Old Dog found a traffic gap and slashed across Second Street. He wove around to reach his alley and the parked pickup. He rammed onto his ramp and slammed to a halt in the truck bed, striking the cab end so hard he expected a cycle wheel had bent.
Dog let the Yamaha fall on its side. He dropped to the ground, heaved the ramp into the truck bed, and slammed the tailgate. The alley remained deserted, but who could tell if eyes saw from behind the dozens of overlooking windows?
His breathing rasped like fingernails on a chalkboard. His hands shook, and strength was flowing away. But there was still much to do. Dog scrambled back onto the truck. He flipped his tarp onto the laid-over Yamaha concealing it completely. Still helmeted and wearing the white shirt, Old Dog climbed behind the wheel and drove away.
Alleys connected. He made two turns before again pulling over. Inside the truck he shed shirt and helmet. Ahead a trash dumpster beckoned. Dog pulled alongside, ripped the shirt into strips, and tossed it inside.
Another one hundred feet along a sewer drain yawned at curbside. Dog pulled up and listened to the welcome gurgle of underground water. He broke open the sawed off and extracted the empty shells. A quick flip and slide consigned the incriminating empties and gun to the Harrisburg sewer system. Only then did Old Dog remove his gloves.
He motored then, mixing in traffic, taking his time out to the Farm Show area. He parked amid student vehicles in the HAAC lot. With a cynical grin, he laid his full face helmet on a nearby bench. If it stayed there long, he would be surprised.
The ache in his back was horrid, and he was too tired to do more. At least he was not coughing up bits of his lungs. Old Dog swallowed a pair of Demerol pills and waited for their effect.
Finally, he could consider how it had gone. Strange, now that it was done, he really did not care about the outcome. If it turned out that Stailey somehow lived, Dog guessed it would no longer matter. Burned out on it, he supposed.
No one else had gotten hurt. He could be reasonably sure of that blessing. Someone could have shot wildly, but he had not detected firing. Dog tried to remember sound, but it was strangely absent, as though a mute button had been pressed. He recalled strained faces and awkward movements. The strike of buckshot into Stailey was clear in his mind's vision. He could feel the motorcycle's heaving violence as he fled, but until he turned onto Second Street, there was no sound. Odd, but in a way comforting. He did not need the shotgun's blasts or shouts and screams to confuse memories.
Of course, he had not felt the lightened shotgun's heavy recoil. On targets, a shotgunner suffered recoil, but in the field the same kick went unremarked. The heavy smoke? Perhaps from shortened barrels. It was odd that in such a tension-packed moment he would have noticed.
The Demerol took hold, dulling nerve endings and relaxing overstressed systems. Old Dog guessed he would live after all . . . but just for a little while longer, he was sure.
He had gotten away more cleanly than he could have hoped. After resting, he would clean the oiled muck off his truck's license plate. He supposed no one had seen the bike's unloading or reloading, but if they had, getting the truck's license number would have taken careful and close examination.
A nagging fear had been that someone would have stolen his cycle ramp while he was gone. If he had returned to find himself rampless, he had planned on dousing the Yamaha with gasoline, lighting it, and driving away. Nowhere near as good. Now, all he had left to do was drive up to Bloomfield and dump the Yamaha into Fred Thebes's deep hole. He would kick in enough shale to hide the bike. Soon Fred would fill the hole with tailings, and the machine would be buried forever.
First he would rest. Another hour should do. At home, his VCR was faithfully recording Channel 21. No doubt the cable was already burning with coverage of the dastardly crime.
Screw 'em. Bat Stailey was history, and Old Dog Carlisle was pleased to have done it.
Chapter 20
Just after dark, rain had begun to fall. The temperature dropped with it, and weatherman Chuck Rhodes spoke about various fronts milling about
Old Dog had gotten in before that. He had hoofed in sock-footed, his second pair of jump boots buried with the Yamaha. His gloves were there as well, and he would like to have thrown in his pants, but arriving bare-butted would have been noticed. The pants would go out in the next trash pickup. The TV cameras had surely recorded close details, but his pants should be the last identifiable item.
Larry and Timmy had come over after supper to watch the evening news, which would carry the first complete coverage of the Bat Stailey assassination.
