Tuck walked his bike backwards into a space at the funeral home, killed the engine and propped it on the kickstand before swinging his leg off the back. He pulled a comb from the back pocket of his slacks and ran it through is beard, taming it from the wind of the ride from the hotel. He shifted his shoulders and unbuttoned the front of his sport coat. The weather here was cooler than he was used to, but the jacket still felt hot and just a little tight. He wished he could take it off, but then his weapon would be visible. Dealing with questions about why he felt the need to be armed at his mother’s funeral was not something he wanted to deal with.
Not able to justify delaying any longer to himself, he pocketed the comb again and went inside. Inside he was greeted by a somber looking man
