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Eliot is holed up in Charming, California. Actually, holed up is the wrong word since he is not (really) hiding from anyone or anything. His discharge papers with their edges still crisp and perfect are far behind him in a lock-box. They list a name that he doesn't want to keep. He takes Eliot Spencer instead.
It's normal, natural, to talk about what you're going to do when you get out - when orders aren't coming from the chain of command and the only things to worry about are the normal civie things not if an IED is waiting around the curve in the road. Eliot used to think he'd go home and have a family just like the other guys who talked about opening businesses and marrying their girls. He'd spent a week with his sister and her family, played with his nephew, and realized that he wasn't going to hack it. The smell of BBQ had still hung in the air when he'd left a note and drove away early in the morning.
Eliot picked Charming out of a directory because of the name and because it's close enough the big cities to be comfortable with strangers but not so close that it doesn't have a small town feel. The perfect sort of town for him. It isn't until he arrives in Charming with the bruises still blue and black on his left calf that he realizes the directory made a large omission: Charming is a biker town. In a fit of perversity he stays anyway even though he knows towns like Charming keep a watchful eye on strangers. He'd tell himself it's because the house comes with a fully furnished kitchen including a convection oven but Eliot knows how dangerous a precedent that would set. There was a particularly satisfying assignment in Serbia that exploited the weakness those little self-lies create.
He spends his first night in his rented place drinking a beer on the porch and listening to the distant rumble of motorcycles. A guy in blue jeans and a leather vest cruises past late in the evening but doesn't stop. His shoes are an incongruous bright white against the dark metal of the bike's pipes. He slows almost imperceptibly two houses down from where Eliot is sitting. Eliot stares at the Grim Reaper on the back of what is obviously the biker's cut but he can't make out the lettering underneath it as the guy looks at the house. He wonders what connects the house with the local club. He hopes it is nothing that will cause him problems.
* * *
His phone rings when he's in the middle of braising a piece of pork loin. Eliot tucks the phone under his chin and turns the pork over. He expects a telemarketer but the voice on the other end is too cool to be selling anything.
"I hear from a mutual friend you might be free," the accent-less voice says.
"Who is this?" he asks even though he doubts he'll get an answer.
"I'll take that as a yes, my employer will be pleased," the voice says and there is the hum of the dial tone.
Eliot hangs the phone up and stares at his uncooked dinner. This is the sort of call he'd heard whispers about. Guy who got out, getting a call that offered a job which need their special set of skills to complete. He thinks about what he's done in those countries where he didn't officially go and wonders about going back. He puts the pork in the oven and sets the timer. It's warm in the kitchen, reminding him of days spent in small hot rooms making final plans. He leans back and lets his memories wash over him. In Charming, he has the luxury of time to really think about them without interruption.
* * *
There is a small diner tucked away on a side street that has a "Help Wanted" sign in the window. Discharge pay and his savings won't last forever so Eliot goes in to inquire. It seems like as far away from guns as he can get. He could use that.
The diner and the building are both worn. The diner has the softness of wear that only comes with age. The juke boxes and chrome tables feel authentic rather than the faux-50s chic that is becoming popular. The blast of cool air that hits him as he goes through the door is welcome and pleasantly surprising. He'd been expecting ceiling fans.
There's a girl behind the counter and a handful of older men scattered throughout the tables who sit with the comfortable ease of regulars. Eliot smiles at the girl and asked about the "Help Wanted" sign.
She shrugs making her blonde ponytail bob, "Mona's lookin' for a cook and server, you cook?"
"Some," Eliot says keeping his smile in place. A cook will get more than a server but a cook doesn't make tips. The combined job is a good deal especially if the place is always as quiet as it currently is with its crop of regulars providing a quiet hum of background noise almost too faint to be heard over the radio.
"Mona's in the office, you go on back, first door on your left."
Eliot nods his thanks and follows her directions.
Mona turns out to be a women in her forties with brown hair threaded with grey and a brisk manner that reminds him of his Momma when she tells him to take a seat. Her office is lined with industrial grey file cabinets that look like they came from an office surplus sale.
"You got a lot of experience?" she asks him.
"Not commercially ma'am, but I know how to cook."
She taps her fingers against the calendar that covers the desk like a blotter even though Eliot can see it is not used for anything but doodling.
"Tell you what, I need somebody for the late shift and it's not real busy then so you'll have a chance to learn the ropes. I'll give you a week trial, if things go good we'll talk about you being permanent, okay with you?"
Eliot agrees. So she shows him into the kitchen and tells him to get acquainted with the recipe books. Carrie, the blonde at the front, can tell him where anything is if he needs to know. He gets her to show him how to work the till and she does so with a patient efficiency that tells him she's explained its operation to more than one person. He wonders how many people have held his job before he took it.
"Good luck," Carrie says when he leaves.
* * *
That night the biker with the white shoes cruises by the house down the block again. The old man on the porch goes inside as if he is daring the biker to stop. Eliot can hear his phone ringing inside but doesn't bother getting up to answer it. Nobody important has that number. Down the street the biker turns the corner and his neighbor comes back outside popping the top on a beer can as his door thumps shut.
