Belge Noir: The Setup

(This piece written by Zig Ryder, my personal narrator here in Belgium)

Usually the .38 at my side gives me warmth. Not tonight. She was empty, Belgian train rules. Not to worry, I had a hot clip at the ready if things got rowdy in second class. It was a five hour ride from Lyon, soon to be over.

I stepped off at Deinze station, chilled by a cutting gust. I was landing in Belgium with nothing but a couple ponies, a couple skinsuits, and a hankering for muddy corners. Cyclocross season was swinging and I didn't want to miss the ball.

As I checked over my bags a local brat with sticky fingers made at move on my bike box. I gave him a peek at my heater and he moved on to the next sap. The sleepy little berg was dull gray under low afternoon clouds, a thick mist whipped through the streets. Tonight I would hole up at some old maids boarding house, but first I'd drop in on the grease monkeys at Tempo Cycles.

I was met at the till by a pale little mouse. I told him to get someone who knew something about anything. A minute later I was talking with the main man. I said I was looking for some long term digs, something suitable for a young stud with wheels. He flipped through his little black book. As he dialed he sized me up with a squinty left eye. I didn't like it, but I knew he could give me the connect, so I gave him room. He swapped some pretty words with a 'Martin' and came up with a number. "That's Staf," he said, "he runs a place on the North side, they call it the Farm." I took the digits and tipped my brim.

Too be continued...