The Bicycle: Part 1

This is a story that started off as a suggestion from my cohorts on Minetest.  "Write a story about a bicycle repairman."  So..yeah.  Blame them.  😉

Part 1: The Client

Jerry was an average guy.  The sort of guy you would pay little or no attention to if you passed him on the street.  Just shy of six feet, mousy brown hair, gray blue eyes, wire rimmed glasses, and usually wearing some kind of plaid shirt.  He usually rode a bike wherever he went, which was appropriate, given that he was a bicycle repairman.
His job usually gave him a measure of freedom, since he didn't have to take a job if he didn't want to. At least, that's how it used to be.  He would spend his days alternating between quick bike jobs, and playing with his three young children.  His wife also took odd jobs as a seamstress, and their combined income would let them go on quick excursions in the mountains around their city.
But these days, he took any work that came to him.  No matter what it was, or where it took him.  Sadie's life depended on it.
His latest job took him to the poorer side of town.  It wasn't exactly crime-ridden, but it was the sort of place that made him want to be long gone by nightfall.  The client was very insistent that he come today, without fail.
When he arrived at the house, he paused in the middle of locking up his bike.  Something wasn't right here.  The house looked no different than any other on the street.  Old, peeling paint, mostly brown lawn with a few half-dead bushes and trees.
But the car sitting in the driveway...it was brand new, and certainly not an economy model.  He continued locking up his bike, eyes running over the bright cherry red Honda with custom rims and a spoiler on the back.  This was a car decked out for racing.
So what did his client need with a bike?  And why on earth wasn't such a nice car parked in the garage?
The man had noticed his arrival, and motioned him in through a side door into the garage.  The moment he entered, he got his answer, and his anxiety grew.  There were hundreds of expensive items in here.  Far more than any one man would need.  Plasma TVs, expensive speaker systems, blu-ray players, laptop computers, cell phones, and enough cords to go to the moon and back.
In the back, a tiny alarm bell went off.  He guessed that all this stuff was likely stolen.  Unless he was some kind of online wholesaler, but in those cases, the items were still in the package.  He didn't see any packages on anything.
But this was not the time to throw accusations around.  The man had something protruding from his waistband that looked suspiciously like a .44 caliber.  Definitely not smart to say anything right now.
Against one wall was a row of bikes.  High-end brands, all with multiple customizations.  One of them was pulled out into the center of the room, with a snapped chain and a badly bent rim.
"Can you fix it?" the client asked roughly.
He nodded, pulling his toolbag off of his back and opening it.  "I'll need to make a run to the shop to get another rim, but--"
"No, I have one right here," the man said, pulling one from off of a high shelf.  "I just need it fixed.  Today.  Now.  Just use the old tube and tire, they are still in one piece."
He doubted that, given the amount of damage to the rim, but he didn't want to argue.  He would just have to note on the invoice that it was the client's idea to use potentially damaged parts.
He started with the chain.  He carried some spares in his bag, and it wasn't terribly difficult to remove the old one and put the new one on.  He carefully lubed it and checked the tension.  Perfect.  He found himself coveting this bike.  It was beautiful, and obviously well loved based on the heavy polish smell and hand-painted detail on the frame.
In the back of his mind, he couldn't help wondering if the owner was still looking for it, or had given up.  From the heavy beer-gut on his client, he doubted this man had ridden anything with two wheels in his life.
He set the old rim aside, and started to fit the tube and tire into place on the new one.  The tire was also an expensive brand, insulated to resist punctures.  It was stiffer than what he was used to, and so it was a bit of a struggle.
His eyes ran over the old rim as he worked.  It looked to him like the bike had been hit by a car.  "Did you report the car that hit you to the police?" he ventured.
"No.  It was an accident.  Just fix it," the client barked.
There was no doubt in Jerry's mind that something was wrong.  But he couldn't figure out what.  He made a show of struggling with the tube and tire further, hoping that his client would be called away for whatever reason.
As though a divine hand had intervened, he heard the ring of a telephone inside the house.  He suppressed a smirk.  Who still used landlines these days?  Whatever the reason, the man hurried into the house to answer it, with the door not quite closing behind him.
Once he was out of site, Jerry started examining the bike and the tube more closely.  It seemed strange to him that the man didn't want him to install a new one.  What was he up to?
A second later, he got his answer.  There was a hard lump inside of the tube, and it was obviously patched.  He felt it over with his hands.  It felt like a pill bottle.
A drug runner.  He felt sick.  His cousin Luis worked for the police department.  Maybe a quiet nudge...
He felt it again.  The instinct that something was very wrong, and he had to act.  With the precision of a surgeon, he slit open the bike tube and removed the bottle, stowing it in his jacket for later examination.  He repaired the tube and got it back into the tire, replaced it on the rim, and installed it on the bike.
He could hear the man's voice inside the house.  It sounded like an argument.  "Fifty ain't nearly enough.  This is pharma grade, uncut, straight from the manufacturer.  I want a hundred."
Dollars?  Or was this man talking thousands?  What in the world was in this pill bottle?
Whatever it was, he had to get out fast and get to a safe place to examine it closer.  He knew that he would be getting his prints all over it, but his curiosity was getting the better of him.
By the time the man had come back out to the garage, he had his pump out and was pumping up the tire.  "Any trouble?" the man asked warily.
He shrugged as he capped the stem.  "Nope.  It's a nice bike.  Tube seems to be holding air, so you should be good to go."
"Good.  How much?"
"Let's call it thirty-five."
