“Excuse me, mister. How much money does it cost to beat somebody up?”
I was fifty-eight years old, weighed almost two hundred and eighty pounds, and had spent the better part of my adult life riding motorcycles across highways most people only saw on maps. I had tattoos covering both arms, a thick gray beard, a shaved head, and a leather vest that made strangers move out of my way before I ever opened my mouth.
But nothing in those fifty-eight years prepared me for the question that came from the tiny boy standing beside our table.
He couldn't have been more than five.
His head was completely bald, his pale skin looked almost translucent beneath the afternoon sunlight, and his oversized blue jeans were held up by a belt fastened several holes beyond where it should have been. A loose hospital identification bracelet hung around his narrow wrist. He had a faded little jacket hanging open over his bare chest, and he stood so close to the table that his chin barely reached its edge.
In both hands, he held a collection of crumpled dollar bills and coins.
He looked at me with enormous brown eyes.
“Please, mister. I need to hire somebody really strong.”
The entire table fell silent.
Across from me sat Big Ron, a sixty-one-year-old former truck mechanic with a beard that reached the middle of his chest. Beside him was another member of our motorcycle club, a broad-shouldered man who had once worked construction and now spent most of his days repairing old motorcycles. Two more members of the Iron Ghosts were standing near the diner counter, waiting for a fresh pot of coffee.
We had just finished a twelve-hour ride through Oklahoma.
Our leather vests were dusty, our boots were covered in road grime, and the patches stitched across our backs had already frightened several customers into choosing seats farther away.
The little boy hadn't seemed to notice any of that.
He had walked straight toward the three largest men in the diner.
And now he was asking how much it cost to hire us to hurt somebody.
I leaned forward, resting my enormous forearms on the table.
“Well, buddy,” I said carefully, “that depends on who you're talking about.”
He looked down at the money.
Then he took a deep breath.
“I got seven dollars and forty cents.”
He stretched his hands over the table.
A five-dollar bill, two wrinkled singles, a quarter, a dime, and five pennies scattered between our coffee mugs.
One coin rolled toward Ron.
He caught it with a finger.