Too many days spent in court prosecuting men and women who rode motorcycles that exceeded a tolerable decibel level had taught him to stay well clear of anyone who appeared to be the devil on wheels. He clamped his hands on the steering wheel of his luxury vehicle and ground his teeth in a desperate attempt to control himself. He’d just encountered one who owned the freeway. Cool air from the humming air conditioner wafted over him, but all he felt was the intense heat of the Southern Californian sun. And his simmering anger. The motorcycle that had cut him off in morning rush hour traffic minutes earlier was now jauntily angled in his numbered parking spot. Cool off, Charlie. Haven’t you stood up to these bikers for years? What difference is one more? Intending to get out of the car and move the bike elsewhere, he lowered his hand to the seatbelt. The sun felt much too warm on his knuckles, but suddenly he didn’t care. A biker dressed from head to toe in midnight black darted from an alley planted with small palm trees.