* * *
Work at the diner doesn't start until 3 o'clock that afternoon so he's just finished lunch when he sees the man from down the block in the daylight as he is struggling to move boxes from the back of his car into his house. Eliot knows an opening when he sees it; he should after all his training.
"You need a hand?" he asks the guy nodding at the largest box that has been left sitting on the sidewalk.
"That's nice of you to offer but I got a lot of boxes, wouldn't want to take up so much of your time," the guy says finally. He's wearing a short-sleeved cotton button-down and worn jeans.
"I got no plans right now and I'd be happy to help, my daddy always used to say work shared is half the work," Eliot counters.
His neighbor pushes hair that still hints at how dark it used to be out of his eyes before he sticks his hand out, "well, I think your daddy's right about that, I'm James."
"Eliot," he says, receiving a firmer handshake than he was expecting for a man who is obviously growing frail with age, "I just moved in down the block."
"I noticed," James tells him and switches subjects, "this big 'un is the heaviest."
"Easier to do it together," Eliot offers instead of carrying it himself. He doesn't want to hurt the old man's pride before he finds out about the biker.
"Just into the entry, I'll unpack it there, later," James says and Eliot nods.
They work in comfortable silence, piling boxes in the entryway until the car is unloaded. It goes faster than Eliot expected. The house is dark and has the dusty cool smell that comes with always keeping the curtains closed. They pause in the entry after the last box has been stacked for a second before James disappears into the side room. Eliot takes the chance to study the house. All his training can tell him is that it's cluttered but unremarkable.
"Now you done all that work, can I offer you a beer?" James asks holding up two bottles.
Eliot shakes his head, "maybe some other time, it's my first day this afternoon an' I wanna stay sharp, you know?"
James nods but pops the top on his bottle, "beauty of bein' retired."
In the entry is a picture of a teenage girl. Her clothes and hair are distinctive enough to tell Eliot it is an older photo. Her dark-hair and strong cheek bones mark her relation to James.
"Pretty girl," Eliot says nodding to the picture.
"My daughter," James says with a fond smile, "she's at Loyola Med."
"Smart too," Eliot says inanely because he can't think of anything better.
"Yep, that's m'girl. Smart enough to get out of here, an' never look back," his voice is filled with pride and not the bitterness that Eliot would have expected given the way it's obvious they haven't stayed connected since her move.
"It seems nice here," he says noncommittally.
"You know SAM CRO runs this town, right?"
"Sam Crow?" Eliot asks, training kicking in to make his voice lilt up on the question.
"Sons of Anarchy, you must of noticed all the bikes?"
"That one of them drivin' past your place last couple nights? They givin' you trouble?" Eliot asks.
James pauses with his beer halfway up and Eliot wonders if he asked too quickly but his worries are dispelled by James' rusty laugh.
"Don't worry," he say laughter still showing in the lines around his eyes, "the Sons don't give us residents any trouble. They keep Charming charming."
Eliot waits, forcing his tongue to be silent even though he wants to know about the biker. James takes a long drink before he speaks again.
"That's just Jax still sniffing after m'girl but she's far away now, goin' to get a better life, be surgeon and everything," he says leaning closer as if it can make his satisfaction any more obvious.
"If she's as smart as you say there's no question that'll happen," Eliot says since James obviously wants his agreement, "Jax the late night biker?"
"Yeah, Jax Teller."
"Teller like the garage with all the bikes?" Eliot asks before he remembers doing so will give away that he hasn't been as oblivious as James thinks.
James doesn't notice just nods, "yep, he goin' to be heading the Sons one day and the whole town knows it. Wanted my Tara to be his old lady."
"He goin' to give you trouble?" Eliot asks because he wants to be prepared.
"Nah, he's just hoping to see her, no reason for him to be trouble."
Eliot's watch beeps signaling quarter to the hour and he wraps up his conversation quickly. It won't do to be late on the first day.
* * *
Cooking at the diner isn't has demanding as Eliot was expecting although that is mainly because the customers are not appearing in large groups. He keeps the coffee warm and relatively fresh which seems to be the most important thing to many of the current occupants of the diner. The kitchen is hot and smells of grease. After the first two hours he's sure that he must smell as strongly of fries as the whole kitchen does. Their smell seems to follow him as he moves. Mona has him refilling condiments while there are no customers. The stain of red on the bottom of his shirt and across his apron is a reminder of his trial and error discovery of the right amount of force needed to get the ketchup bottles filled. Eliot thinks he smells like a fry basket.
It is almost closing time when the bells on the door jangle again and the biker with the white shoes walks in. He's younger looking than Eliot expected, perhaps twenty five, with a scruffy blond beard and a long knife hanging openly from his belt. After what James told him Eliot isn't surprised by the man's rolling swagger that says he's used to being known and respected in the town. It bothers Eliot that he wears the knife openly. Weapons, in his opinion, should only be displayed as a threat and never casually in the open unless it's a conflict zone.
