Biker by Mike; Baron

has its main presence in the Upper Midwest .
    Several reports in the Des Moines Register about War Bonnet meth activity. Pratt Googled Eugene Moon. Nothing. He conducted a LexisN search with the same result. He Googled the Shaolin Temple and found their web page. They were indeed accepting Western students.
    Last time Pratt went to Sturgis the Hells Angels had the nitrous concession. The Sons of Baal had the marijuana concession. And the War Bonnets had the meth concession. Bike Week began on Monday. Pratt had mixed feelings about Sturgis. There were good memories and bad. Over time, the good had become tainted with the bad. He hadn’t been to Sturgis since before he went to prison.
    Pratt was stuck. So he did something he never would have done in his previous life. He called a cop. He called MPD Detective Heinz Calloway. Calloway was on the Gang Task Force. His specialty was outlaw motorcycle gangs. Go figure.
    â€œCalloway,” the detective answered on the second ring.
    â€œHeinz, it’s your favorite biker. I’ll buy you lunch if I can pick your brain.”
    â€œWhat about?”
    â€œA missing person case involving the War Bonnets.”
    Beat.
    â€œThe War Bonnets. Ain’t heard that name in years. Well it just so happens lunch is open tomorrow. You can meet me on the Union Terrace at one.”
    Pratt worked on the basket case engine in his living room, fitting the new S&S pistons by hand while American Idol played in the background. He turned the television off at ten, washed his hands and face and knelt by his bed as he had every night since his release.
    Except last night.
    â€œMy Lord, I want so many things I’m ashamed. This is just a general all-purpose prayer to let you know you are in my thoughts, I’m trying like hell to love my neighbor, and please have mercy on that good woman Ginger Munz. Amen.”
    He waited a minute.
    â€œAnd please let Cass and me turn out well.”

CHAPTER 10
    In the morning Pratt flexed his ribs. Not bad. He had to run. He’d been putting it off and putting it off. After a breakfast of cold fruit and a banana, he put on his sweats, running shoes and Brewers tank top and clipped his iPod to his belt. He went out to his driveway to stretch. George and Gracie yapped savagely at him from the top of Lowry’s drive.
    â€œYap, you thankless bastiches,” Pratt said, feeling the pain in his ribs crackle throughout his body like static discharge. He took off down the road in long, easy strides listening to The Shazam at top volume. Every step brought a jolt flashing strobe-like through his body. The pain lessened as he ran. Or maybe he became used to it. It wasn’t severe enough to keep him from running. He was used to pain.
    Run it off .
    He passed a mini-mansion rising a quarter mile down the road. A mile further on, ground was broken for a strip mall. Civilization on the march. It wouldn’t be long before it was solid megalopolis from Chicago to Milwaukee to Madison.
    He gave it two miles before turning around, the pain a familiar throbbing presence. An old friend. The trip back was slower. He stripped the duct tape off in the shower, put on fresh jeans and a Badger T-shirt that covered the dragon. A few crude jailhouse tats peeked out from under the sleeves. He’d been meaning to have them lasered but never seemed to find the time. They might prove useful.
    He spent an hour cruising the web, stopping at his favorite sites, chatting with friends he’d never met.
    At twelve-thirty Pratt saddled up, locked the joint and headed into town. He found a motorcycle parking place directly across from the Student Union and backed in between two plastic-sheathed crotch rockets. Frat boys loved to cruise in shorts and flip-flops. First responders scraped them up off the pavement with spatulas. The Union was chock-a-block with students, faculty and downtown workers looking for shade on the broad terrace overlooking Lake