Two days later, I pulled up to Tommy’s sprawling house in the Black Hills. The man who greeted me looked nothing like the wild-eyed biker I’d known – with his neatly trimmed gray hair and reading glasses – but his handshake was still iron.
“You look like hell, Ghost,” he said, grinning.
“You look like my accountant,” I shot back.
We laughed, and for a moment, it was 1975 again.
Inside his garage was a medical office that would have impressed any hospital. Tommy had always been unconventional.
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