Old Dog

by Roy F. Chandler

  The vendor was defensive. "Hell, I won't make a dime."

  Unrelenting, "It's up to you. That's all I'll pay." Dog waited.

  The leather man said, "Give me five more for doing the sewing and it's a deal."

  Dog smiled, "Deal! What's five bucks between friends." The merchant reached for the jacket and eagle, but Dog's hand lay on them.

  Still smiling, Dog added, "Providing we get ten bucks off on a pair of chaps."

  The seller groaned, but how could he say "No."

  Chaps! Timmy's knees trembled. He had never expected chaps. His uncle handed him the right amount of money. "You pick 'em, Tim. See that guy selling tailpipes? I'll be over there."

  Tim went chaps looking, and Old Dog hailed a friend.

  The tailpipe peddler was called BC. He said, "Dog, you old bastard. I wondered when you'd show up." He let go of Dog for a closer look. "Damn, you looked peaked. You been sick or are you in training?"

  "I've been better, BC. You look well fed, as usual."

  "I've got a good woman, Dog. Married life agrees with me."

  "Looks like it." Old Dog sat on a display table. "Damn, you still riding that ratted out old hog?"

  BC's machine was almost famous. It featured lights. A truck battery replaced a saddlebag. It took a lot of electricity to keep the many bulbs glowing. In daylight, the Harley looked like a two-wheeled junkyard, but at night, with the Christmas strings blinking and strobes flashing, BC's creation stood out.

  He also had a horn. It was one of those things big RVs sported—that played a dozen or so recognizable tunes like "Hail to the Chief" and "The Old Gray Mare." You knew when BC was around.

  "You seen Stool?"

  "I could locate him. What's in it for me?"

  "Talk or I'll cut some of your wires."

  "Hell, Dog, Stool's sitting over there, almost behind you." Dog looked and there was Stool.

  Dog kept an eye on Stool, swapping a year's adventures with BC, waiting for Tim's arrival.

  The boy came, self-conscious in his new leathers, flushed with excitement and enthusiasm. He stood for inspection.

  BC said, "Kid looks like you must've looked at that age, Dog."

  "Ought to. Tim's my brother's boy. Carlisle genes run strong."

  They left BC and stood aside waiting because Stool was deep in conversation.

  Tim unawaredly ran his hands over the zippers and snaps on his leathers. "Why is he called Stool, Uncle Dog?"

  "Well," Old Dog found a seat on a wooden crate. "Years back, Stool had one of those seats that horse people and bird watchers carry around. It had a round padded seat and one long pointed rod for a leg. You stuck the rod in the ground and sat comfortable.

  "Stool took the damned thing everywhere. While the rest of us got our butts damp, Stool perched comfortable. Unfortunately, we always had to wait while Stool put his seat away or got it out. Everybody grumbled about it.

  "One day up at P-town, out on the end of Cape Cod, we were set up on a beach that had deep sand. Stool was away for a minute, and a big guy sat on his seat. The thing sunk into the sand pretty far, so the guy dropped himself on it, and the stool went deeper. It was a good game, and we all joined in. When he got back, Stool found his seat pounded so deep it was flush with the sand. Took him a hell of a time to dig it out."

  Tim laughed, imagining the scene. "He must have been mad."

  "A little madder the next time it happened. Guarding his stool got to be more trouble than it was worth. Anyway, some brothers drove it deep on a Jersey beach, and Stool just left it. Probably still there."

  Stool looked intellectual. He was a small man, baldheaded, and he wore round glasses. Old Dog said, "Stool's never forgotten anything, and he stores everything he hears. Some claim Stool worked for the CIA before becoming a full-time biker. Now riders tip him for information about their friends or perhaps for advice on where to ride or how to find something."

  Dog called, "Hey, Stool."

  Timmy swore he could feel Stool's brain shifting gears and focusing on Old Dog Carlisle's file.

  "Hey, Old Dog," hesitation, "Gee, you look like hell—man, you're down to fighting trim."

  Timmy watched Stool's features tighten as the thickly glassed eyes studied his uncle.

  Stool's voice was concerned, "You're seeing a doctor aren't you, Dog?"

  "Yeah, I'm being worked on." Tim did not see Old Dog's warning gesture, but Stool changed subjects abruptly.

