For late in the afternoon on a Saturday, the bar was sleepy - literally. At some of the booths and tables were unconscious bikers, their sprawled positions and snoring suggesting that they had spent a late night drinking, passing out when sleep and beer had overtaken them. Their snores were like sleeping bears, a sputtering and grinding chorus better suited for a vintage cartoon than the confines of the small run down bar.
The bartender was the only obviously awake person. Overweight and getting on in years, he wore a white apron, making him look more a butcher than bartender. With a dirty rag, he rubbed the bar counter, as if that meager rag could somehow clear years of dirt with simple friction. He looked up when Dane and Abby came in, then took a sidelong glance at the bikers.
"Kids, are you sure you wanna drink here?" he said, with a quick look to make sure his other customers were still sleeping. "Maybe someplace in Southend will be better to your liking."
"No, we definitely want to be here," said Dane as they sat down at the bar, choosing the least rickety stools.
"We were wondering if we could ask you some questions," said Abby.
"I'm a bartender," said the man nervously. "Questions are someone else's job. If you want a drink, I can help, otherwise I'm going to ask you to leave. Probably best for you anyway."
"Okay, we'll order something," said Dane. "Hmm... Do you have Irish Coffee? I just discovered that, and it's fantastic!"
The bartender made a face. "Not at this bar. Southend, buddy."
"What beer do you have on tap?" asked Abby.
"It don't matter what you order, baby," said a sleepy voice. A biker slid into the bar stool next to Abby. He was in his late twenties, tall, broad shouldered. His hair was dirty blonde and Abby thought he was kind of cute, in a scummy sort of way. Unlike many of the Rebels, he didn't have a beard, just the stubble of a few days that was still considering whether it would like to become a beard. Abby tried to remember if he was on Jaya's video footage, but the quality of the footage had been poor; not enough to identify someone by. She still had to assume he was dangerous. "It's the same vile pisswater no matter what you order. Lloyd here claims it's different, but I've long suspected that the taps just go to the same keg. Isn't that right, Lloyd?"
"It's all different, sir, you know that," said the bartender, his tone suddenly very meek.
"You like that?" said the biker to Abby. "Always calls me 'sir'. At first I didn't think I'd like it. I thought he was being sarcastic! I thought he was just making fun of me. But I realized after a while he didn't mean it that way. And y'know, a while after that, I actually started to like it. I think more people need to call me sir."
"People tend to respond with the same respect you treat them with," said Dane. He had noticed that the biker had slid into the chair awkwardly, as if he was sore in his chest or abdomen. That had Dane thinking he was one of Jaya's attackers. "I don't need someone to call me 'sir' to feel like that."
The bartender said nothing but he suddenly was much more nervous.
"I'm not sure if I like your boyfriend," said the biker. "A bit old for you too. Or is that what you like? Do you call him 'sir'? Is that what you're into? I could get into that!" He placed a hand on Abby's shoulder.
"Not interested," said Abby with disgust. She got up from her stool and moved to one farther down the bar, closer to the door.
"What?" said the biker, his arms wide. "You not ready for a real man?"
"If you're a 'real' man, I think I'll stick with fake ones," said Abby.
The biker shook his head and turned to Dane. "Chicks, man! Am I right?" When Dane didn't have the reaction the biker expected, the biker just yawned. Dane definitely noticed stiffness to the biker's movements, an odd wince of pain here and there. "What do you guys want, anyway?"
"We were trying to get drinks," said Abby.
The biker shook his head. "This is our house. You're not here to drink, especially not at... what time is it? Well, whatever time it is in the afternoon on a Saturday. We're not even playing the game," he said, nodding his head up to the television behind the bar, which was playing a Saturday afternoon movie that was edited for television.
"I had some questions I had hoped to ask Lloyd here," said Dane.
"My, uh, name isn't actually Lloyd," said the bartender. "He just calls me that because of a movie."
"Did I ask you something?" said the biker with sudden hostility.
