CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Located on the Heysel Plateau in the Laeken section of Brussels, The Atomium was originally constructed for the 1958 Brussels World’s Fair. A massive work of modern art standing over three hundred feet tall, it consists of five silver spheres surrounding a larger, sixth sphere in the center, all connected by great silver spokes. The overall shape resembles an atom as it would appear in a Sharper Image catalog, hence the name Atomium.
Conceived as an example of futuristic—and fully livable—architecture, it’s now a popular museum, and an iconic landmark for the city. Unfortunately for the quiet suburb in which it’s located, the circular roads surrounding it are also ideal for illegal street racing.
The main concern is the cars, and they’re the worst on the weekends. Residents regularly complain, not only about the noise generated by dozens of souped-up engines and modified mufflers at 3:00 in the morning, or the dangerous speeds at which they take hairpin turns, leading to more than one inevitable crash per Saturday night, but by the drivers themselves. Though the races don’t typically begin until close to midnight, the party starts well before then as racers come from all over the city to compare rides, drink beer, and generally mistreat any pedestrian—especially those of the young, female persuasion—who venture too close to their territory. Apparently, illegal street racers aren’t all charming rogues with hearts of gold. The Fast and Furious movies are full of shit.
Cops do what they can, often impounding several cars per weekend, but the races keep going despite a police presence that has only gotten more pronounced. That’s why the motorcycle racers do their business during the week.
There’re less of them, too, and while they aren’t going to be helping old ladies cross the street any time soon, they aren’t actively looking to piss off the locals either. Why attract more attention than necessary, especially with the cops focused entirely on shutting down the muscle-car aficionados?
When we pulled up, there were ten riders waiting their turn, each paired off, while the first pair in line revved their engines at the crosswalk that served as the starting line. A heavily tattooed bald man with a paper-thin mustache stood between the bikes with his arms raised. The high-pitched whines of the foreign crotch rockets pierced the night while the bystanders lining each side of the street cheered. There were maybe fifty people in all, mostly girlfriends of the racers and men like Leon who were there to make a quick buck. It wouldn’t have surprised me at all if this was where Freddie first met up with Neck Tattoo. My little friend had never been able to walk away from anyplace capable of separating him from his money.
“Do you see him?” Erica asked as we approached the crowd. Joey was waiting in the car, parked behind us in a lot reserved for the museum. Buses transporting students on field trips and minivans driven by stay-at-home moms with small children would fill the spaces in the morning. He had the engine running, just in case Neck Tattoo decided he wasn’t in the mood to talk to us, or if the cops showed up and we weren’t in the mood to talk to them.
“There he is,” I said, pointing two rows behind the riders who had just peeled off down the empty street after Baldy dropped his arms. The bright-yellow helmet was the only one in the pack, and his bike did indeed look like a bee with its yellow frame offset by the black tires and chrome piping. His opponent to the right of him was decked out in a more traditional red and black ensemble. Between the riders and spectators, the amount of leather on hand was enough to fully clothe a Freddie Mercury convention.
In addition to my jeans, button-down, and suit blazer, I might as well have been wearing a sign around my neck that said, “I don’t belong here.” Fortunately, Erica blended in better, so I just stuck close to her.
Scanning the crowd as we made our way to the riders, I could see why Freddie might come here for reasons other than losing whatever cash he had in his pocket. There were more than a few faces I knew from my networking efforts, although they probably didn’t know me. This could be a prime business development spot.
But I wasn’t there to network, and the guy in the yellow helmet was the only person I was interested in.
“What’s his name?” Erica asked as we pushed through the crowd forming a horseshoe around the starting line.
“No idea,” I said. The guy he was racing against was talking to a few other people, probably his buddies. Neck Tattoo had no one. He was lightly revving his engine with a subtle flick of his wrist, bouncing gently on the seat, waiting for the two riders in front of him to go so he could assume his place at the starting line. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey.”
He stopped revving the engine and turned to look at me. The face shield on his helmet was raised, but all I could see was his eyes and the top of his nose. They didn’t convey much, but it was clear he wasn’t happy about being disturbed. The Chinese ink poked out from the top of his leather jacket collar, forming a bridge to where it disappeared beneath his helmet.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, his young voice muffled by the helmet.
“We have a mutual business associate, Leon White.”
The eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
“You tipped off another friend of mine about a job Leon had,” I continued, “looking for someone to take care of his competition across town.”
Those eyes opened wide and I could tell his fight or flight was kicking in.
“Don’t worry,” I said quickly, “I’m not a cop. I just had some questions about the people you work for.” Then, sensing that sounded exactly like something a cop would say, I added, “Leon tells me they pay well, and I’m always on the lookout for good work.”
Erica remained silent next to me, but from the corner of my eye I could tell this wasn’t the approach she would have taken. The two riders in front of us sped off as Baldy dropped his arms, and before I could react, Neck Tattoo slapped his face shield shut and peeled off right behind them.
“Shit!” I shouted.
“What the—that’s a forfeit!” his opponent complained to Baldy, who looked equally perplexed.
Erica spun and turned her gun on the two riders behind us. “Off your bikes, now!”
They put their hands up, flicked open the kickstands, and stepped away from their expensive motorcycles, easily the most important things in their world. Not worth dying for though.
“Let’s go,” Erica said, straddling a bike with bright orange designs stitched across its sleek, compact frame. She nodded at the other one, implying it was for me.
“I don’t know how to ride,” I said.
“What?”
“I can’t ride a motorcycle.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Look at me! Does anything about this scream Sons of Anarchy to you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Get on.”
I slid onto the back of the seat, one clearly not designed for two, and pressed my body as tightly against Erica as I could. My arms wrapped so far around her waist, I could have picked her back pockets.
“Breathing would be nice,” she gasped.
“Sorry,” I said, loosening my grip. But only a little. A half second later, we were doing 100 mph.
Or at least, that’s how it felt. I’d only ever been on a motorcycle one other time in my life. My kid brother bought one after he graduated from high school, with money he’d saved waiting tables at the diner just outside our neighborhood. He tooled back and forth to the beach all summer before he wiped out driving home late one rainy night. The road was slick and he’d simply lost control on a turn. Had there been any other cars around, he likely would have wound up with a lot worse than some busted ribs and bad case of road rash.
He sold the bike soon after, but not before he took me for a ride. I’d been refusing his offer ever since he’d bought it, but he clearly wanted to show off his toy to his big bro. The accident had knocked some of the daredevil out of him, and he swore he wouldn’t take it above 45 mph. Still, even at that pedestrian speed, I spent the entire twenty-minute ride feeling like I was about to slide off the back of his seat, no matter how tightly I held on to him. And his seat had way more real estate than the one I was on while Erica weaved through city streets like we were in a video game instead of real life. My jacket flapped behind me and the rush of the wind forced my eyes nearly shut. I had no idea how she was doing any of this.
Neck Tattoo had built a sizable lead by the time we finally got going, but Erica closed the distance fast. There wasn’t much traffic on the roads at this time of night, but what little cars there were she swerved around—and between, in one particularly anus-clenching moment—without slowing down. An overhead street sign came into view when we were about twenty feet away from his buzzing bumblebee of a bike, advertising an on-ramp for the RO in one mile.
“We can’t let him get on the highway!” Erica shouted above the wind and the whine of our bike’s engine.
