Bike Gang Annoying
James Brogan sat in his cramped office above the pawn shop, nursing a lukewarm coffee and staring at the ceiling fan that hadn’t worked since the Clinton administration. The phone rang like it had a personal grudge.
“Brogan Investigations.”
“Mr. Brogan? This is Eleanor Hargrove. They’re back. The Screaming Demons. My hydrangeas are ruined again.”
Brogan closed his eyes. Mrs. Hargrove was seventy-eight, lived in a quiet cul-de-sac in Maplewood, and had the righteous fury of a woman who’d survived three husbands and two stock market crashes. For three weekends running, a pack of outlaw bikers had turned her street into their personal burnout pit. Wheelies at midnight. Empty beer cans in the rose bushes. One of them had apparently taken a leak on her prize-winning azaleas.
“I’ll be there tonight,” he said.
He almost hung up, then added, “You still got that twelve-gauge?”
“Loaded and oiled, dear.”
Atta girl.
Sunset painted the suburbs in bruised oranges and pinks when Brogan rolled up in his battered Plymouth. He parked two houses down and walked the rest of the way carrying nothing but a notebook, a pen, and the quiet confidence of a man who’d been punched in the face by bigger problems.
The Demons arrived at 10:47 like clockwork. Eight Harleys, straight pipes screaming rebellion against every noise ordinance on the books. They circled Mrs. Hargrove’s house twice for the drama, then killed the engines in front of her lawn. Leather and denim. Tattoos that looked like they’d been drawn by a drunk with a Sharpie. Their leader—a thick-necked specimen with a handlebar mustache that deserved its own ZIP code—lit a cigarette and grinned at the porch where Mrs. Hargrove stood like a tiny, furious general.
Brogan stepped out of the shadows.
“Evening, gentlemen.”
The leader turned slowly. “Who the fuck are you, grandpa?”
“James Brogan. Private investigator. Mrs. Hargrove here is a client. You boys are trespassing, destroying property, and generally being a pain in the ass. I’d like you to stop.”
Laughter rippled through the pack. One of them revved his engine just to be a prick.
The leader blew smoke toward Brogan’s face. “Or what?”
Brogan sighed the sigh of a man who hated repeating himself. “Or I start being annoying right back.”
He reached into his jacket. The bikers tensed, hands drifting toward belts and boots. Brogan pulled out… a small digital camera.
“I’ve got nice clear shots of your plates, faces, and that charming ‘Screaming Demons’ patch. I also have friends at the county sheriff’s office who owe me favors. And Mrs. Hargrove has security cameras that caught last weekend’s little tire-dancing routine on her front lawn. Insurance companies hate that kind of footage.”
The leader’s eyes narrowed. “You threatening us?”
“No. I’m explaining the new reality. You leave this street alone, and I don’t make your lives complicated. Simple transaction.”
One of the younger bikers, probably still high on adrenaline and cheap whiskey, stepped forward swinging a chain. Brogan sidestepped the lazy swing, grabbed the kid’s wrist, and twisted just enough to make him yelp and drop the chain.
“Easy,” Brogan said calmly. “I’m trying to be professional here.”
The leader studied him for a long moment. Something in Brogan’s bored, slightly disappointed expression must have registered. The man finally nodded.
“Fine. We’ll take it somewhere else. But this ain’t over, old man.”
“It’s over if you want it to be,” Brogan replied. “Plenty of empty parking lots in this city. Go impress each other there.”
They rode off with considerably less theater than they’d arrived. Mrs. Hargrove came down the porch steps and patted Brogan’s arm.
“You’re a good boy, James. Come inside. I made lemon bars.”
Two weeks later Brogan got a postcard in the mail. No return address. Just a photo of a group of bikers giving the middle finger in front of a “No Loitering” sign at some industrial park twenty miles away. On the back, in blocky handwriting:
You’re still an asshole. But the lemon bars were worth it.
Brogan smiled, pinned the postcard to his bulletin board next to the dartboard, and poured himself a drink.
Another satisfied client.
