Old Dog gave the small figure an easy shoulder slap and rose adding, "We like having you along, Little Pat. We don't want punks like Hunch. You keep that in mind."
Pat said, "Thanks for jumping in, Dog. You know I appreciate it."
Dog waved a hand in acknowledgement. "I expect Hunch'll keep going. Our roads'll cross no doubt, but I figure he'll be a lot more careful in his talk."
Old Dog was half right. Hunch kept going, but their paths did not cross again.
Not, that is, until Old Dog's vigil from the deep timber behind racketeer Bat Stailey's mansion.
Stailey's thugs had whipped the hell out of Old Dog. It had needed a while to get over.
To his family and the rest of the world, Old Dog had taken the licking in stride. They should have known better. Ever since he had healed up, Old Dog had been homing in on Bat Stailey, the figure behind the beating.
It had not been easy. Finding where Stailey lived took time because Stailey was not listed anywhere, and Old Dog did not wish to leave a question trail. He eventually found the gangster's retreat, actually owned by a cohort, on the mountain behind Linglestown. To locate the place, Old Dog had followed Stailey home from a publicized charity occasion.
A lot of drive-bys, over time, in different vehicles, gave Old Dog the layout. The house was walled in front, but had a swimming pool behind. Dog rode the mountain on a little Yamaha trail bike, finding the best ways in and out. He learned to park the cycle and walk down close to a little wooded knoll from which he could see the mansion's back side. Later on he found a handier spot to park his pickup and walk over to the lookout.
Because he planned long but was unsure of what he could or would do, Old Dog left no traces. He neither ate nor drank while spying on the Stailey place. No litter betrayed his position.
He saw Bat Stailey, and a time or two watched him swim in the heated pool. Stailey was never alone, and the house was rarely empty. Old Dog saw the men who had pounded him. The head knocker was Stailey's main man, so Dog found out about him. The thug's last name was Clout. Entertaining. The name truly fit.
One evening Clout came regularly to a back door and appeared to be listening. It was worrisome, and Dog considered fading away, but Clout's expectant manner was also intriguing, so Dog stayed.
Then Hunch stepped from the woods edge, circled the pool, and was admitted to the house. He carried a package. Within minutes he left. Astounded, Old Dog stayed in place. After a few moments he heard a motorcycle crank up higher on the mountain. That was all.
Old Dog had recognized Hunch almost at first glimpse. Hunch had not changed, a little more paunchy and heavier jawed perhaps.
Clearly Hunch was a runner for Bat Stailey. A runner of what and how often? It would be hard to find out both answers.
Hunch came once a month, always in the last week. His packages appeared identical. Dope? Stailey would not be that stupid. Money? Maybe. What else was there?
Old Dog found Hunch's motorcycle while its rider was delivering. Hunch rode a quieted down Kawasaki off-road machine. The muffler was huge and very effective. Hunch did not announce his coming.
Backtracking the man proved impractical. Hunch rode different trails and cut cross country. Dog could not effectively follow. He tried guessing and waiting at likely come out spots. No Hunch. Dog decided to let that part go. It was Stailey that he was after.
Hunch had one careless habit. He always hurtled down a last hundred yard swath through the trees and parked in the same place. Old Dog went through his saddlebags. Bingo!
On most occasions Hunch carried a saddlebag packed tightly with a plastic pack of marijuana. Dog guessed Hunch had his own agenda, as well as delivering for Bat Stailey.
Maybe Hunch did bring in Mary Jane for Stailey's personal crowd, but Old Dog found it hard to believe. Stailey was under both state and federal magnifying glasses. He had already been tried twice under RICO laws and been acquitted both times. Stailey was one of the courthouse steps proclaimers who appeared to be above the law. Maybe, Old Dog thought, that could change.
After almost a decade, the nearly forgotten Hunch had reappeared right in Old Dog's sights.
Dog hoped his biker brothers might have information about him that could be useful.
The story of Hunch's murder of the young biker was both hateful and interesting. Dog wondered if Stool, the walking computer, might add something more.
