Free The Whole Lie by Steve Ulfelder

finger-felt, found it: a fuel-line petcock. I opened it.
    â€œThe fuck you doin’, bro?” a very tall biker said as I tried again and got at least a hint of a start. “You messing with another man’s bike?”
    I chinned in the direction of the cop, who was no more than ten feet away now. He was tugging at the rear of his pants, probably trying to pull his gun. “Hizzacop,” I said.
    â€œHe’s a cop,” Savvy said.
    â€œI grokked him, sister,” the tall biker said. “I’m fluent in quaalude.”
    Then two things happened at once: The Triumph turned over, making a sweet, balanced sound that was nothing like the V-Twin blat of a Harley. And the tall biker stuck his left arm straight out, clotheslining the charging cop.
    Here’s something I’ll never forget about Savannah Kane: She didn’t step onto the Bonneville’s seat—she jumped on, legs in flying V formation, grabbing me tight just as I popped the bike into first gear and spit dirt all the way to the street. I hooked a left, glanced back, saw the knot of bikers closing around the poleaxed cop.
    Like I said, this happened a long time ago. Undercover cops sniffing after drug busts were not popular with Harley guys. And Harley guys were serious men. I almost felt sorry for the cop.
    *   *   *
    We sat on Moe’s porch. Planes took off. Planes landed. I noticed a little blue-and-white teapot on a wicker table rattled just before each one. Like a five-second warning. Wondered if Moe even noticed the rattle anymore. Probably not.
    I caught him looking at his watch.
    â€œMoe,” I said.
    He raised eyebrows.
    I held up both hands, made a show of looking around. “What are you doing, Moe?”
    â€œI’m tryna make in one swell foop what I used to make bit by bit at the dog track.”
    â€œMoe, it’s me here. Cut the shit.”
    Because it’d been a few years since he came to Barnburners meetings, he’d probably forgotten how much I knew about him. His mom didn’t leave Moe a lot, but the house was free and clear, and even when it’s in a Logan flight path, Boston Harbor real estate isn’t cheap. And the state cops were no slouches when it came to pensions: Since the day he retired, Moe’d been pulling down half the highest salary he ever earned on the job. No divorce, no kids, no mortgage—Moe Coover’s claim that he needed to make a plane-crash score was ridiculous.
    So what was it? What was really going on?
    We had a staredown, each knowing more or less what the other was thinking.
    A drunk like me was always going to assume one thing. A drunk like Moe knew it. Switch us up, him in the visitor’s chair and me waiting for a plane crash, and he’d be wondering, too.
    He said it before I could ask. “I’m sober, Conway. Jesus, I’m sober how long now … once you get a half-century, do you even need to keep track?”
    â€œWhat I was wondering,” I said, “is drugs. Pills.”
    â€œGo fuck yourself.”
    â€œDoctors these days,” I said, “they’re kids. An oldster like you drops in, says he’s feeling blue, they’ll prescribe a happy pill like that. They hand out pills like candy corn.”
    â€œGo.”
    â€œDid you visit the doc and come home with a bottle of happy pills, Moe?”
    â€œGo.”
    â€œYou want to find a meeting somewhere?”
    â€œGet out, Conway.” Chin in hand, dead voice, unable to meet my eyes. “Just get the hell out.”

CHAPTER TEN
    You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to tail a guy. It’s not like TV at all.
    Barnburner duties had taught me the only way to follow a car was to stick your nose right up his back bumper, make sure you got through the same lights he did, and hope like hell he wasn’t paying attention.
    Which, I’d also learned, he never was. That was the good news. Even guys with warrants,