Zeke parked in front of Throttle’s house at least twenty minutes later than he said he’d be there.
Started to cut across the grass, remembered how particular Erin was about their lawn.
He switched his work bag, all his pinstriping supplies, from his right hand to his left shoulder, stepped onto the sidewalk.
Erin’s ceramic goose was gone from the front of the house.
Zeke had painted a Welcome on the breast of the goose in flowing script.
Maybe Erin brought it in the garage for a touch-up after Zeke did Throttle’s new tank.
He hoped he had the right shade of red, it had been a while.
Walked the stone path around the back of the house to the rear-facing attached garage.
Throttle’s new-to-him 63 Panhead was there, some hockey sticks, a rake.
There was an oil spot on the floor where an oil spot should have been, and what looked like blood trailing from the door to the house.
“Yo, Throttle”
Zeke got down on one knee. It was definitely blood.
“Throttle!”
Zeke knew something was wrong, different.
“Guillermo!” he called, knowing that Throttle’s given name always got his attention.
Throttle appeared in the doorway.
He kind of slumped against the frame.
“Erin’s gone.”
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