text: “You really want to go undercover at Stay Out?” the sergeant asked him. “You know there was a shooting there last year, right?” “I know,” Detective Ziccarelli, or Zic as everyone called him, said. “But our snitch told us there’s a regular dealer who comes in there almost everyday and sells to the customers. I really want to make my first drug bust.” “Well, be careful what you wish for. It’s a dangerous place,” the sergeant said. “Thanks Sarge,” Zic said. “I’ll do my best to stay safe.” Following that conversation, Zic was ecstatic. He had long wanted to go undercover at the biker bar called “Stay Out.” It was a dream come true for him. Not only did he get to do real detective work, but he got to play the part of a bad ass biker. He could scarcely believe the department had given him official clearance and the budget for riding a second hand Harley and dressing in biker gear. He glanced at himself in the mirror in satisfaction. He was now decked out in black leather and chains, and he hadn’t shaved in three days. He thought he looked great. Dark and dangerous. His plan was to stay out all night at “Stay Out,” pun intended, and do his best to bust drug dealers, gang bangers and wannabes. He was eager to make his mark as a detective. He just knew that Stay Out would be the ticket to his success. He had spent the better part of a year carefully cultivating his confidential informant. The C.I. had finally admitted that Stay Out was a hub for drug deals and various criminal biker gangs. The bar was cleverly named in Zic’s opinion. It was a dive bar on a trash filled corner, a bar with a nasty reputation. Everyone in town knew the wisest thing to do was to steer clear, or “stay out” of Stay Out. Even before the shooting, the police had often been summoned to Stay Out, mostly for fights and once for a drug deal gone south. And now it seemed that the drug trade had once again resumed at Stay Out, at least according to the snitch. With Zic being relatively new to the force and therefore unfamiliar to shady characters, coupled with his natural born ability as a smooth talker and schmoozer, he had been the logical choice to go undercover. Zic looked like an Italian version of John Ritter, a bumbling, lovable goof of a man, mild mannered, wholesome, but swarthy at the same time. He was someone who perps and victims couldn’t help but either smile at or cry helplessly on his welcoming shoulder, all while spilling their guts out. Being a born actor, he used that gift to his advantage and often charmed his way into and out of multiple situations and predicaments. Even as a young child, he could wheedle his way out of anything. For that reason, he had rarely been punished, which drove his siblings crazy. The same held true in his love life. With his dark innocent good looks and innate charm, Zic had left behind a string of broken hearts all over the city, although no one seemed to stay mad at him for long. So far, he hadn’t made any inroads, however, in ferreting out any criminal activity. It was still early in the game, though. He was just starting to infiltrate and blend in with the Stay Out customers. Tonight he was sitting at the bar, trying to chat up the bartender and another biker sitting a few stools down from him at the scuffed wooden bar. “Care for another shot?” the bartender asked him laconically, as he dried a shot glass with a dirty, once white towel. Zic hesitated. Going undercover was treading a fine line. He needed to drink enough to appear just like all the other hard drinking regulars. However, he couldn’t drink too much, or he wouldn’t be at the top of his game. He needed to maintain his professionalism and follow procedure. If anything criminal were to occur, which was a strong possibility, being tipsy would definitely not help him in his mission. “Sure. Hit me,” he rumbled. You had to break a few eggs to make an omelet, or whatever that saying was , he thought to himself. He slyly looked around, trying not to attract notice from others. To his surprise, he saw another man sitting off in the corner, staring at him. The man’s position, sitting alone at a chipped wooden booth, set him apart from everyone else and didn’t invite conversation. As a cop, however, Zic knew the corner was the best place to be in a potentially dangerous situation. There was less exposure when your back was literally to the wall. The man was dressed like every other biker in the place, sporting jeans, heavy boots, and a leather vest with chains. However, he was by far the largest man in the bar, a veritable mountain of a man. He also had the longest beard Zic had ever seen. It was so long it nearly touched the floor. The biker also had an air of command about him - one hard look from him would be enough to get anything he wanted, and he knew it. At the moment, he had a sneer on his face. To Zic’s surprise, the man got up and walked over to him, sitting down heavily