To his surprise, the man didn't argue.  He pulled two twenties from his pocket and handed it over to Jerry with a gruff "keep the change".
"Well...um, thank you.  Have a good one."  He deliberately kept his voice light and unconcerned, packing up his tools with what he hoped was a casual air, though his skin felt like it was crawling.  He was desperate to be out of there.
Fortunately, the man seemed equally desperate to be rid of him.  As soon as his pack was zipped, the man pulled open the door and stood beside it, very obviously a dismissal.
Jerry nodded to him with a friendly smile.  "Bye now."  The door closed with a bang behind him.  He unlocked his bike, shoved the lock into his pocket, and rode out onto the street as quickly as he could.
He wasn't sure where he would go next.  Luis' house, probably.  His cousin worked graveyard shifts, so he was likely home.
In his pocket, his cell phone started to ring.  It was the custom ringtone for his wife.  At the same time, he heard a shout behind him.
Rising up, he pumped his pedals as fast as he could.  The man was screaming now and chasing him.  He decided his wife's call would have to wait.  He raced toward the corner where traffic was heavier, hoping to lose the man in the rush of cars.
Then, he heard a loud crack behind him.  There was a faint whistling noise by his ear.
His client was shooting at him.
He started weaving erratically, hoping that the man was a miserable shot.  Luck was with him.  He heard three more shots in quick succession, and saw patches of pavement explode in front of him, but none of the bullets hit him.
His phone rang again.  He sped around the corner and up the street, guiding his bike into the lanes of traffic.  He could hear the revving of an engine behind him.  His client was coming after him with the Honda.
He decided he had to answer.  Lila wouldn't keep calling unless it was something important.  He pulled it from his pocket and answered.  "Hi, sweetie, this really isn't a good--"
"Sadie's medicine is gone!" came his wife's frantic voice.
He felt as though his breath had been knocked out of him.  How in the world...how could they have known...and was his family in danger now?
He wasn't positive that the bottle in his pocket was actually his daughter's medicine.  But something, be it Fate, intuition, or sheer luck, seemed to be involved in this.
He ducked in and out between cars as the red Honda did likewise.  At least his client seemed to have set his gun aside for the moment.
He managed a last-second maneuver that sent his bike careening into an alley.  The Honda missed the move, and he heard the screech of brakes and horns honking.  He yanked his handlebars into another turn toward a nearby street, hoping the Honda wouldn't see him.
He realized his wife was calling his name.  "Lila, this is going to sound weird, but...get the kids in the car, grab an overnight bag, and get out of the house.  Go...somewhere.  Anywhere, just get away from the house.  Somewhere miles away."
"Jerry, what is going on?" she demanded.
"Honey, to be honest, I'm not totally sure.  Just...trust me.  I'm going to call Luis."
"Jerry, this is totally weird.  Where are you?  I can hear cars honking.  Have you been in an accident?"
He glanced into the mirror on his handle.  Of all the rotten luck, the Honda was behind him again and rapidly approaching through the lanes of traffic.
"Not yet, but if I have to bike and talk I will be.  Please, just go.  Do as I tell you.  I'll call you as soon as I can."
He hung up his cell and focused on the road ahead.  He could see orange cones, and flashing yellow lights.  A construction zone.  Perfect...
The cars would have to slow down, as the road narrowed to a single lane.  On a bike, he could blast through no trouble.
He just managed the delicate weave between cars, piles of dirt, orange barrels, and startled workers.  Once he made it to the other side, he pedaled as fast as his bike would go, dodging once more between angry drivers, until he had put a little distance between himself, and the Honda.
He waited until a large box truck was blocking the view of the murderous Honda driver, and whipped into a condo complex, ducking into the underground parking structure.  Once he had found a dark corner to tuck himself into, he hopped off of his bike, yanked open his jacket, and pulled out the pill bottle.
He looked at the label, dark certainty clutching at him.  There it was, plain as day.  "Sadie Laurence."
The questions hit him again.  How in the world had the thieves known to target his home?  How had they gotten in?
The real question, whether his family was now in danger, was no question at all.  Even if the thieves didn't know Sadie was his daughter, they would be after more of these pills.  They would return to steal again.  He would have to make sure an appropriate welcoming committee was waiting.
But why?  Why had they stolen the pills in the first place?  What did they want with them?
Sadie was five years old, but she was roughly the size of a two year old.  His wife had struggled all through the pregnancy, and Sadie had made her grand entrance into the world two months early.  She had major health issues from the second she was born, but it had taken three years to find out why.  Little Sadie had a rare genetic mutation that caused severe atrophy and slow growth.  There were a few medications on the market that helped a little, but not enough.  Her doctors had predicted she wouldn't survive to adulthood.
Then, a new experimental drug made its debut on the market.  It had come seemingly out of nowhere, her doctors all stunned that this medicine, absolutely perfect for Sadie, had appeared just when she needed it.  Because it was still in trials, it was horrifically expensive.  Almost a thousand dollars per pill.  After several long bouts of paperwork and phone calls, she had been accepted into a special trial program, with the pharmaceutical company was only charging them a thousand per one-month supply.  All they had to do was give the company full access to Sadie's records and tests.
The one drawback: she had become dependent on the medicine.
If she missed even one dose, her vitals would drop significantly.    She would struggle for breath, and her little heart would race.  Without this medicine, she could die within days.
And these cretins had stolen it from her.  For something as crude as money.
His fear was replaced by anger.  He yanked out his cell phone, quickly tapping his cousin's number.  He vowed that they were not going to get away with it.