun. He knew as well as I did that he’d escalated things to a point where anything could have happened. A gunshot to the leg was a fairly workable resolution. And I’d driven him to the hospital afterward. He’d cursed me out the whole way, but later admitted the gesture had been sweet.

He’d recovered nicely. Just a very slight limp.

After the divorce went through and the matter was settled, I’d felt bad. Maybe because my former client—his former wife—had driven me crazy. She was not an easy woman. Not at all. And I’d only been mixed up with her five weeks, not five years. One of the few cases I regretted taking. Five years with Buster’s ex-wife and I probably would have behaved worse than he had. So, I showed up to his garage one afternoon with a case of Red Label. By way of apology. Turned out that however Buster felt about me, he liked scotch more than a little.

We spent the afternoon sitting in a giant red-finned Cadillac convertible parked in the back of the garage. Something that would have been right at home in about 1965. The car was comfortable. Big, spacious bucket seats, the radio going. Top down, so Buster could do his chain-smoking without driving me nuts. We sat there working our way through the first bottle and into a pretty decent chunk of the second, Buster putting down two or three to each of mine.

By the time I rose rather unsteadily out of the Cadillac, we’d become friends, of sorts. Scotch would do that to people. He was a good guy, Buster. At least in my book. He was honest. That counted. We stayed in touch. Doing each other the occasional favor. A few more bottles of scotch here and there. The people I trusted—people like Buster, Charles, and Jess—helped me in different ways. And I counted them as friends. I didn’t have that many friends. It was good to have a few.