“Last chance, boys,” Frank said, his voice low and steady. “Let me pass, or things might get uncomfortable for you.”
The bikers erupted in laughter. “Oh man,” the leader wheezed, wiping a tear from his eyes.
“This is too good. Hey, Spike, you hearing this? The old man thinks he can take us.”
Spike— a mountain of a man with a shaved head— cracked his knuckles menacingly.
“Maybe we ought to teach Gramps here a lesson about respecting his betters.”
Frank’s eyes narrowed. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but these boys clearly needed to learn some manners. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
The lead biker’s eyes widened in mock fear. “Ooh, look out, boys, Grandpa’s going to call for backup.” He snatched the phone from Frank’s hand, holding it up tauntingly. “Who you going to call, old‑timer?
The geriatric squad?”
Frank’s voice was calm, but there was steel beneath his words. “Son, you’re making a big mistake. Give me back my phone and we can all go our separate ways.”
“Or what?” the biker sneered, dangling the phone just out of Frank’s reach.
“You’re going to bore us to death with stories about the good old days?”
Inside the diner, Rosie had finished dialing. “Yes, police? There’s a situation at my diner.
Some bikers are harassing an elderly customer. Please hurry.”
Frank’s eyes never left the lead biker’s face. “I’ve dealt with bullies like you my whole life, son— in the schoolyard, on the battlefield, and everywhere in between.
You think you’re tough? You haven’t seen tough.”
