Voices reached him through the diner's windows, low and crowded, punctuated by laughter that seemed to come from men's chests rather than their throats. He crossed the lot before he could bargain with himself again. Then he pulled open the door, walked into the warmth, and found thirty-two men turning toward him as one. The warmth of the diner felt almost aggressive after the parking lot.
Coffee, fried onions, damp leather, and motor oil shared the air. Long tables had been pushed together through the center of the room, crowded with plates and heavy ceramic mugs. Men of different ages occupied every chair, most wearing black leather cuts with an embroidered raven in flight. Nolan saw the words IRON RAVENS beneath the bird and knew at once that he had reached the right place.
He had imagined himself being asked what he wanted by someone near the entrance. Nobody asked. The nearest biker, a broad man with a shaved head, merely turned his shoulders and watched Nolan cross the room. Several younger men stopped talking. A scarred man beside the window set down his fork without taking his eyes off the stranger. The waitress, a silver-haired woman carrying a coffee pot, paused behind the counter as if she understood that an ordinary Thursday had just acquired an unexpected complication.
At the far end of the table sat a man with a president's patch over his heart. He was in his sixties, with close silver hair and a weathered face that gave very little away. His hands rested on either side of a coffee mug, and the hands were enormous, the kind that made a mug look like a child's toy. Nolan walked toward him, aware of the soles of his boots striking the old linoleum. He could have turned around until the very moment he reached the table. Instead he opened the box, took out the photograph, and laid it face up.
"I found my dad's patch," Nolan said. The words sounded smaller than the journey required to bring them here. The president looked at Nolan first, then down at the photograph. His expression shifted so subtly that Nolan almost missed it, the jaw tightening, the eyes losing focus for a heartbeat before sharpening again. When he lifted the picture, the paper moved visibly between his fingers. He set down his mug as though an accidental noise might break something fragile in the room.
"Where did you get this?" the man asked. His voice was low and rough, more controlled than calm. Nolan said his mother's name was Carla Vance and that she had died eleven days earlier. A younger biker to the president's left looked sharply at him. At the mention of Carla, the president's gaze returned to the child's face in the photograph. The silence around them widened until Nolan could hear rain dripping from a motorcycle outside.
"What's your name, son?" the president asked. "Nolan. Nolan Vance." The man gave a small nod, as if the answer confirmed something he had been afraid to confirm.