Page 2 of Rafe: Sins of the Father

“Do what?” I frown.

“Risk your life and think nothing of it. Maybe it’s no big deal to you, but it is to me.” He extends his hand. “Raymond Sawyer.”

I shake it. “Rafe.”

“Rafe what?”

“Just Rafe.”

“Well,justRafe, I’m in your debt. How can I repay the favor?”

“No need, sir. I’m glad you’re okay.”

He tilts his head, and his eyes narrow on mine. “Where do you work?”

I huff a laugh that he’s questioning me. “I’m kind of in between jobs at the moment.”

“I own Sawyer Lumber. Got mills all over the northwest, plus one right here. Always lookin’ for good men. You want a job, you’ve got one.”

I cock my head, frowning. “You serious? You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you don’t hesitate to jump in the thick of things to help. I know you don’t hesitate to risk your own life to save a total stranger. I think that tells me all I need to know about what kind of man you are, son. The offer stands. You want the job, show up at Sawyer Lumber on Monterey in Morgan Hill.”

“Morgan Hill. That’s south of town, yeah?”

“Right. We open at 7am. I’ll work you hard, but I pay a decent wage.”

“Um, there’s something else you should know before we waste each other’s time.”

“Okay. What’s that?”

“I’m on probation until Christmas.”

His eyes narrow and his chin lifts. “Is that so? For what?”

“Drunk and disorderly.”

“Have you got an alcohol problem?”

“No, sir. Things got out of hand at a bar. It was a brother’s birthday.”

“I see. You got a record, Rafe?”

“No, sir.”

“Okay, then. Offer still stands. As long as you keep your nose clean, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

A state trooper and a fire engine arrive on the scene, followed by a paramedic wagon. Soon, the area is bustling with emergency vehicles and personnel. I fade off to my bike and ride on when the cop waves us through.

I head to the clubhouse, winding my way through the industrial section, finally pulling in at the familiar red brick building with its multi-paned windows. It was an old factory years before the club took it over, built at the turn of the last century.

It’s as familiar to me as any place from my childhood. My father’s been in this club for decades, and I know this place like the back of my hand.

I back into a spot and stride through the door. The main room is empty except for a couple of prospects behind the bar.

“They start already?” I ask.

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