"Hey Jax," Mona says sliding a coffee over to him, "cheeseburger and fries?"
"You know me too well," he says with a smile. It would be a little boy's "aw shucks" grin but the edges are pulled down by tiredness. It seems to make Mona soften more. Eliot figures that if she really is a local she's old enough to have seen Jax growing up.
Eliot doesn't need to be told to make up the order. The patty sizzles as he puts it onto the grill and he knows it'll cook quickly. He sets to work at the deep fryer, keeping a silent count down for the burger, as he watches the potatoes turn golden brown.
He's just putting the top bun on the burger when Mona comes in. She purses her lips when she sees the plate.
"Jax always gets extra pickle," she tells him, "just put it on the side before you take it out then come back here."
Jax nods to him when Eliot sets down the plate. He's surprisingly polite for a guy who, Eliot can tell from experience, is reaching the last of his energy. A tattoos shows blue and black against the pale skin of his underarm as he picks up the burger. Eliot files that identifying information away just in case although given who Jax is, he doubts it will ever be critical.
"Anything else?" he asks.
Jax grunts and shakes his head while he chews.
* * *
"I thought we were supposed to start closin' up earlier," he says once Jax has left and Mona has flipped the closed sign on the door.
She shakes her head, "not if Jax is needing a meal."
"He related or somethin'?" Eliot asks doing his best to sound clueless.
"Oh, sugar, no," she laughs as she neatly stacks the bills from the till, "he's a Son. Sons don't get turned away."
"Even at closing time?"
She pauses in her count and turns to face him before she tells him in a voice that allows no argument, "if you're going to stay in Charming, you have to learn that this is the Sons' town. If anyone has a problem, they go to the Sons not the sheriff. They protect this town, keep the crime out, and in return we treat them with respect. That means the Sons can eat here even if it's almost closing time or not. You understand? We don't say no and things are good for all of us. That's how this town works."
"That's why you comp'ed him the pie," Eliot says slowly thinking about the too-large amount of cash Jax had left without waiting for his bill.
Mona nods, "the Sons always tip good so it's a better trade-off for us."
"I guess I better remember that," Eliot says as he finishes wiping off the last of the pepper shakers.
"You better," Mona agrees whacking a stack of tens against the edge of the counter to make them straighter.
* * *
Eliot waves to James when he walks past and the man waves back. It has the pleasant small town feel that Eliot wanted when he picked Charming but he can't help thinking about Jax riding past. No matter how polite the bikers, they weren't part of what he wanted.
There's a man in a suit sitting on his front porch and an unfamiliar green car parked down the block. The man rises when Eliot starts up the sidewalk and holds out his hands palms out to show he isn't armed. Eliot appreciates the gesture even if he doesn't trust it. Just because the guy doesn't have an obvious weapon doesn't mean he couldn't have one concealed. Eliot walks up the steps slowly but the man doesn't move. Eliot stands still just to the side of the porch steps. He waits for his unexpected visitor to speak.
"Mr. Spencer, I'm Edward Simpson" the guy says in the cool accent-less voice Eliot remembers from the phone call, "my employer has a most lucrative offer for you. Might we talk inside?" Eliot hesitates and the man continues, "I mean you no harm. I only wish to talk."
At least in the house they'll be out of the view of his neighbors. It has the benefit of helping to keep any conflict hidden. Eliot opens the door and gestures for Simpson to go through.
They sit at the dining room table by Eliot's choice while he listens to Simpson lay out the contract. It isn't easy. Things in Croatia never are but what Simpson's employer is asking isn't impossible. Eliot already knows the basics of how he would approach it. The timeline is almost ridiculously long compared to the timelines he is used to being given. This is the sort of job, he knows, that the whispers were about; easy money for doing something he's been trained to do.
"You need not decide now but my employer is most eager to know quickly so I must ask that if you agree to do this, you contact me no later than tomorrow evening, should you miss the deadline I shall assume you wish to refuse." Simpson slides a white business card with a typed number on the front across the table before he stands.
"I'll walk you out," Eliot says without taking the business card. He won't let Simpson know if he is going to take it or not.
Simpson pauses on the porch, "my employer is most hopeful that you will agree and for your own sake I would urge you to accept. It will be much more rewarding than your current career choice."
"I'll remember that," Eliot says and shuts the door in his face.
* * *
The roar of motorcycles shatter the morning quiet as he is getting the newspaper at the corner store. He watches through the window as the line of bikers go past. The Grim Reapers on their cuts stand out in the morning sun. He can see Jax riding two back from the head of the procession. These are the guys Mona will stay open late for, the guys who probably collect protection money from the local businesses, and hold the law instead of the Sheriff. The guys he'll have to recognize on sight if he wants to live in Charming. His training makes him note the concealed guns and he knows Charming isn't the town where he'll stay.
He goes to the pay phone down the street and dials the number on the plain white card.