The big bike didn’t roar. It purred to a stop in front of a Denny’s.
The big man was dressed in typical black biker leather, his long blond hair pulled back from the wind. He took off his glasses and gave the bike a quick look-over before heading into the restaurant.
No one turned to stare, it being empty at 2 a.m. on a Sunday morning. That was more the way he liked it. He walked up to the counter, steel-heeled boots clacking on the tile floor. He sat, plucking the menu from its holder.
A waitress, an older lady, poured him a coffee. “Looking for breakfast or dinner?”
“Food,” he said. He hadn’t eaten since lunch Saturday, before going home to a woman’s apartment for a night of adequate sex. He didn’t want to be there when she woke up in the morning, hence the midnight ride out of Connecticut to New York. “Pancakes, hash, some sausage.” He set the menu down and looked up at the woman, who merely nodded. She punched it into the computer, and then came over to refill his creamer bowl.
“What brings you out here late at night?”
The man shrugged. “I like ridin’ a’ night.”
“Weaving between the 18-wheelers?”
“I ain’ suicidal,” the man said.
The waitress smiled, “That’s not what I meant. There’s a lot of truckers on the road, and you’d look like a black dog to them.”
“I keep outta their way.” He got up, and without another word, went to the bathroom.
The door opened, and another customer came in. A young black man, with two others in tow, all three looking nervously around. One craned his head to try and see to the booths beyond. The waitress forced a smile and said, “You can sit anywhere you like, fellas.”
They chose a booth two steps away from the door. As one man slid into it, the other young man kept his hand in his pocketand remained standing. The waitress gathered the coffee pot and brought it over to the men.
“I got a gun,” said the one with his hand in his pocket, very quietly.
The one who slid into the booth looked up at the two standing, and then slid out of it. The waitress almost dropped the coffee, but she merely swallowed and nodded. He motioned with his free hand, pointing to the cash register. “Over there, bitch.” The waitress went over to it, and the man followed. The two others went to the door and walked out, waiting in the foyer.
The man with the gun looked up to see the blond biker walking in his direction. The blond man kept his eyes straight, not looking at the black man, as the waitress started pulling out whatever cash was in the till. Then, suddenly, without any warning, as the blond came up to the side of the black man, he lashed out and punched the young man in the side of the head.
The man stumbled, his hand coming out of his pocket to steady himself. The big blond advanced on the man as the man struggled to get his hand back in his pocket. The man stomped on the young man’s foot.
The young man howled as both hands went to his foot, and they heard the front doors burst open, as the two other men took off. The big blond man leaned down and picked up the young man by his collar, easily lifting him and throwing him into the counter. The blond slammed the young man’s head down onto the counter and held him there.
The blond man did a quick pat-down, and then pushed on the man’s head. “You ain’ got a gun, ya fuckin’ pansy,” he said. He lifted the man’s head and slammed it down again. He looked up and could see flashing lights against the chrome of the counter. “Shit,” he hissed, and threw the man down onto the floor.
When the cops came in, they saw the blond man standing over the black man, and immediately grabbed the blond. “No!” said the waitress, “He saved me!”
It took a few minutes before the adrenaline came down enough for everyone to calm down, and not very long after that was the black man handcuffed and taken away. In the commotion, they didn’t hear the purr of the motorcycle, nor did they notice at first that the big blond man had disappeared.