  He shook Dog's hand and studied Timmy for a short moment. "Obviously a relative. Could be your brother . . . Larry's boy."

  Timmy said, "Wow!" Stool appeared gratified.

  Old Dog and Stool swapped a few incidents of common interest before Dog raised his question.

  "You got anything on a rider called Hunch? He was around a few years back, out on the west coast was where I saw him."

  Stool seemed to blank over; going deep, Timmy guessed. Stool could make a fortune on the TV game shows.

  "Hunch, yeah." Stool came to abruptly. "Bad dude, Dog." A file opened. "Hell, you had a run in with him. Kicked his butt and ran him off. Something about . . . ." Stool searched, Old Dog helped out.

  "He was abusing Little Pat."

  "That's right." Stool swerved. "Pat's gone to ground in Ogden, the town outside Fort Riley, in Kansas. Operates a gas station."

  "Good. Little Pat wasn't really tough enough for the road."

  "He still rides a Sportster, though."

  "What about Hunch?"

  "Hunch . . . did time for cutting a man. In La Jolla, six months, I think. Got ninety days for growing marijuana, up north, around Mendicino. Let's see . . . uh huh, Sacramento police were looking for him, had to do with another stabbing. Bad hombre, Old Dog."

  "Got anything more recent, Stool?"

  "Only other thing I've heard is that Hunch was drug running back east here. In deep, somebody . . . uh huh, it was Elbow Harley mentioned it, maybe a year ago."

  A host of riders claimed to be named Harley Davidson. Some could legally prove it. It was convenient to label the many Harleys out there, and Elbow Harley had gotten broken up in a crash. His left arm had been hurt and would not straighten. His motorcycle had mismatched handlebars, the left one shorter so the rider's hand could reach the clutch, light dimmer, horn, and turn indicator. Old Dog had only heard of him.

  Dog said, "Here's an update, but forget the source, unless it's important to mention."

  Stool's head was bobbing. Information was like a drug to Stool. He wanted it all.

  "Hunch is running under the name Joe Watson. I got that off some bills and papers in his saddlebag." Because Stool would value it, Dog threw in, "Hunch is riding a Kawasaki dirt bike rigged for road use.

  "Hunch was carrying a few pounds of marijuana when I checked him out, but he was delivering . . . I don't know what . . . to a big-time criminal, Bat Stailey, up in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania."

  "Uh huh, up in your country, Dog. Bat Stailey . . ." Stool thought about it.

  "Uh huh, a Teflon Don. Nobody can nail him. Been tried, but he gets off. Probably into everything crooked. Tall, regal looking, with million dollar gray hair. That the guy, Dog?"

  "That's him."

  Old Dog added, "They're riding in the barrel, Timmy. Go see it. It's a show worth watching. I'll be here with Stool when you're done."

  Stool watched the boy go. "Fine young sprout, Dog. You told him yet?"

  "Told him what, Stool?"

  "About what's wrong with you?"

  Old Dog studied his friend in amazement

  "Stool, you ought to get a glass ball and tell fortunes. What do you think is wrong with me?"

  "Hell, Dog, the signs are there. You're going downhill fast. Think I didn't see you hunt a seat because you felt weak legged? You've got a certain look, Dog. Real sick people get it."

  Stool shrugged, "I could be wrong, Dog, but I don't think so."

  Old Dog sighed, "I hoped it wouldn't show for a while yet."

  "It doesn't much. F
ew will realize. What is it, AIDS or cancer?"

  "God, you should take up doctoring. It's cancer. The big C. Way beyond curing."

  "Sorry, Dog, real sorry."

  "Yeah, but what the hell, Stool. Life's been good. Quality should count as much as quantity."

  "Exactly right, Adam, but it's natural to want more."

  How in hell did Stool know his real name? The man was uncanny. Mentioned one time within Stool's hearing, probably; filed and never forgotten.

  Stool asked, "Considering your condition, why are you interested in Hunch . . . Joe Watson? " Stool reinforced his memory.

  Old Dog had never verbalized his thoughts, much less his half formed plan. He took time to organize.

  "Hunch just sort of fell into the picture, Stool. I'm focusing on Bat Stailey."

  Old Dog seemed to wander, "Ever think that given the chance, a man ought to do at least one special, distinctive thing for the good of humanity?"