"N-no," said the bartender.
"No, what, Lloyd?"
"No, s-sir," said the bartender.
The biker smiled and turned to Dane. "You gotta keep them in line. Or else they get too familiar and start dropping the 'sir'. And I was getting so used to the sir. But I digress. We were talking. What do you want?"
"I'm Dane Monday, who are you?" said Dane, putting out his hand for a shake.
The biker looked down at the hand, then smiled and shook his head, as if Dane had just told a joke. "You're a funny guy. The name's Rick Hellion. Now that we're introduced, Funny Guy, tell me what you're doing in our bar."
"Rick... Hellion...?" said Abby. She didn't believe for a second that it was his real name.
"Yeah, baby, now you know my name, do you wanna come sit by me and get with the program?"
"Maybe I'd rather -" started Abby, her face flushing with anger, her feet about to kick off her stool to get in the biker's face.
" - sit there and not cause any trouble!" finished Dane. "Because we're not looking to antagonize anyone! We're just here in a friendly quest for information! Friendly. Very friendly."
Abby frowned and nodded. She had forgotten that this scumbag was also likely a lethal killer with fangs and long claws.
"A friendly Funny Guy," said Rick, as if considering the idea. He smiled. "So just what do you think you're gonna find out here?"
"We're looking to buy something," said Dane, slyly. "Something that... well, might not be legal or legally obtained. If you get my drift."
"Just what do you think of us?" said Rick. "That we're just a bunch of criminals?"
Abby would have breathed "Yes" under her breath, but knew enough to keep quiet.
Dane smiled. He had dealt with this type of jousting before. Time for a risk. "Some things don't change. A leopard doesn't change his spots. You can have a bartender call you 'sir' all you want, but it doesn't change what you are."
Rick stared at Dane for a long moment, his face very serious. There was something dark, almost like anger which threatened to cross it. Abby held her breath. She was sure Dane had just screwed up and gotten them killed. Didn't he remember they were trying not to piss off the Rebels? She slowly and subtly grabbed hold of her bag and camera, in case then needed to run at a moment's notice.
Finally Rick broke his stare and smiled. He let out a loud laugh, his head falling back in mirth. Then he slapped Dane on the arm.
"I like you, Funny Guy. You make me laugh. And you got some balls on you. I appreciate that. It's a rapidly disappearing trait in this city. Lloyd's got no balls, neither do most of the folk I meet. Not even other clubs! You'd think that if you were willing to mount up on a roaring chopper, you'd have some balls. But New Avalon is seriously lacking in balls."
"Some of us have braver ovaries than you got balls," called a sleepy biker woman from a nearby table. Her straight blonde hair fell at all angles, nearly covering her face. Around her, other bikers were slowly waking from the noise of the conversation.
"I'd never disrespect a good pair of girl-balls," said Rick. "But you don't find any of that around here either. Avalon's a little too full of 'Yes, sir,' and 'No, sir,' for me. But like I was saying, I'm getting a little more used to it. If I can't find peers, might as well lord above them, am I right?" He chuckled and slapped Dane on the arm again.
Abby shook her head in disagreement, while Dane just gave a mirthless smile.
"So what is it that you're looking for?" said Rick. "We can probably get it for you. Drugs? Guns? Jewelry? We're no stranger to getting things for the right pr
ice. You can offer the right price, can't you, Funny Guy?"
"Oh yeah!" said Dane. "I'm pretty sure we can come to an arrangement!" He made a mental note to have Alastair teach him some of the nuances of haggling for illegal goods. "But nothing quite so illegal as those. I'm looking for more unique things. I like curios, antiques, and artifacts."
"Fancy stuff! That's usually not our thing," said Rick, scratching his forehead in thought. "I guess we could get them if you tell us where, but it's not really our best business. So I'm not sure why you came to us."
"Just the word on the street," said Dane. "What I'm really looking for is a small antique. About yay big, made out of Avalon Brass. Flat on either end, a ring around the middle." His hands described the Sphere.
