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