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As I pull open the first one enough to allow sunlight inside, I catch the glint of a motorcycle, and then another. It seems that he had a collection, but I have no clue how to operate one. I’m sure I’d give myself the biggest road rash imaginable if I even attempted to take one of these out onto the road.
Still, they’re pretty to look at, and are probably worth something to the right person.
First mystery solved. Angus loved motorcycles.
I move to the next storage container, feeling hopeful that it will be full of something different. The lock is more difficult to break off, and I almost give up and get something bigger to hit it with when it breaks suddenly, falling with a heavy thud onto the dirt.
Hesitation washes over me, causing me to stop just as I begin to pull on the door. This is the last part of the bar that has gone unexplored, the final mystery. If I don’t find something here, I may never know the full story.
I consider going back inside and leaving it for another day, maybe when Savva is here so that he can look with me, but something inside me needs to know now. I can’t wait, not when I’ve already committed to running the bar.
I take a deep breath and tighten my grip around the handle of the storage container, pulling it open and peering inside.
My heart jumps into my throat when I realize that there aren’t any motorcycles inside, but stacks of boxes instead. They’re filled with shoes that have seen better days, books without spines, and stacks of paper.
I take the first box down off the only towering stack that I can reach the top of. I waddle out with it, setting it down on the ground and squinting at the papers on top. Many of them are handwritten, and as I look at them closer, I realize they’re little bits of wisdom and information that Angus wrote down from the book he was reading.
One line in particular stands out to me:
The truth knocks on the door and you say, "Go away, I'm looking for the truth," and so it goes away.
I look at it for a long time, trying to figure out if this is a sign that I’ve somehow rejected the obvious truth standing in front of me. Sweat drips from my nose onto the paper, and I finally place it back in the box. I should take this box inside and come back for the rest later.
I hoist the box up to my chest, leaning back to carry it and using my foot to close the heavy storage door.
I’m almost around to the front of the building when I hear engines crackling and growling in the parking lot. I slow my walk, listening closely. Something doesn’t feel right, but I can’t say what it is yet.
I stop walking, placing the box down at my feet and tuning my ear in to the conversation that’s being had outside.
“It’s the only goddamn bar within twenty miles of here,” a voice grumbles.
“And Savva comes here?”
“Sure, he was seen here last week talking up Angus’s daughter. Probably sticking his dick in her guts now that Angus is dead.”
I want to scream. These men know me, they know Savva, and they know Angus. What the fuck is going on?
“Closed. I say we come back when we know Savva might be around and bust some heads.”
“One head. Savva’s fucking head.”
“Right.”
“Hey, and maybe we show Angus’s daughter how her daddy went out,” the original speaker says with a hoarse laugh. “Look ma, no breaks!”
There’s a bout of laughter followed by the roar of engines starting up again. I don’t dare to peek around the corner, but I’m dying to know who those men are and what they want with Savva.
And me. I’m just as much at risk here now as Savva is. They mentioned my father too, and I’m pretty sure that confirms that his death wasn’t much of an accident. It goes much deeper than that.
My heart takes a long time to return to a normal pace. My legs are glued to the scorching ground until I become too hot to continue waiting outside for nothing to happen. The men are long gone.
I creep around the corner, taking the box of papers with me and scrambling back inside the second I’m in the parking lot. Only once the door is locked and I’m sitting in the office with the shotgun on my lap do I feel like I can continue looking through Angus’s belongings.
I go through the papers, barely reading them as the voices of my unexpected visitors echo through my head like unwelcome sirens in the night.
Look ma, no breaks!
Did they cut his breaks? Is that even possible on a motorcycle?