Rick's mirth left him and his eyes narrowed. "What?"
"I hear something like that has recently come on the market," said Dane, "and I'd really love to get my hands on it. Surely we can make a deal of some sort, right?"
"I don't know what you think you heard or think you know, but you need to quit your crap right now," said Rick.
"I'm sure we can make a deal," persisted Dane.
"Seriously, cut the crap," said Rick.
"If money is a concern, we can match it," said Dane, but he saw the way things were going. He hoped Abby was ready to run. His hand slid into his satchel and felt for the silver pie cutter.
A large arm slammed down on the counter between Dane and Rick. "Enough!" said a deep voice.
Dane looked up to see a large biker. Six foot four, broad shoulders, thick arms. The lines and wrinkles on his face said he was in his fifties, but age seemed to have not eroded the man but tempered him into steel. His square jaw was still strong, his cheekbones still sharp. His vest had a large patch for the Howling Rebels. But it was his face which gave his identity away. Starting from his forehead, stretching down into the space between his left eye and nose, following down to his lip, cutting through his salt-and-pepper beard and ending just above his chin was the jagged trail of a wound that had healed as well as it was going to long ago. The ruined tissue was a lifelong reminder of a conflict long dead, and it had become the only name anyone ever knew him by. This was the leader of the Howling Rebels, Scar.
"Just who the hell are you and what are you doing here?" bellowed Scar.
"Well, as I was telling Rick here, I'm looking for a small antique of about this size -"
"Cut the crap, little man," said Scar. "Why are you here?"
"We want to buy it back," said Dane.
A faint smile crossed Scar's face but was gone in a moment. "Now I understand." He turned to Rick. "He's the complication we were told about. And we thought we had lucked out and avoided him." He turned back to Dane. "You're barking up the wrong tree. We already have a buyer. We had one before we even grabbed it. You're out of luck."
"I'm sure we could negotiate something," suggested Dane.
Scar smiled faintly again. "Right now you should be focusing on negotiating whether you two get out of here alive. Brick, lock the door."
Dane's hand tightened on the pie cutter. All around the bar the sleepy bikers were standing up. Abby hadn't realized before how much the place smelled like wet dog.
"Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot," said Dane, getting off his bar stool and backing toward where Abby now stood next to her own stool.
"Oh, we'll have plenty of time to find the right foot," said Scar scarily. "So how about you tell us everything you know, and we'll think about letting you go. No, I change my mind. We'll think about letting one of you go."
There was a low growl from all the members of the Howling Rebels as they all moved closer to Dane and Abby, surrounding them.
But this was interrupted by the sound of surprise as Brick, the biker sent to lock the door, went stumbling away from the entrance. All eyes went to the doors where two men in sharp suits stood, their badges in one hand and a gun in the other. One was older with gray hair and broad shoulders, and one was younger with dark hair and a surprised expression. They were familiar to Dane and Abby. Special Agents Jameson and Voss.
"What's going on here?" said Jameson, moving forward while Voss kept an eye on everyone from the door.
"Nothing, officer," said Rick with a smirk.
"You know very well I'm not an officer, Helman," said Jameson. "Agent or Special Agent."
"Maybe you should call him 'sir'," suggested Dane.
Rick's smirk left his face, turning to a scowl at Dane.
"We'll get to you in a bit," said Jameson to Dane, "so don't go anywhere." He turned to Scar. "You I want to talk to right now."
"I haven't done anything," said Scar. "I've got witnesses that can attest my location."
"How do you even know when I'm asking about?" said Jameson.
"Tell me what time it was, and I'll find witnesses," said Scar. The bikers around him let out a laugh.
Jameson walked over to Scar. "I only need to talk to 'Scar'. The rest of your club can clear out of here. Now."
"But this is our bar!" said one biker.
"For the next little while, it's my bar," said Jameson. "So get out before I throw you out."
Bikers reluctantly began getting up. "Why do we have to leave?" said one.
