Mike Douglas is a decent guy who's always worked hard and tried to do the right thing. His business, Interstate Motorcycles, a small motorcycle dealership in the rural Midwest, has been hit hard by the Wall Street financial collapse and subsequent deep recession. He and his wife, Lori, have been playing a high-interest shell game trying to keep their business alive and their creditors paid while watching their revenues decline and every other aspect of their work and their lives unravel. Almost out of options, running out of time, and now in the winter, typically the slowest time of the year for the business, Mike is propositioned by an outlaw motorcycle club to fence stolen motorcycle parts through his store, bringing in much-needed cash. When all else, even prayer, seems to have failed him, Mike joins the club's scheme-and soon finds himself involved in much more than he bargained for. Unable to withdraw from the trap, Interstate Motorcycles finds itself involved in drug sales, weapon shipments, sex slaves, and murder. Mike's business-and his life-are at stake as Christmas nears and 2009 draws to an end. It will take a miracle for the Douglas family to survive.

Interstate Motorcycles

A DEALER'S TALEBy Bill Dunkus

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Bill Dunkus
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-5649-1

Chapter One

December 1, 2009

Another long, sleepless night. I toss and turn, looking at the red digital display on the alarm clock every minute or two. It's still reading 1:09 a.m. It seems like it has been an hour ago that it was reading 1:02. The more I look at the clock, the slower it seems to move. My brain is buzzing. Anxiety about sales for the year that are way down, again, and the pressure of the end of the year, which is just thirty-one days away, combine to whirl my thoughts. Even though I'm physically and mentally tired, I can't stop thinking about what I can do, or should do, to generate some year-end sales. But that's what comes along with being the boss, and I really wouldn't want it any other way. I knew from the time I was a little boy I wanted to make my living on my own, in business for myself. If the company needs some new ideas and direction, it's ultimately up to me to provide them. It can be a heavy burden. That is probably why Hugh Petrowski yelled a lot. Thinking about him makes me smile. I must have been ten, maybe twelve years old. My dad worked the graveyard shift. When I was at school, he was at home awake. When I got home from school, he was asleep. When I was going to bed at night, he was getting up so he could go to work. Our schedules always kept us away from each other.

I didn't mind, though, because I always knew my dad was an important man. It was the early 1960s. I remember because I was still wearing the "JFK All the Way" campaign button Dad had pinned on me. He was a big John Kennedy supporter because he said Kennedy was for the working man—men like Dad. He was a milkman back in the days when people got their milk delivered straight from the dairy right to their back porch. Milk came in glass bottles and was thick and creamy with a small paper cap on the top. If you were lucky enough to be the first to open the bottle, you could lick the cream off the bottom of the paper cap. It was like a spoonful of ice cream with whipped cream on it. I can still taste it after all these years.

But my dad was not just a milkman; he was the milkman to the milkmen. He worked the graveyard shift, loading the milk trucks for the milkmen who would go out daily and make their rounds, delivering milk to housewives' back porches. If my dad liked a driver, he could make sure the guy had a little extra milk or cream on his truck. The delivery guys could then use the extra product to entice the housewives into extra sales, or favors perhaps. I was an adult before I figured out what Dad and his milkman friends meant when they would kid each other about the kids in the neighborhood looking like the milkmen who delivered to their houses. I didn't mind not being able to see him that much. I always knew he was an important man, and I always knew Saturday was coming. Saturdays were different. Saturdays were our day. I would get up early, even though I didn't have to go to school, and I would wait for him in the backyard. When he got off work in the morning, he would come in through the backyard so he could check our milk cooler on the porch and make sure our delivery was correct. Then he would take the morning's milk into the house, kiss my mom, and give me the wink I couldn't wait to get. The wink meant it was time for us, just me and Dad. I would run out to the car, a 1954 Chevy four-door with single-barrel, side-draft Weber carb on a GM cast-iron, six-cylinder driven through the massive manual transmission with three on the tree. The steering wheel seemed nearly as big in diameter as the car's whitewall tires, with a beautiful chrome-plated horn ring inside that activated the loud, dual-tone horns under the heavy all-American steel hood. He jumped in behind the wheel and I jumped up on his lap. He operated the gas, clutch, and brake and shifted the gears, and I swung that big old steering wheel around like the captain of a steamship heading out to sea. Our first stop was always the Texaco station at the end of the block, where Dad would assist me in steering the car up close to the gas pumps. The rubber hose on the ground that stretched out from the building to the gas pump island sounded the big bell in the garage as our tires rolled over it, and out would pop Moony. He was at the car before we could get out, and Dad would give him the standard order: "A buck's worth of regular."