Timmy had ideas. "It was probably a biker friend of the one that Stailey killed in his woods. Bikers get even, Dad."
"More likely his own mob rubbed him out."
"In front of TV cameras, Larry?" Old Dog sounded doubtful. "Stailey was big. If the bosses wanted him dead they would have had him disappear Jimmy Hoffa style."
Larry said, "The killer was a young whippy guy. He tossed that motorcycle around like it was a toy."
"Uncle Dog used to ride like that. Didn't you, Uncle Dog?"
"Used to is right, Tim. My biking days are past."
"You could still ride, Uncle Dog."
"Maybe, but it would be mighty gentle highway cruising." Old Dog chuckled. "If the bike fell over it would have to lay there. I'd never get it up again."
He chuckled again. "Maybe I'll get a Gold Wing."
"Oh, Uncle Dog, you wouldn't ride one of those things. They ought to have four wheels. They aren't hardly real motorcycles."
Larry was wry, "You taught him well, Adam."
The Stailey coverage was stunning. The local stations had pooled their film. What one had missed, another had managed.
For Old Dog, the watching was disconcerting. The masked biker did appear young, lean, and wire muscled. Had that been him? Of course, but . . . God, he looked good. Unbelievable!
Old Dog watched the rest with detachment. If there had been censoring, it had been minimal.
As he remembered, a microphone had slammed into Stailey's face, and the mobster's shirt had rippled as buckshot pellets—some distorted from striking microphones—drove into his chest
The second blast followed so closely its report blended with the first. Stailey doubled and fell forward, down the steps to sprawl face hidden on the concrete.
Whew, it was graphic! The perfectly focused action was caught in such detail it appeared movie-like, as though actors had staged it all. Even the killer's escape zoomed in tight
Larry said, "No license plate on the bike."
"It's an old Rice Burner." Tim's voice was disdainful. To Timmy and many Harley riders, other makes were beneath identification. "They all looked alike."
The rider's broadsliding turn onto Second Street was handsome. Old Dog wondered how he had managed it.
Timmy was admiring. "That's a motocross rider, Uncle Dog. I can tell 'em every time."
"Probably right, Tim. Man can really ride."
Larry reminded, "Let's not get admiring. The rider is a cold-blooded killer, remember, almost certainly a paid hitman."
"Think they'll get him, Dad?"
"Sooner or later, probably. Those kinds of people have friends, too. They talk, then someone gets mad, and word leaks out." Larry was certain of one thing. "With the coverage this shooting is getting, the law won't dare back off. They'll all be hunting."
"Maybe it'll be somebody you know, Uncle Dog. You know a lot of bikers."
"Not many young ones, Tim. Most of my friends are old guys."
Because he was obviously feeling lousy, Larry and Tim left early. Old Dog showered and eased gratefully into bed. Dosed with painkiller, he had only minutes to consider what he had seen. Hair showed beneath the masked rider's helmet. He would get a shorter haircut. Otherwise, Dog saw nothing traceable—except his pants, and they would be gone tomorrow.
He experienced no inner glow of satisfaction, and that disappointed him. What were his feelings? Just glad
to have it done with, he decided.
So, it really was finished. He could forget Bat Stailey, Clout, and Hunch. His personal gift to the world was as complete as he would make it.
Had he accomplished anything real or lasting? Probably not. Few individuals genuinely altered the course of human events, but perhaps he had dented the historical record just a trifle.
Good or bad, important or insignificant, he, Old Dog, had made his move and had seen it through. That was about all anyone ever accomplished in life. Perhaps he was satisfied after all.
As if answering a summons, a pair of easyriders appeared early at Old Dog's door. Old acquaintances, they had heard Dog was not going to make it. They had ridden up from York to wish him the best and to say goodbye.
Before they left, another rode in. He came from Lancaster. The rider could not recall how the news was passing, he had just heard it.
Old Dog knew. That damned Stool had let it out. It had to be Stool. No other brothers knew. Correction: No other brothers had known. Dog heard more Harley engines moving along Main Street.
Well, it was Saturday and bikers hunted reasons to ride on their weekends. It was nice of them to come. Old Dog decided he was not mad at Stool after all. Maybe all the dope he was taking had mellowed him.
