Black Dog by Caitlin Kittredge

single lamppost floating up out of the darkness like a passing headlight.
    Leo squinted out the windshield as I rolled to a stop. Gravel and broken beer bottles crunched under the Volvo’s wheels. “Somehow I don’t think this is home sweet home.”
    I looked past the pool of light at the building. It was weathered gray, silver in the illumination of the neon lights. Aside from a snarling coyote head painted across the roof peak, it could have come straight off the back lot of a western TV show. Replace the line of dusty road bikes lined up in front of the hitching post with horses and you’d have the complete picture. Underneath the coyote blocky letters almost as tall as I was spelled out ROAD DOGS .
    â€œDepends on your definition of homey,” I said, setting the brake and turning the car off. Once the clatter of the engine faded, I could hear hillbilly rock music, clanking beer bottles, shouting, and the sudden, explosive rattle of a Harley turning over. A big guy on a fat-­tired bike roared out of the lot, spraying gravel that plinked against the Volvo’s windshield. His leathers sported the same snarling coyote.
    Leo grimaced. “I miss my gun.”
    I opened the door and swung my legs out, working the kinks from my shoulders and knees. “You afraid of a few outlaw bikers?”
    â€œA few, no,” he said. “Fifty, yeah. We don’t get many One Percenters in Brighton Beach.”
    I wished I still had my jacket. I was going to stick out like a flower child thumb. “You’re a long way from Brighton Beach,” I told Leo.
    â€œNo shit,” he muttered, lighting one of his cancerous-­smelling cigarettes. I watched the figures move in and out of the clubhouse across the lot, wondering if Clint Hicks was among them. He was smart, hiding out with a shifter pack. They didn’t like Hellspawn any more than we liked them. But when your ass was on the line, you’d make friends with the Devil if he’d keep you hidden. Look at me and Leo.
    â€œHey,” he said as I started toward the clubhouse. I stopped, looking over my shoulder.
    â€œProblem?”
    â€œI know you’re very good at your job and you probably don’t need my advice . . .” Leo said.
    â€œYou’re right,” I said, staring him down. “I don’t.”
    â€œI have done collections before,” Leo said. “Back in New York. Clint Hicks has avoided Gary for what, twenty-­five years and change? Guys who give this much trouble are either incredibly lucky or roll heavy.”
    â€œGuess it’s good I’ve got you with me, then,” I said. “Wait here, and if I’m not back in fifteen minutes, come in.”
    Leo sucked on his smoke until the ember glowed crimson, clearly not happy at this turn of events. I resumed my long walk, not trying to act like I belonged. I wasn’t Wilson, throwing my weight around and getting mouthy until someone peeled my skin off, but they needed to know I wasn’t afraid of them.
    I paused for half a step on the sagging porch, the splintery barn door before me rolled open like a throat, exhaling darkness and smoke and earsplitting music. Another step and I’d be swallowed, churning along with the backlit shadow figures inside.
    Was I afraid? It wouldn’t matter if I was. Fleeting fear of the shifters inside the clubhouse was nothing compared to the very real possibility Lilith would taxidermy me if I didn’t collect Clint Hicks.
    I stepped inside. Music washed over me, turning into an insect drone over a shitty set of PA speakers, along with the chatter and body heat of a hundred drunks shoved into too-­close quarters. Keeping my back to a wall, I let my eyes adjust to the dimness, little better than the night outside. Barn lights caked in dust hung randomly from the rafters, spilling irregular pools of light onto the bikers below. None of them noticed me, that frictionless