Moony was a black man whose job was to gas up and service cars at the pumps. I always stayed outside with Moony and talked with him as he busily gassed up and serviced our car. He washed the glass, checked the oil, opened the battery to check its fluid level, and whopped all of the tires with a wooden axe handle to make sure they sounded properly aired. I liked Moony. He always told me jokes and treated me like an adult while he was servicing Dad's car. Dad always went straight back to the garage to say hello to the station's chief mechanic and owner, Hugh Petrowski. I was a little afraid of Mr. Petrowski. He was always greasy and yelled a lot. Both he and my dad made it clear that the garage was off limits to kids like me. There was too much equipment and too many ways for a little guy to get hurt. So once Moony was finished with our car, I would stand outside the garage at the door and wait for Dad. The wooden sign nailed over the top of the door, which was always propped open with a tire, read, "Hugh Petrowski, Entrepreneur."

I didn't know what entrepreneur meant, but I knew it was something important because my dad was important and he respected Hugh Petrowski.

It seems like just a minute ago, but I check the alarm clock again. "Six thirty?" I whisper so not to wake up Lori sleeping beside me. That can't be right. Rubbing my eyes and angling the thing to get a better look, I see that it actually is 6:30 a.m. "Crap." Normally I'm up at 5:00, and this morning especially I needed to be up on time. I have a long task list to do first thing.

I reach to Lori's side of the bed and feel that it is empty. She is already up. Stumbling into the bathroom, I find her already in the shower. "I overslept. Why didn't you wake me?"

"You tossed and turned most of the night. When you finally did get to sleep, I thought you'd better sleep for a while," she says as she turns off the water and pulls her towel in.

"I probably kept you up. I'm sorry. Once I finally did get to sleep, it seems that I was only asleep for a minute."

"You didn't keep me up. I slept pretty good."

As she exits the shower, I drop off my shorts and enter. After quickly washing, I shave fast enough to cause two nicks, brush the teeth, get dressed, and meet her again by the coffeemaker. "I've got to go," I tell her as I shoot down a half cup of coffee.

"Mike," she says, sounding like my mother, "you can't go to work looking like that."

"What?"

"Look at those jeans! They're full of holes."

"They are the only clean ones I have."

"And where did you get that sweatshirt? You could fit two of you in there."

"I will change into a work shirt at the shop, as always. What difference does it make?"

"You have a fit build for a fifty-five-year-old guy. I just think you should let it show a little better."

"I'm saving it all for you, baby. Besides I just look like an old guy anymore with all this gray hair."

"Just the right amount of gray," she says, stroking the hair at my temples. "You look distinguished."

"I have to go," I tell her again as I hug her.

"I'll get there as quick as I can," she answers as I plant a quick kiss on her.

Now I am really in a hurry. At 7:15 a.m. I roll the bike out of the garage, start it, and let it warm up while I get my jacket, helmet, and gloves on and do a quick walk-around pre-ride inspection. Is that rear tire low? I grab the tire gauge for a checkup. The rear tire on the Moto Guzzi 1100 Breva is easy to get at so I don't have to pull off my gear.

It wasn't low yesterday so I must have picked up something to cause a leak on the way home last night. Well, that's going to cause a change in plans. I was going to make a loop through town and hit the bank, post office, our insurance agent's office to drop off a payment, and then the grocery for some lunch meat before I go to work and open the store by nine o'clock. Now what I should do is drop the bike by the shop and make the rounds in our service truck. I'll never get it all in!

Don't you hate it when you haven't even left the house and your day is already running behind schedule? I form an alternate plan. As I air the tire back up to operating pressure with the emergency pump in the garage, I figure I'll dump the post office and grocery stops on Lori, hustle to the bank and make a fast deposit to cover the insurance payment, which will be late if not dropped off first thing this morning. Then I can hit the insurance company, drop off the check, and make tracks to the shop to get open before this tire goes low and causes me any more trouble. That should work. It seems to be a slow leak. So I'm hoping anyway.

"Lori!" I bellow as I fight the little air chuck onto the rear tire's valve stem. "Oh, Lori!"

"What?" she shouts back as she opens the door between our kitchen and the garage.

"I need you to go by the post office and Country Mart before you go to work."

"No way, I have to stop by the church to write some checks." She's the church treasurer. "I'm going to be there late as it is."

"That's all right," I answer as I pull back away from the tire and look up the stairs at her. I have to pause for just a second and admire her. She is the prettiest woman I've ever known: gorgeous blonde hair and ever-smiling Irish green eyes. "Look, I've got a flat tire and I've got to make this deposit the moment the bank opens and drop off this insurance payment before they cancel us."

"Well, okay, but I'm going to be late and I don't want you giving me that look when I get there. I haven't even fixed my hair yet. It's a mess."

"No, it's not, and I won't give you that look. You have to do it. These checks have to get in the mail today or they will be late too. It's the first of the month."

"It is a mess," she says as she sighs. "I better get moving." And off she goes fluffing her damp hair with both hands.