"Am I being detained?" said one with a laugh.
"If I'm going to detain you, you won't need to ask," said Jameson. "The next thing you'll know is the concrete of a holding cell. So I suggest you all clear out now and stop testing my patience."
With grumbling, the bikers made their way out the front, a few suggesting colorful adjectives to Agent Voss about his partner. There was a chorus of motorcycle engines outside and then they cleared off into the dwindling afternoon.
Scar climbed into a booth, sitting sideways so his body faced Jameson standing at the bar, the biker's boots overtaking the aisle next to the table. "Is this really necessary?"
Abby noticed that Scar adopted a sulking body language when left on his own. She also wondered why the supposed werewolf bikers gave in to authority so easily. The bar was now empty except for Dane, Abby, the bartender, Scar, and the two agents. Agent Voss walked to join his partner. He gave Abby a meaningful look of worry and reproach, but said nothing.
When no response came to his question, Scar spoke again: "Are you just here to harass me? You still don't have anything on me."
"Perhaps I have something on one of your crew," said Jameson, holstering his gun and sitting on a bar stool.
"Then you should get them in here," said Scar.
"Cut the crap," said Jameson. "Even if I can't directly implicate you, you're the head of this damn beast. Nobody even farts in your damn club without your approval."
"Hellion would love that comment," said Scar with a smile that was more dangerous than humorous.
"Helman's just a charismatic thug," said Jameson. "I know he's just around so you don't get your hands dirty. When I finally have something on him he can't shake, you'll drop him."
Scar grinned. "Why Agent Jameson, what ever do you mean?"
"Let's just cut the crap, alright?" said Jameson. "I have a gigantic hole in the middle of a Riverside street and all I have is that the Rebels went speeding away from it, directly toward this bar. You got anything to say about that?"
"It's got nothing to do with me," said Scar. "You sure that it wasn't some other club?"
Voss pulled out an evidence bag. In it was a torn piece of a Howling Rebels patch. "Found right near the hole. Any of your people missing a patch?"
"Nope, we're all good," said Scar.
"Let me rephrase," said Voss. "Are you missing any people? We found... remains. Think it's one of yours."
Scar paused a moment at this info, but then shook his head.
"There's a gigantic hole in the street, and it goes down into the sewer tunnels," said Jameson. "What did your people have to do with this? What is going on?"
Scar said nothing. Then Jameson turned to Dane and raised his eyebrow.
"Giant
serpent!" said Dane with excitement.
Jameson looked incredulous. He turned his gaze on Abby.
"Giant serpent," said Abby, though she sounded apologetic.
Jameson sighed and rubbed his head. "Do you have anything to do with this? What are you two even doing here?"
"Werewolf bikers!" said Dane.
Jameson sighed again. Voss and Abby rolled their eyes, but for different reasons. No one was paying attention, but Scar's eyes narrowed.
"And I was so enjoying cases that didn't enter the Twilight Zone," said Jameson. He turned back to Scar. "Don't you care that one of your people is dead? I figured you'd at least fess up to get the remains."
"I've got nothing to do with it," said Scar, crossing his arms.
Jameson shook his head. "Get out of here. I seem to have bigger fish to fry. But we're watching you."
Scar shrugged and got up. He tried to be nonchalant as he walked out of the bar, but he took a long look at Dane as he left. Dane was now on his radar as more than a complication on a job. After he left, a motorcycle started up and rode off.
"So what do you think is going on this time?" said Jameson. He and Dane sat at the bar, the relieved bartender cleaning up after serving both men cups of coffee from a barely used coffee machine he pulled from behind the bar. The coffee was old, but it was palatable.
"There's so much! Okay, let me sum up! So the Howling Rebels are werewolves who stole a small sphere that is the key to my case!" said Dane excitedly. "And there's a gigantic sea serpent lurking underground! And that's not even getting started with the stuff in Chinatown!"
Burning Monday: (Dane Monday 2) Page 13