on the stool next to him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before,” the biker said with no preamble or context. He spoke in a deep, gravelly voice. “What’s your name and what brings you in? We don’t exactly get a lot of strangers here.” Zic knew he needed to maintain his composure and not sound defensive, although the biker was very forbidding looking. He took a deep breath before speaking, knowing he needed to give it right back. He couldn’t let the big man give him any crap. “Name’s Zack,” he said. Zack the alter ego for Zic or Zicarelli. Zic had often heard that the best lies were those that were closest to the truth. “Is there a law against having a drink here?” Zic asked the biker in an innocent voice. “Are you being a smart ass?” the biker said menacingly. “No. I wouldn’t do that,” Zic replied coolly. “Again, what brings you in here?” The biker repeated. “No special reason,” Zic said. “Just having a drink.” “Ok,” the biker said. “Just making sure you’re not a cop. We don’t need the badge here. We take care of our own.” The man looked straight into Zic’s eyes. Zic felt every muscle in his body tense up. Had the biker made him already? How was that possible? He had never laid eyes on the man before, and Zic had been exceedingly careful in his attire and cover story. He was just Zack, a biker new to the area, at least that’s what he had told the bartender. “No, I’m no pig,” Zic said, trying to sound convincing. “Well, that’s good,” the man said. “I’d hate to have to put out a hit on you.” “A hit?” Zic asked, disbelievingly. “Are you serious? That’s what you do to cops that come in here?” He hoped he didn’t sound too outraged, but he couldn’t help it. Was the man really issuing such a blatant threat to a virtual stranger? “Relax. Just testing you, buddy.” “That’s good,” Zic again tried not to sound rattled. “Excuse me now, I got to hit the john.” Zic needed a moment to collect himself. He needed to decide what his next move was. When he got back from the bathroom, Zic noticed to his surprise that the man was gone. Zic didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Looking on the bright side, Zic realized that the man might have given him a lead or tipped his hand. The biker had that unmistakable air of authority and had even uttered what appeared to be a real, credible threat. It might even be enough to merit a search warrant or a wire tap. At the very least, the man was worth looking into more closely. Zic really needed to figure out who he was and how he fit into the puzzle. Zic needed to ponder that more, when he was fresh. Maybe his colleagues would have some ideas. For now, however, it was late and he really needed to go home and get some desperately needed shut eye. He headed outside to the street and to his Harley, looking forward to the rumble of the engine and the feel of the soft leather grips under his fingertips. With the wind on his face and the crotch rocket launching him into space and time, riding a Harley was a feeling like no other - sheer poetry in motion. He kick started his bike. It was an older model and didn’t have an electric start. He much preferred the older bikes. They had more character. The engine roared immediately to life. Before riding off, he looked around. It was always a good idea for a cop, and especially one who was working undercover, to take stock of his surroundings. It was now pitch black, but street lights illuminated the neighborhood. Glancing up and down the street, he saw a tiny Ma and Pa grocery store, a pizza joint, a laundromat, and a 24-hour check cashing place. It was a Tuesday night, and everything was still open, but most businesses were deserted. Blinking neon lights from the check cashing place cast a glow of warm colors on the sidewalk. For whatever reason, Zic felt a prickle of discomfort on the back of his neck, an unexplainable sixth sense that told him he was being watched. He glanced behind him but didn’t see anything or anyone. He failed to notice, however, that on the other side of the street, a little further back, the large biker that had confronted him in the bar was also climbing onto his own bike. As Zic drove his Harley away into the night, the biker followed him, staying several car lengths back so as not to be spotted. There was a surprising amount of traffic for this time of night, and the biker remained hidden in his pursuit. Zic still felt that tingling sense of unease, however. Even though he was riding along and enjoying the rush of the cool night air on his face, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. He was approaching a yellow stoplight, hoping to get through it before it turned red. As a cop, he could easily run a red light and not get into any trouble. However, that might attract unwanted attention, should he get pulled over. It was best not to chance it. Sure enough, the light turned red before he made it through the