That being handled, I mounted the bike and tear off down the drive toward the highway and the bank. I figure if the tire is leaking slowly, the smart money is to make the run quickly and get it parked in our service department to be checked out later, before it gets low again. It is December and, although rather pleasant for this time of year, at forty-five degrees the weather can be rather brisk. But it's dry and above freezing so traction shouldn't be compromised. Actually, bundled up as I was and with the handgrip heaters on, I was quite comfortable. Zipping along on the twisty two-lane highway toward town, I was happily recalling how much I still enjoy riding motorcycles, even after all these years. There was no other traffic so I could relax a bit and let my mind fast-forward to today's other tasks at work. I knew I had some bikes we had serviced getting picked up, one of which was going to be uncomfortable. Gene Stanford had brought it to us for an oil change and minor tune-up and we had found the bike actually needed an engine overhaul. When we contacted the customer with our findings, he became indignant, thinking we were trying to up-sell him to a big job he was sure he didn't need, or want. We of course ended the job right there and suggested he pick up the bike, pay us for the service we had performed, checking it out, and take it elsewhere for a second opinion. All of which he agreed to except paying for what we had already completed. He wasn't willing to pay anything that would have amounted to a thorough diagnostic performed for him at my expense. We are going to have to negotiate something, and I'm sure it won't be easy with this guy.

One of my favorite turns is at hand: a sweeping lefthander that you can bank the bike into and roll up the throttle. I swerve the bike left and right several times as I approach and feel out that rear tire. Feels normal, indicating it is holding pressure, so I set up wide right for the turn and slide my hips slightly off the saddle toward the left. I enter the turn fast, get on the line, and roll up a handful of throttle, accelerating through. Beautiful!

Following this pleasant distraction, my thoughts rewind back to how I will handle Mr. Stanford. Then the high-pitched shriek of an emergency vehicle siren interrupts my thoughts. I check my instruments to see my speed and read eighty-five miles per hour. Without flinching, I go hard to the brakes and begin scanning my mirrors in hope that it is an ambulance behind me. No such luck. A highway patrol car is in hot pursuit and this day's problems, which I already thought might be tough enough, are about to get much tougher. I immediately pull over.

"Going a little fast back there, aren't you, sir?" the remarkably young-looking, tall and lean trooper says as he moves toward me while adjusting his Smokey the Bear hat. The officer's appearance is both impeccable and menacing. With a sharp, creased blouse and trousers and spit-shined leather and brass, he eyes me and the European sport bike with a high degree of contempt. Since I have said nothing in response to his first question, he poses for me another, this time with even more authority in his tone. "Do you know how fast you were going back there, sir?"

If you have ever found yourself in this situation, you already know there is no good answer to that question. As I pause to collect my thoughts, so does he. This time he wants an answer and is focused hard on my eyes as I pull off the helmet and look back at him. "Um, you mean, uh, before the turn back there?"

"License and proof of insurance, please. Move over here away from the road." I hand over the documents and then continue unwrapping myself from my riding gear. I have the sinking feeling we are going to be here for a while. "In fact, why don't you come with me? Get in the car!" He doesn't say it like he is really asking me if I want to or not. I comply reluctantly, realizing that I am getting later by the second.

As we sit in the car together, he studies my papers. I look up at the dash to see a small red digital indicator flashing 78. He must have gotten me before the turn when I was still off the throttle, setting up for a fast exit. I am almost relieved. He is workmanlike as he begins entering my personal data into his onboard car computer. I am further relieved as I realize that my driving record, up till right now, has been clean and that I haven't had any traffic violations in years. It is uncomfortably quiet in the car as all this is going on. I look over my left shoulder and behind the young trooper's head at the other cars that are now driving slowly by us on the highway apron. The patrol car's roof lights are ablaze, and the nosy passersby are twisting their necks inhumanly and squinting hard to get a look at the action. It would have been funny watching these nutballs contort themselves if it weren't for the sudden jolt of the gravity of the situation as the officer asked another question. "Have you ever been arrested, Mr. Douglas?" Could he actually have found that time in high school when I had the beer in my car on his onboard computer that quickly? "Well, when I was in high school."

"Any other time besides that?" he abruptly interrupts. Apparently he is looking at that offense from my long-ago past. "No, sir," is all I say, wondering what time it is.

"Do you know what the speed limit is through here, Mr. Douglas?"

"Sixty."

"That's right. Where were you going that you had to get to in such a hurry?"

"I'm on my way to work and I'm really running late."

"You are?" he replies, still looking down at his monitor, almost as if to indicate that we might be going elsewhere instead. I wondered, Could I actually be getting locked up for speeding? I exercised my right and remained silent.

"You have a very good driving record, Mr. Douglas. It is hard for me to believe that you are so late to cause you to be riding that fast this morning." For the first time since our encounter began, the officer looks up at me with an almost sympathetic expression. "Can you explain that to me?"

Knowing that no explanation is going to be good enough, and again feeling that I am about to be trapped by my own words, I say, "Sir, I do not really have a good explanation for you. I was just enjoying the ride."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Interstate Motorcyclesby Bill Dunkus Copyright © 2011 by Bill Dunkus. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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