Holding Grudges

File XI

"Why don't we grab something to eat and talk things over? I know a quiet little spot just a few blocks from here," Detective Thompson suggested as we slipped back into the squad car. His voice, oddly soft amidst the tension of the case, caught me off guard. I had expected him to rush off, to push the investigation forward, not suggest a meal. But there was something about his tone—casual, yet thoughtful—that made it all feel strangely comforting, even amidst the chaos we'd just left behind.

I nodded, my stomach growling in protest. I hadn't realized how much I needed a meal until the hunger hit me like a punch to the gut. "Sure, that sounds good."

I buckled my seatbelt, the click of the latch echoing louder than usual in the quiet of the car. The vehicle's engine hummed beneath me as we pulled out, and as the familiar buildings of the city began to slip away, a sense of relief washed over me. For a brief moment, the world seemed to slow, as if the weight of the day was lifting, if only slightly.

But then, the jolt of realization hit. Detective Thompson had said just a few blocks, but I didn't expect him to mean just a few. The city passed by in a blur, and soon, we were pulling up to a dilapidated tavern nestled in the heart of the same grimy district we'd just left. The place looked like it had seen better days—or maybe it hadn't. A flickering neon sign above the door buzzed weakly, casting an eerie glow on the cracked sidewalk below. It was hardly the comforting meal I had envisioned, yet it somehow fit the grim mood of the day.

This was not the "quiet little spot" I had imagined. No, this was something else entirely. Something hidden. Something I wasn't sure I was ready for.

'BIG MIKE'S BUCKOS'

The weathered, blood-red wooden letters at the top of the building weren't just a sign—they were a statement. The faded lettering screamed biker tavern, and the sight of a dozen bikes lined up outside only solidified that first impression. From the gleaming chrome to the worn leather seats, each bike seemed to tell its own story, as rugged and rough around the edges as the place itself. As Detective Thompson killed the engine, the low growl of the cruiser cut off abruptly, the sound swallowed by the thrum of the scene around us. He steered the vehicle just far enough from what looked like a pristine Harley, its chrome shining despite the gritty surroundings.

We stepped out of the car, and the silence was broken only by the sputtering hum of a neon beer sign overhead. It flickered erratically, casting a dim, sickly light over the cracked pavement beneath us, its glow barely enough to highlight the peeling paint of the building's facade. Every step we took toward the entrance felt like we were walking into a different world—one that smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke, of nights that blurred together into a haze of noise and chaos.

As the door swung open, the tavern hit us with the full force of its atmosphere. The air was thick with the scent of spilled beer, sweat, and old cigarettes, each layer a testament to the countless nights spent in reckless abandon. Rough-hewn wooden tables, scarred and battered by years of use, filled the main room. Each table told a tale of its own—scratches, dents, and burn marks from countless drunken games and heated arguments. The bar ran along one wall, lined with mismatched stools, some wobbling from age while others looked like they might collapse under the weight of another round of drinks.

In the corner, a jukebox cranked out a steady stream of classic rock, the music barely audible over the murmur of hushed conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. Posters of motorcycle rallies, old routes, and long-forgotten concerts were plastered across the walls, their colors faded but their stories still alive in the creases of their edges. The light fixtures hung low, casting long shadows that stretched across the patrons—weathered faces etched with the memories of the road, of adventures and misadventures, of lives lived without looking back.