"I own you now, Dad," Chooch teased. "If I tell Mom about this, you'll be in honey-do jail until Christmas."

"You gotta take a few chances in life," Shane grinned, and threw an arm around his son's shoulder as they all walked toward The Rock Store.

Shane heard a bike start up and looked around just in time to see Jabba the Slut pulling out on her custom Softail. Then he remembered she said she was on the mid-watch and had to get to work. She deep-throated the yellow-and-black Harley, roaring down the road, laying rubber, kicking ass on her way back to L. A.

"I wonder what she looks like under those goggles and do-rag?" Shane pondered.

The Rock Store had been a stagecoach stop in the early 1900s. Ed and Veronica Sazko owned it since the sixties. They made it into a convenience store. The rock foundation was responsible for its name. Two old red-and-white gas pumps sat out front dinging off the gallons like antique slots. In the seventies, the Sazkos had added a dining room and bar. They'd sold one hell of a lot of beer since then. Most L. A. bikers eventually hit the Rock Store. Everybody from Jay Leno to old-time, bee-in-the-teeth Harley roughnecks hung there. Shane, Chooch, and the remaining Iron Pigs found three open booths, crowded in, and drank beer as the roof shadows grew long, stretching across the porch into the dirt yard. The place started to clear out by seven. By seven thirty most of the Iron Pigs had left. Maniac, Goat, Chooch, and Shane hung on stubbornly, not wanting the ride to end. Alexa was in Chicago at a police convention so Shane and Chooch were spending some guy time together. Maniac and Goat took off their head wraps and the cool biker handles disappeared with them. They were back to being Emo and Darren.

Chooch was explaining the Wing-T offense he quarterbacked at Harvard-Westlake High School, finger painting plays on the table using the moist condensation from their beer cans. Emo watched closely as the play was diagrammed on the sawed wood.