Tig and Clay are having breakfast, and Tig asks, sotto voce, if Clay and Gemma got into it. Clay shrugs that Tig doesn't need to know. Tig paces in frustration, then reigns himself in and asks sharply, "What do I need to know, Clay?" What follows is a conversation that should be shown in MBA programs across the land, as it beautifully illustrates how managers can alienate their employees by dismissing their concerns:

CLAY: "I ain't gotta talk to you about my old lady."
TIG: "You don't want to talk about nothin' no more. Ever since we got out, man, I mean, you cut me off. I got no idea what's going on with you."
CLAY: "Jesus Christ, you and fat Elvis. A couple of chicks. What, I marry you too?"
TIG: "Yeah. Sorta. You did. 'Cause I'm the guy at your side [that] steps between you and the shit that tries to kill you. I'm your right hand, Clay."
CLAY: "What do you want, a pat on your back every time you climb on your Dyna? It don't work like that around here, pal."
TIG: "Oh. You know why you're losing this club? Do you? Ain't cause of the drugs. It's 'cause you crawl in there, and you shut those doors, and you lock all of us out."

Clay has no reply for that because it's true: he's a wounded animal holed up in his den. But he will die before he concedes that Tig's right, because to Clay, concession equals ceding authority, and right now, leading the club is all Clay's got left. So he watches his strongest remaining supporter in the club walk off.