Chapter 12
Old Dog and his nephew closed out the evening with a short walk along Daytona's beach. Traffic was gone, but couples still communed with sand, sea, and each other. Diners and a few fishermen kept the pier busy, and the boardwalk and cement walk teemed with leather jacketed bikers seeking action.
A giant bungee jump drew a crowd of spectators, and a respectable line of jumpers waited turns to hurl their bodies into space to be snatched from destruction—seemingly at the last instant—by the springy bungee cord attached to their ankles. It was a heady ride, and watchers oohed and cheered the daredevil jumpers.
Tim said, "Wow, Uncle Dog, would I like to do that!"
Dog suggested they sit a while and watch. Even the gentlest strolling left him a touch weary.
Dog visualized cancer cells that looked a lot like "Pac men", chewing at his muscle and fiber.
His voice wistful, Timmy said, "I guess it costs a lot to jump."
"Big money, sixty-five dollars for a few seconds thrill."
A failed jumper came back down in the car that had taken him up. Except for a few groans, the crowd spared the embarrassed youth additional mortification.
Old Dog said, "Now that would be a bad memory for life. That guy will never forget the time he wimped out at Daytona." Dog shrugged, "Well, maybe it'll make him gutsier the next time he's faced with a scary situation. He'll recall how lousy it is to fail because he was afraid to try."
Timmy said, "I wouldn't be scared."
"I suspect you would be, Tim. It isn't natural to step off a high place. The question is, could you dive off anyway?"
Detecting a serious note in his uncle's voice, the boy answered with some care. "I guess I would be scared, but with everyone looking I'd go off anyway. I know I would."
"Uh huh. That's what the guy that rode back down thought."
"You ever bungee jump, Uncle Dog?"
"Sure. Right here about three years ago when it was brand new. I went twice, it was so exciting. I didn't have more money on me, or I'd have gone again. It's cheaper after the first jump, but not that cheap.
"I could do it. I'll bet no other kid in my school has bungee jumped."
"Probably not, but it sure wouldn't do to get up there and lose heart"
"I'd do it."
They watched as a jumper swan dived and fell like a stone before the stretchy cord snatched him more than half way back up. Timmy said, "Wow!"
Old Dog nodded, as if making a decision.
"OK, Tim. I'll pay if you really want to jump. Only thing is, I want to be sure you'll do it. Riding back down isn't Carlisle style."
Timmy was on his feet.
Dog said, "Hold it a minute. We've got to talk a little." Tim perched on the bench edge.
Old Dog looked up at the jump. "When you go up, if you decide to go, the man in the car with you will say 'Don't look down.' Well, that's one way, I guess, but the right way to do a thing is to look it straight in the eye. Know what it is you are facing. Know just what you are going to do, then do it.
"So, my advice is, look down, look out, and see that you are above the tallest buildings. Feel the car sway and suck in the cool air up there. You'll feel everybody watching and rooting for you. Realize that you are in the middle of a great adventure and enjoy how scared you are. Then, dive off. Timmy, it's a thriller."
The boy was writhing in anticipation, so they went over and got in line. While they waited, Old Dog added, "Now remember a last thing, Timmy. Nobody EVER gets hurt doing this here at Daytona. One accident and this ride is off the beach and out of business. The danger
is all in your head. It isn't real, it just seems real."
When they got close, Old Dog said, "If they ask, tell 'em I'm your Dad so they don't get nervous about somebody as young as you going."
A sharp-eyed, no-nonsense woman sat them down and shoved pre-prepared forms at Old Dog. She said "ID" and Old Dog dug out his driver's license. Timmy showed what he had, and the woman spared them a toothy smile.
"Sign here, initial here, sign here, and here, and here." Old Dog kept signing. He said to Timmy, "I think I just gave away the farm." The clerk had heard it before.
She said, "If you don't jump, we bring you straight down, and it is just as if you did jump, that clear? No money back." Tim and Old Dog answered, "Yes, Ma'am."
Dog paid, and Timmy sat on a tin chair waiting to be rigged out.
The operation was professional and ran like a well-tuned clock. Time was money, and the system was expensive.