  Before Stool could answer, Old Dog went on. "Consider an animal like Bat Stailey. Law can't reach him. He owns better lawyers than the government can employ.

  Stailey is chauffeured in a bulletproof limousine that belongs to a "friend." He lives in a mansion belonging to another "friend." Stailey never carries money and has no credit cards. He wears friends' suits, and is always a free guest at social functions.

  "Stailey has no paper trail. Yet everybody knows that he is a criminal and a gangster. The one time a colleague agreed to testify against him, the witness's mother and father disappeared and didn't show up until the guy forgot his testimony. Stailey plays real hardball.

  "Maybe a person like that ought to be taken care of by concerned citizens."

  "Vigilantes ride. That it?"

  "Sort of."

  "Dangerous stuff, Dog. The old west is long dead. Modem vigilantes would tell their wives or brag to a friend, and other well-meaning people would have to declare the vigilantes guilty of doing the bad guy in and see that they got locked up."

  Stool remembered. "There was one incident out in the mid-west where a town bully was shot dead in front of half the populace, but no one would admit to seeing anything. Case never has been settled. I think secret keeping is mighty rare though, Dog."

  "I'm dying anyway, Stool."

  "You mean do it alone? Snipe the guy from long range, maybe?"

  "Maybe, but that doesn't seem like enough. He wouldn't know what hit him, and no clear and certain warning would be delivered for other criminals to think about."

  "What do you want, Dog, a high noon shootout?"

  Stool chuckled a little. "Tall in the saddle stranger rides into town and plugs the dastardly villain before riding into the sunset. Sounds macho, Old Dog, but hard to arrange, and damned hard to get away with. Hell, brother, you don't want to die in a penitentiary."

  Dog said, "I damned sure don't. Guess I'll wear a bandanna over my nose."

  Stool snickered, "Great disguise. It's worked in a thousand westerns."

  "I've got something else new for your Hunch file, Stool." Old Dog repeated the rider's story about Hunch probably killing the young rider for his fine motorcycle.

  Dog added, "I think I'll give the Bidwell family a call and see if their boy ever turned up."

  Stool was instantly intrigued. "Let's do it now, Dog. I'd like to know if Hunch really murdered for a motorcycle. If that boy never did show up, I'd say a case could be made. Well, not a court case, but enough to let brothers know."

  "A case good enough for a vigilante, Stool? I'll round up Timmy, and we'll make the call."

  The Bidwells were still in Lincoln. Old Dog talked first to the mother, then to the father. The son had simply disappeared. He had written that he was coming home, but he had never arrived. Could the caller shed any light on their boy's whereabouts?

  Old Dog's heart cried for them, but what good would it do to tell what he suspected. Dog said he had no news and was just checking in.

  "The boy never showed up, Stool."

  "That should clinch it. If the boy's stayed missing all these years, Hunch killed him for his scooter. But, how do you prove it? Hell, Hunch probably doesn't even have the bike anymore. The law won't help."

  "Sounds like a job for 'The Lone Stranger' to me." Old Dog struck a gunfighter's pose.

  Stool was not impressed. "You'd better think it over, Adam. Taking out a few bad ones won't change a thing, but it could make your last months miserable."

  Old Dog paraphrased, "If not now, when? If not I, who?"

  When they got back to Stool's chosen spot a few impatient riders waited.

  Dog tucked a hundred dollar bill into his friend's shirt pocket.

  "Oh man, that's way too much, Dog."

  Dog shrugged, "I've got enough, brother, and, you know, Stool, somehow money doesn't seem all that important right now.

  Old Dog bought a motorcycle. He chose an ugly, beat up Yamaha that did not even have a title. Despite its trashed appearance, the machine ran powerfully. Dog rode it around, broadsliding and doing wheelies. The seller said, "If I had papers, it'd be worth money."

  "Where'd you get it?"

  The seller was vague. "A guy I know had it."

  "I'll use it for parts. Old Dog paid $200. Timmy asked, "What the heck is that for, Uncle Dog?" He feared Old Dog was buying the junker for him, and rat bikes were not his style.

  Dog was as vague as the seller. "I know a guy who can use it."

  Timmy hoped the guy wasn't him. The Yamaha was hot, and Old Dog had ridden it like he must have when he was young, but Tim Carlisle planned on being a Harley man—period!