intersection and he was forced to stop. He impatiently idled his engine at the stoplight, eager to resume his journey. While waiting, he turned his head and looked behind him. He could see two cars immediately behind him, and then straining his neck to look further, he noticed a motorcycle with a very large rider further back. He couldn’t be sure in the dark, but it looked an awful lot like the large man from the bar. He tried to turn his head surreptitiously to get a better look at the man. He strained his eyes and squinted. Yes, it was undoubtedly the biker. Was it just a coincidence? Whether it was coincidence or not, Zic thought it was best to err on the side of caution. He needed to shake the man. It was time for some fancy riding. He mulled his options. He really didn’t want to get into any sort of chase situation on a busy street. That wouldn’t be safe for anyone. It was best to adhere to the speed limit and traffic rules. He would just do some tricky maneuvering and make some sudden sharp turns. Although he was new to the force, he wasn’t new to the town and knew its streets like the back of his hand. He would use that to his advantage. Maybe it was simply his imagination, and he wasn’t being followed. Zic really didn’t know. It was hard to tell. He couldn’t afford to blow his cover, however. He really needed to lose the man. I t was now or never. As soon as the light turned green, he sped off down the street. When he got to the first intersection, a road cutting into a residential neighborhood, he made a hard right, gunning his engine as he did so. He sped off in no time flat to the end of the block and then took a sharp left, followed by another right. He glanced back, turning his head to look over his shoulder, while at the same time, endeavoring to keep his bike steady. His heart sank when he realized that his watcher had easily kept up with him. It was time for some even more fancy maneuvering. It was his only option. This time he didn’t telegraph his turn. He was halfway through the next intersection before he jerked the handlebars hard to the ride to turn his motorcycle. The bike tilted precariously towards the ground. He was mere inches away from his head hitting the ground, his nose hairs almost scraping the pavement. It went without saying that he was not wearing a helmet. Harley riding gang members were too cool for safety. Helmets were not their thing, although he would have preferred to wear one. Keeping his fragile noggin in mind, he carefully leaned his body upwards, straining to keep his balance while at the same jerking his wheels up. He continued to gun the engine. Somehow he managed to right himself. He breathed a sigh of relief, noting with satisfaction that his nemesis was further up the street. At the moment, the large man was attempting to make a speedy U turn. A full 180 degree turn was needed to get him back to where Zic was. Zic took advantage of that fact to make another series of wild turns, one right after another. Evil Kneival would be proud . He continued trick riding until he at last found himself winded, but blessedly alone in a distant neighborhood, one that he was surprisingly unfamiliar with. He thought he knew every square inch of town. Nonetheless, he realized with elation that he had successfully shaken his tail. Once he got home, he parked his bike in the garage, taking care that no nosy neighbors could see. He shrugged out of his now sticky black leather jacket and plopped tiredly down in front of his computer. He needed to type out his report while the events of the night were still fresh in his mind. His time at Stay Out had surely proven interesting. He planned on recommending that surveillance be continued at Stay Out and also especially on the large biker. Perhaps even a confrontation with the man, albeit carefully controlled, would be in order. Zic also wanted to run the man’s face through facial recognition software. Somehow, he needed to sneakily take the man’s picture with his cell phone the next time he ventured into Stay Out. He still didn’t know why the man had followed him. Did the biker know Zic was a cop? Was his threat about putting a hit on cops who entered the bar a real one? If so, Zic may have just escaped with his life. Stranger things had been known to happen. Zic took a shaky breath, reliving his wild ride. It was truly amazing to him that he had gotten away from his pursuer and hadn’t crashed his Harley. He was proud of himself for his riding expertise. He was now not only a true Harley aficionado, but also an expert rider, he felt. He had surely earned his status as an ace biker slash cop. One who had risked his life going undercover. Like the sarge had said, be careful what you wish for. Whoever said police work was dull? T hose tired cop jokes of d onuts and coffee be damned. He could hardly wait until his next time at Stay Out, where hopefully he could stay out of danger.