A giant crane—over two hundred feet high, they advertised—hauled an open elevator car very high. The jumper stepped out onto a foot-square platform and on signal made his dive. It sounded easy, but most people steered clear, afraid to try. Old Dog prayed Tim would succeed because either way, the boy would remember it.
A youthful attendant strapped Velcro leggings tightly to each of Timmy's calves. At the bottom, each legging had a heavy loop sewed in. The bungee cord would hook through them. A belt was strapped to Timmy's waist. A thin wire with a loop in the end of it dangled from the belt. It was easy to figure out. If the ankle leggings let go, the stainless wire would still save him.
The attendant talked a lot. "Boy, are you in for a great ride. I go every chance I get." Timmy listened, even though he knew it was mostly chatter designed to keep jumpers calm.
He had already been weighed, but as he was led to an "on deck" chair, they weighed him again and checked to see that this weight matched a color sticker placed on his jacket. That was also plain enough. The color sticker matched the color of the bungee cord they would use for him. Each cord would have a different stretch. Too stiff a cord would shorten the fall and give a terrible jerk. Too stretchy a cord might put the jumper into the concrete. The realization raised goose bumps.
It was his turn. The "on deck" attendant, mouth working in encouragement, marched him close. His color cord was attached to the car and the other end to his ankles and the thin wire. The new attendant snapped a wire fastened to the car side to his belt. They did not want a panicky jumper trying to get out at the wrong altitude.
The jump attendant started talking, and the car started up. Along with encouragements came the advice not to look down.
Timmy said, "I want to look down."
The attendant was flexible and adjusted easily. He hated stickers. Keep 'em happy and get them airborne was his job.
Tim tried to see Old Dog, but there was a blur of black jackets. Must be a thousand, he thought, and a nifty idea came to him. Tim wondered if he could do it. He would try.
It was high, and it got higher. Tim found himself squeezing the car rail and made himself let go. The bungee cord ran from his ankles out under the elevator's wire door and came up through the floor. The secure end was fastened where the jump attendant could see it.
The car jerked to a stop and swung giddily. The attendant let it settle down. He unhitched Timmy's security wire. It was time to jump.
Timmy could hear his heart. It thundered in his ears. To each side he could see the roofs of hotels running for miles up and down the beach. The solid motorcycle traffic on route A1A hurled sound and light at him. Ahead, the ocean lay calm and the beach appeared to be a mile or so almost straight down.
The attendant said, "OK, you step out onto the platform. I'll give you a '3, 2, 1, Go.' You dive off and holler 'Bungee' as loud as you can. Ready?"
Timmy nodded because his throat had gone desert dry.
He shuffled onto the tiny platform, holding tight to the car rails, fearful that the swaying and the weight of the cord would pull his feet from under him. The attendant said, "3," and Timmy felt his knees weaken. His mind asked, "Why am I doing this?"
"2," and Timmy thought about Uncle Dog watching. "1!" He forced his fingers from their iron grip on the rails.
"Go!" A hundred thoughts flashed. He could not go—he was so alone with all those people staring—he would jump even if it killed him. He felt his arms shoving sideward into the swan position, but he did not yell "Bungee." Instead, he pushed off hard into his dive, doing his best with the idea he had thought of riding up.
200 feet above, Timmy's small body began its fall into hundreds of upturned faces. His boyish voice came shrill but clear, a call dear to the watcher's hearts. "HARLEY-DAVIDSON!"
The magical words struck with nuclear impact. The massed black jackets responded with a roar of approval that startled even the jaded—seen too many—attendants.
Old Dog had made himself sit down and wait it out, but Timmy's appearance on the platform knotted his muscles. The boy's dive started him to his feet, and Timmy's totally unexpected and magnificent "Harley-Davidson" opened Dog's own exultant bellow of satisfaction.
Timmy fell like a rock. The scene blurred, and the crowd's massive response was lost in the instinctive panic of the fall.
His mind screamed, "Too long," even as the bungee began slowing his fall. The ride eased, then, almost as exhilarating, he was hauled back up by the bungee's retraction. The lighted frame of the crane sped past his staring eyes, and he was suddenly looking closely at the bottom of the elevator car. Timmy said aloud, "My gosh what a ride!" Then he was again falling away.
