Patrick O’Reilly exhaled a thick plume of smoke and stabbed his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray on the table in front of him. He gave a barely perceptible nod of his head, and the doors were flung wide, granting admittance to three men, two of whom were dragging in the third.“He’s here.”Patrick rose to his feet and tugged the black leather kutte over his shoulders. There were two patches on the worn old vest that set his apart from the rest of the members of the Steel Claw Motorcycle Club: the most important in this particular moment was the one that read “Vice President”.“Where do you want him, Pat?” Asked Fitz, his Sergeant at Arms, essentially his right-hand man. Flanking their new guest was a prospect, much more brawn than brain, much more bite than bark.“He can have a seat,” Patrick said, crossing his arms over the broad expanse of his chest. He regarded the man with cool curiosity as he was deposited, rather unceremoniously, into a chair in front of Patrick. The man

It was weird to see Patrick behind the wheel of a pick-up truck, since everyone who knew him was so used to seeing him astride his Harley Davidson Dyna Street Bob, custom finished with matte black paint and two wailing Claws airbrushed on the sides. He even seemed fidgety in the truck, like he didn’t quite know how to sit. He slung his elbow out the window and drove with his right hand. A few times he caught me casting furtive glances in his direction, or perhaps he was simply caught casting furtive glances in mine, and when he pulled into a packed dirt parking lot, he paused when he turned off the ignition.“Are we… here?” I asked, peering around him to a flashing neon sign on the front of a rather plain-looking brick building: The Golden Harp.“It’s not…” he hesitated, his gaze locking on mine, “it’s not quite finished yet…? I mean, it is, but it’s… I’m still working on it, and I had hoped I’d have a little more time before showing it to you.”“What is it…?”“It’s your bar.”I furro