“No appetizer. Give us ten minutes; then we’ll order.”

Nodding, Lisa tells Hunter, “Will do, hon.”

Hunter took a swallow of beer and said, “Appreciate it.”

“Ya know, you’d think after twenty years, I’d be able to miss a day,” Johnny mumbles as if he and Hunter were still deep in conversation. “I mean, I earned them days. They’re mine to miss.”

Nugget seems to be holding back a shit-eating grin. He rolls his eyes as Hunter says, “Twenty years—that’s quite a bit of time under your belt.”

“No shit. None of them fuckers give a cow’s cock. Family owned, even. Company’s been here in this area for about a hundred and ten years, like five generations of family has owned the damn place. Passing it down the line. ’Course, the only family they care for is their own.”

Trying to inject a bit of reason, Hunter tells Johnny, “Thing with management, it’s not always the decision of the guy who fired you—coulda come from above him.” Chain of command. Hunter knows it and understands it. He also knows that shit rolls downhill.

“True, but they all got families. My kid was sick, wife was working. Figured I got the days, I’ll take off instead of her.”

“That sucks. Last minute, huh?” And yet, here the guy sits, lost his job, getting hammered on whiskey, wasting money instead of being at home with his family.

“Pretty much.”

“Probably couldn’t get coverage.” Call in at the last minute, got production to meet, a quota, gotta remove the weak link. Probably not the first time he missed at the last minute.

“Probably not,” Johnny says, his tone simmering down a notch.

“This a busy season for you all?”

“Oh, yeah, been busting our asses. I got what they call ‘kangaroo court’ next week. Where I meet with the managers and a vice president or some other honcho, argue my side. Maybe get my job back.”

“That’s a plus. Then, there’s still hope?”

“There is. But—”

“But it’s still a pain in the ass.” Hunter sips his beer. You never know how important something is, until it gets taken away.

Outside the steakhouse, the muffled rumble of a shovelhead Harley. Hunter and Nugget turn around to see Itch wheeling in, parking beside their bikes.

Johnny says, “I’m guessing he’s with you guys.”

Nugget says, “Gotta watch this Johnny guy—can’t nothing slide by him.”

Smirking, Johnny says, “Them sure are some nice bikes.”

“Thanks,” Hunter tells him. “That’s what I do for a living. Repair and build bikes.”

Itch enters the steakhouse and Nugget waves him over to the bar. Moving their jackets and helmets, spreading the leather over the backs of their chairs, laying their helmets on the floor between them, Itch sits. Nugget slides him a menu. “Hand-cut ribeye is what we’re eyeing.”

“Get your affairs in order?” Hunter asks.