Old Dog watched his nephew bounce at the bungee's end in decreasing rides until he hung from his ankles, arms dangling. The elevator car descended rapidly, and the attendants grasped Timmy's hands, guiding him onto a padded platform. The bungee was unhooked, and the car swung away to meet the next jumper.
Timmy passed through dozens of back slaps and "great jumps" until he found Old Dog. Eyes aglow, he said, "Wow!" Then not satisfied, he said again, "Wow, Uncle Dog." He rushed the last yard to squeeze his uncle in an enthusiastic bear hug. Old Dog squeezed back.
While Old Dog sipped a final milkshake, Timmy devoured a New England style hot dog, with the dog sliced in half and the roll genuinely grilled in butter. Timmy had Thrasher's peanut oil cooked French fries on the side and a Doctor Pepper to wash it all down. Old Dog envied him mightily.
Timmy hashed and rehashed the bungee jump, but he ran out of things to say before they reached their room. For Old Dog it was all good to hear. Tim was just the right age. Another year and he would be too teen-age sophisticated to admit to thorough enjoyment. Enthusiasm would begin to embarrass him. A year or so more and he would be "cool," certain that he knew about everything, and probably a royal pain in the butt. Those phases, too, were part of growing up, and about every boy had to pass through them. Dog was certain he liked this Timmy Carlisle the best
Old Dog took pills and a shower. "I'll likely sleep late, Tim. You can hit the beach, and we'll get the scooter unloaded when I get up. You got money left?"
"I didn't spend much, Uncle Dog."
Old Dog was drifting into sleep when Timmy's voice came through the dark.
"I did it, Uncle Dog. I bungeed."
"You surely did, and the yell was the greatest. Super job, Timmy."
Dog was again almost gone when the boy said, but mostly to himself, "And it was a two hundred footer, not one of those little old bungees they have at fairs."
Chapter 13
In the morning they started early. Old Dog drafted hotel staff to help back the Harley down the ramp. Of course money changed hands.
The weather was brisk, and only the most dedicated were up and parked along Main Street. Old Dog tooled west, pausing to speak with a single acquaintance. He asked about Stool, but the biker had not seen him.
Dog said, "We'll ride out to the fairgrounds, Tim. Things will be stirring out there." He pursed lips in thought. "It's too cold for those denims. Time
you got leathers, anyway."
Timmy's heart jumped. His own jacket! They had priced motorcycle jackets, and one made in Pakistan could be had for a hundred and fifty dollars. A real Harley Davidson would cost over two hundred and fifty. Timmy could see little difference in the garments, and he would settle for either.
The ride to the county fairgrounds was long. It was fast highway riding, and the wind bit hard. Tim pressed tight against Old Dog's back, and stuffed his hands deep into his uncle's side pockets. It was still cold, and he was glad when they arrived.
It cost Old Dog eight bucks just to get into the swap meet, but Tim knew instantly that the show was worth every dollar. Spread through acres of open selling stands were millions of motorcycle parts. Cycles were for sale, and there were areas broken down by bike types, where individuals could park their "For Sale" machines.
Within the fairground buildings specialty dealers hawked their wares. Leather and pins, of course, but also chrome, cycle lifts, saddles, engraving, and tattoo artists.
Dog said, "First we'll get you a jacket. Should have done it last night."
Like most things he went at, Old Dog bought fast. He strode up to a leather shop and said, "Pick out the one you like, Tim."
The boy knew what he wanted, one just like Dog's. He tried sizes until one fit.
Old Dog examined the choice. "Looks right.
"Want an eagle or something sewed on?"
Yep, just like his Uncle Dog's.
Dog said, "Gerry out of Nokomis picked my eagle. Gerry's old and rides a Honda, but we let him hang around. He's got good taste in eagles."
Dog asked the vendor how much. The man said, "The jacket's $155 and the eagle's $30 sewed on." Tim choked a little and said out loud that $185 was a lot of money.
Old Dog did not hesitate. "That's too much. I'll pay $170. If that's too little for you, we'll just work on down the line until we get it."
Old Dog Page 9