Chapter 4 President's Room

"You stay in my room now," Victor said.

Mason stood in the middle of the room, shaking. Victor was still blocking the door.

"No," Mason said. "I'm not staying here."

Victor did not move.

"Move," Mason said. He tried to step around him to reach the handle.

Victor put one hand on Mason's chest and pushed him back. It was not a punch. It was enough to stop him.

"I said move," Mason said, louder this time. His voice cracked. "You can't lock me in here. Give me my phone and let me out."

Victor looked at him for a second, then unlocked the door behind him. He opened it an inch and held it with his boot so Mason could not slam it.

"If you want to leave, leave," Victor said. "The front gate is downstairs. Go try it."

Mason pushed past him and ran down the narrow stairs. He went through the private hallway into the main garage. It was early. The lights were already on. Jax was by the tool bench. Two prospects were sweeping near the lifts.

Mason went straight to the steel shutter at the front. It was half closed. A prospect he had never seen before stood in front of it with a coffee.

"Open it," Mason said.

The prospect looked past Mason's shoulder. Victor was coming down the stairs slowly, hands in his pockets, not hurrying.

The prospect shook his head. "Can't. President's orders."

Mason turned around. Victor stopped two steps above the garage floor.

"Your landlord changed the lock last night," Victor said, calm. "Jax brought your bag. It is upstairs. You have no apartment on 5th anymore."

Mason stared at him. "You went into my apartment?"

"I sent Jax," Victor said. "You needed your things."

Victor pointed toward the private garage on the left side where his black bike was parked under a white light. The floor in there was stained with oil and covered in scattered parts.

"Inside," Victor said.

Mason did not move.

Victor came down the last two steps. "Inside, Mason, or I drag you inside."

Mason walked into the private garage.

The corner was a mess. Someone had dumped chains, sprockets, bolts and old brake pads into one big pile, all mixed together, all dirty.

"Sort it by size and type," Victor said from the doorway. "Clean it. Count it. Write it down. That clipboard is yours."

Mason looked at the pile. "I don't know how to sort bike parts."

"Then learn," Victor said. He walked into his office and left the door open so he could see Mason from his desk.

Mason knelt down. His hands were still shaking from last night. He started separating bolts. He put big ones with small ones on purpose. He threw chains into the bolt tray.

Twenty minutes later Victor came out. He did not say a word at first. He walked to the trays, looked down, then kicked one tray over with his boot. Bolts scattered across the concrete.

Mason looked up.

Victor crouched down in front of him. "Do it right this time."

Mason started picking up the bolts one by one with black fingers.

Near ten o'clock Jax came into the private garage carrying a black duffel bag. He set it down next to Mason without looking at him and left fast.

Mason recognized the bag. It was his bag from his apartment. His old shirts, his jeans, his toothbrush. He unzipped it. Half of it was empty. His rent receipts were gone. The small wooden box where he kept his father's old watch was gone. His mother's picture from the fridge was gone.

"Where is the rest of my stuff?" Mason asked, standing up.

Victor answered from his office without looking up from his ledger. "Thrown away. You don't need receipts for a place you don't live anymore."

"You had no right to throw my things away," Mason said.

Victor finally looked up. "You owe me a hundred thousand dollars. You have no job. You have no apartment. Your phone says you're fired. What right do you have left to talk about?"

Mason had no answer. He zipped the bag shut and sat back down on the floor. He kept sorting.

Around noon a member with a shaved head and a faded tattoo on his neck came into the private garage to get a wrench from the shelf. He saw Mason on his knees, hands black, sorting bolts.

He stopped. "So you're the new house prospect? President's personal cleaner? How much did you cost?"

Mason did not answer. He kept his eyes on the bolts.

The member crouched down next to him, too close. "I'm talking to you, kid."

Victor heard it from his office. He did not shout. He stood up, walked across the main floor, came into the private garage, grabbed the member by the back of his cut and pulled him to his feet.

The member blinked. "President, I was just—"

Victor hit him once, hard in the mouth. The member stumbled back into the workbench. Blood came to his lip.

The broom in the main garage stopped. Jax stopped working. The two prospects by the lift stared at the floor.

The member touched his mouth. "I was joking."

Victor grabbed his cut again and shoved him toward Mason, who was still on his knees.

"Apologize," Victor said.

The member looked down at Mason. "Sorry."

"Get out of my private garage," Victor said.

The member left, holding his mouth.

Victor looked at Jax and the prospects. He said only four words.

"Nobody touches him."

He went back to his office and closed the door halfway.

Mason stayed on the floor for a long time, surrounded by bolts, his hands black, his duffel bag half empty next to him. His father's watch was gone. That hurt more than the rent.

An hour later Mason pushed open the office door. He closed it behind him.

"What is wrong with you?" Mason said. His voice was low and shaking. "You went into my apartment. You threw away my things. You hit that guy for talking to me. You locked me in your room last night."

Victor sat behind his desk. He was calm.

"You owed me yesterday," Victor said. "Now you live here."

"You took everything so I have to stay," Mason said. "My job, my apartment, my phone. You want me to have nothing."

Victor stood up and walked around the desk until he was right in front of Mason.

"Why me?" Mason asked. "Ray owed ten thousand and you stripped his shop even after he said he would pay Friday. I owe a hundred thousand and you... you put me in your room. Why?"

Victor did not answer right away.

"You keep asking why you," Victor said. "You keep thinking this is about money."

"Isn't it?" Mason said.

Victor's eyes stayed on him. The same hard, possessive look from the van yesterday, from Ray's shop, from last night when he dragged Mason across the lot past the guard.

"How long have you been mine, Mason?" Victor said.

Mason froze. He opened his mouth but no words came out.