James Brogan and the Annoying Bike Gang
James Brogan sat in his cramped office above the laundromat, nursing a lukewarm coffee and staring at the ceiling fan that hadn’t worked since the Clinton administration. The phone rang. He let it ring three times—professional courtesy—before picking up.
“Brogan Investigations.”
“Mr. Brogan? This is Evelyn Hargrove. They’re back. Every night at 11:15 sharp. Revving engines, blasting that awful music, doing wheelies on my rose bushes. The police say it’s not illegal, but I can’t sleep. My husband’s blood pressure is through the roof. Please help.”
Brogan jotted down the address in Willow Creek, the quiet suburb that had somehow become ground zero for a pack of leather-clad nuisances calling themselves the Iron Hornets.
He arrived just after ten, parking his beat-up Plymouth two blocks away so he could walk in like a normal person. Evelyn’s house was a tidy Cape Cod with perfect flowerbeds—except for the fresh tire tracks gouging the lawn like claw marks.
At 11:12, the low rumble started. Headlights swept down the street like marauding wolves. Eight bikes, maybe nine. Chrome flashing under streetlights, exhaust popping. The leader, a big guy with a beard that looked like it had its own zip code, killed his engine right in front of Hargrove’s mailbox and revved it hard three times. Laughter followed. Someone cranked up heavy metal.
Brogan stepped out of the shadows, hands in his pockets.
“Evening, gentlemen.”
The leader killed the engine again. “Who the hell are you?”
“James Brogan. Local resident is a little tired of the nightly show. Figured we could talk like adults.”
The guy laughed. “This is a public street, pal. We’re just exercising our constitutional right to ride.”
“Constitutional right to do burnouts on private rose bushes?” Brogan asked mildly.
One of the younger riders, skinny with a neck tattoo of a hornet, revved his bike aggressively. “You gonna make us leave, old man?”
Brogan smiled the small, tired smile that had ended more than one bar fight. “Not my style. But I did some checking this afternoon. Turns out three of your bikes have outstanding warrants attached to their plates. One of them—red Fat Boy over there—belongs to a gentleman currently violating parole by associating with known felons. And I’m pretty sure that’s not a legal exhaust system on the blue one.”
The leader’s eyes narrowed. “You a cop?”
“Nope. Just a guy who knows how to use a phone and public records. Also took the liberty of emailing photos and video from last night to the county sheriff’s office, the DMV, and your insurance companies. They seemed real interested.”
The skinny rider started swearing. The leader held up a hand.
“You threatening us?”
“Observing facts,” Brogan said. “Here’s another one: Mrs. Hargrove’s nephew works for the state attorney general’s office. He’s very protective of his aunt. Be a shame if this little nightly social club suddenly got a lot of official attention.”
Silence stretched. Engines ticked as they cooled.
The leader finally nodded once. “We got other roads.”
“Glad we understand each other,” Brogan said. “One more thing—those rose bushes? They’re coming back nicer than ever next spring. I expect this street to stay quiet. Otherwise, I get bored easy. And when I get bored, I make phone calls.”
The pack rolled out slower than they’d arrived. No wheelies. No music. Just the low mutter of bikes heading toward the highway.
The next morning Evelyn Hargrove left a voicemail so grateful she was nearly crying. She included a check for double Brogan’s usual rate and a basket of homemade banana bread dropped off at his office.
Brogan ate two slices for breakfast, brushed the crumbs off his desk, and looked at the phone as it rang again.
Another day, another problem.
He picked up. “Brogan Investigations.”