  Chapter 14

  Days blended. Bikers came to Old Dog's hotel to groan at the decadent splendor and to shower. They drank Dog's beer and swapped yarns. Stories ran the gamut of astonishing to vulgarly gross. All were interesting to Timmy Carlisle, although many burned his ears, and he was embarrassed that Uncle Dog knew he heard such stuff.

  They also rode, up and down the beach, along Atlantic Avenue, and out Main Street. Faces became familiar to Tim, and it was not unusual for a hairy mountain man biker to clap his shoulder and say, "Hey, Little Dog, where's the old guy?" Or perhaps a massive tattooed arm of weather-coarsened hide would encircle him and ask how he was doing. Timmy loved those occasions.

  He met a friend, son of a younger rider, and they worked the beach together. Tim's body browned under the daily sun dosages, and his hair began to bleach. He only thought of home when Old Dog reminded him of his obligation to telephone.

  On Friday they rode north to the Holiday Campground. The camp was packed with bikers, but there were also trailers permanently set in place—folks who had nothing to do with Bike Week.

  Old Dog settled in for visiting with cycle enthusiasts who did not live the biker lifestyle. Larry, Gary, and Scott were full-time mechanics. They owned Harleys and rode a lot, but their lives were settled on goals other than seeing new places and other riders. But, Old Dog knew them; Tim Carlisle's suspicion that his Uncle knew everybody worth knowing was reinforced.

  As dusk came down a rowdy pack of youthful celebrants livened the occasion.

  Their camp was a disgraceful mélange of patched-up tents and construction plastic stretched among trees and broken off branches to form shelters—possibly adequate to resist morning dew. A tragic collection of trashed out Japanese motorcycles surrounded the encampment providing a protective cordon against other passing barbarians.

  Their campfire was, however, truly noble. A half cord of cut and split wood had been brought along, and the noisy gathering enjoyed a monumental blaze worthy of a city's pillaging.

  Also notable were the beer coolers. Each participant appeared to have vied to provide the largest.

  The group's beer-numbed entertainment was to ride a small Honda motorcycle straight into a nearby palmetto thicket—to see who could penetrate the furthest.

  Each attempt ended in a crash with punctures and slashes from the sharp-edged palmetto fronds. Inevitably, a rider ricochet
ed and sprawled in the magnificent campfire. Singed and scraped the rider submitted to his friends' first aid—a thorough smearing with motor oil—and he was ready to try again.

  The Honda refused to die, and the game finally ended in the dark with a thrown rider so deep in sharp palmettos he could not get out. His cohorts held the still running Honda over their heads, using the headlight as a searchlight, helping the lost rider find his way.

  It was a good show, and only a too close roll of thunder announced to participants and watchers that a Florida downpour was en route.

  Old Dog said, "Oh hell, I hate to ride in the rain." He hustled Timmy into his jacket and dug a face mask from a saddlebag. Dog resisted offers to stay in a tent or a camper for the night and started off. They had barely crossed I-95 when the rain began.

  Like many Florida storms, the rain came as a gully washer. Old Dog cut back to about 35 mph and endured the drenching. The water quickly soaked leather, padded linings, and clothing beneath. Chaps, jackets, and plastic face mask took away the sting of raindrops at speed, but the going was treacherous with puddles forming and wet leaves plastered blanket-like on the roadway.

  By the time they swung onto A1A, Old Dog's scooter had the highway to itself. Anyone who could was under cover. They made good time to the hotel and up the elevator.

  Dog said, "Hit that shower fast, pal. I'm half frozen. When you're done, leave it running hot. I'll be waiting."

  Warmed and dried, they watched a little TV, but Old Dog said he was done in and hit the sack. Later, Timmy heard him coughing, and that worried the boy. His uncle was sick. Seriously sick, Timmy believed. How serious, he avoided guessing.

  Their last excitement was the Sunday motorcycle parade out to the racetrack. Old Dog stayed for it because he wanted Tim to have seen it all.

  Dog rode to the head of the parade and hollered, "Make me a place, bros." Riders greeted and complained and shuffled machinery until Old Dog had a hole. Then they visited, waiting the start.

  The front of the parade rode swiftly, the air thunderous with Harley engines. Police escorted, and arrival at the speedway was swift. Old Dog pulled out of line early and parked. "We'll watch 'em go by, Tim."