You free Saturday morning? The metallic taste of impending justice filled my mouth like chrome polish on a perfect restoration job. What do you need me to do? Just keep doing exactly what you're doing.
Work on motorcycles. Have the guys over. Act completely normal. And you?
Rodriguez's laugh was dark as motor oil. I'm going to make some calls. Federal calls. Because Saturday is going to be very educational for our friend Dolores.
She has no idea what's coming, does she? None whatsoever, and that's exactly how we want it.
Saturday morning arrived with the crisp bite of late October air and the promise of justice. Rodriguez had been cryptic about his federal calls, but I trusted military planning when I saw it. Sometimes the best strategy is letting your enemy think they're winning right up until they destroy themselves. I started my normal routine.
Coffee, classic rock, garage door open, the familiar smell of motor oil and metal polish mixed with autumn leaves. Just another peaceful Saturday in suburbia. Except Dolores was already positioned across the street at 8:47 a.m. phone ready, watching my every move like a suburban sniper.
At 9:15, Bob arrived with his toolbox. At 9:30, Carlos pulled up in his pickup. By 10:00 a.m., we had four guys working on the Harley, exactly like every other Saturday for the past three months. But today felt different.
Electric, like the calm before a storm that's been building for weeks. Dolores was taking photos constantly now, practically vibrating with anticipation. She'd positioned herself in Mrs. Briana's front yard, uninvited, with what looked like professional surveillance equipment. Man, that woman's lost her mind, Carlos muttered, installing new brake pads.
She's been photographing us for 20 minutes straight. Let her, I said, adjusting the carburetor. Sometimes you have to give people enough rope.
At 10:23, Rodriguez arrived on his vintage Kawasaki. Nothing unusual. He came most Saturdays to help with the Harley restoration, but today he had a small duffel bag strapped to his bike. "Morning, gentlemen," he said, pulling off his helmet.
Beautiful day for motorcycle work. Dolores practically bounced with excitement. Her dangerous biker gang was assembling right on schedule. What she didn't know was that Rodriguez's duffel bag contained body cameras, recording equipment, and paperwork that would change everything.
At exactly 10:45, Dolores made her move. She marched across the street, phone already dialing, face flushed with righteous fury. But instead of staying on the sidewalk like previous confrontations, she walked straight into my garage. 911.
I need immediate police response. There's illegal business activity, excessive noise, and I think these men have weapons. She was standing 3 feet from my workbench, screaming into her phone while staring directly at Rodriguez, who was calmly cleaning a wrench with a shop rag. "Ma'am, I need you to step out of my garage," I said firmly.
"Don't you dare tell me what to do. I'm documenting criminal activity for law enforcement. Rodriguez looked up from his wrench. Criminal activity?