“Tommy? It’s Ghost. I need a favor.”
Tommy Banks had been my road brother in the 70s before he left the life to become a trauma surgeon. We’d saved each other’s lives more times than either of us could count.
“Ghost? Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead!”
“Not yet. But the club thinks I should be.”
I explained what had happened. The humiliation. The dismissal of five decades of loyalty. When I finished, there was silence on the line.
“So what are you going to do?” Tommy finally asked.
“Something stupid,” I admitted. “Something to remind them what this life used to be about.”
Tommy sighed. “You still riding that old Heritage?”
“Until they pry it from my cold, dead hands.”
“Then you’d better come see me first. I’ve got something that might help your knees.”