And they kept coming, single riders, some with their camps behind their saddles. Many riding double, their latest women all leathered out and strutting proud.
Arlis fled inside and finally left for Harrisburg, Larry in tow. Timmy stayed, glorying in every arrival. He and a biker he had met in Daytona took Old Dog's pickup to Newport on a beer run. Dog sat on his porch greeting vistors and marveling that so many friends, acquaintances, and even strangers bothered.
Sunday was no better, and Arlis complained that her weekend was ruined, and that she couldn't wait until Monday when everyone would get back to work. Only, on Monday they kept riding in. Some bikers, Arlis had forgotten, did not work all that regularly.
Old Dog wore out easily. He would sack out, only to find riders waiting for his waking. Often he dozed in his rocker, heavily sedated, wrapped in his old blanket, while brothers reminisced and drank his or their own beer. Some camped for a night behind the barn. Others only shook hands and rode on. Old Dog felt like an expiring prelate whose loyal subjects passed for a final touch of hand or eye. An old rider brought his son to meet the suddenly legendary Old Dog Carlisle. An entire club came down from Tioga County—fourteen Harley riders Dog had never known existed.
Timmy found a grizzled biker sitting on a hay bale in their barn weeping into his beard. "They just don't make 'em like Old Dog anymore."
It was Stool all right, and on Thursday Stool himself came trundling in riding a trike built out of an old knucklehead Harley.
Dog was awake and alert when Stool pulled up and shut down in front of the porch.
Old Dog examined him archly. "What in hell are you riding? Can't you balance anymore?"
Undismayed, Stool came up to shake hands. "As Pythagoras noted, 'Three wheels determine a plane. '" Stool made himself comfortable.
Dog said, "It's you sending these riders in here, isn't it?"
"I don't send them, Dog. I let them know, and they choose to come." Stool smiled, "Sort of astounding though, isn't it?"
Old Dog groused, "Doubt my sister-in-law would choose that description. Another day or two of this, and she'll likely burn me out."
"I'll talk to her." Stool changed the subject.
"Easyriders magazine got here yet?"
"What?"
"Well, they're sending someone to interview you."
Old Dog exclaimed, "Holy hell!"
Stool appeared quizzical. "You don't realize it even now, do you, Dog?" He sighed as though having to explain to a child.
"You are one of the big guys, Adam. You've been easyriding before the name was invented, and you are known all over the country. When you pass, people say, 'There goes Old Dog.' You are famous, Dog. Riders like you; they want to be like you. You are a charter member of this way of ours, Adam. Biking is our 'Cosa Nostra, our thing.' It's what we do. It's a society, a club, a brotherhood. Biking is a world within a world, and it's our world.
"The fact is, Dog, we've got leaders—unannounced ones like yourself. We have magazines, social orders, businesses, and hobbies built around biking. If you added it all up, we're more than a billion dollar a year industry."
Old Dog snorted in disgust. "Hell, Stool, we're just guys who like to ride motorcycles. A few of us did it full-time. So what? Most citizens hate our guts. They think we're noisy, dangerous, and dirty. They'd take us off the roads if they could." Dog considered, "In fact, they'll probably do just that somewhere down the line. I'm glad I won't be around to see it."
"That's why we need a written history, Adam. We need our story written down with names and places. The machines need describing, the easyriders, the clubs, the racers, the moms and pops. People need to know how many of us there are—more than belong to the NRA, or NOW, or . . ."
"Ah hah!" Old Dog pointed a bony finger at his friend, who began to smile shyly.
"That's it. That's why you're riding that three wheeler. You've got to pack records around. You're starting to write that history."
Old Dog rocked back in awe. "Man, Stool, that's a big order—to do it right, I mean."
Stool was appropriately humble, "It's big all right, but Adam, I've got it all here in my head and more on paper and in photos in my boxes. I can do it. Three years, I figure, that's what it'll take."
Old Dog was cynical. "Then, who'll publish it, Stool? It'll be a huge thing. What, one thousand photographs, maybe a lot more? How many pages? Fifteen hundred?"
Stool was defensive. "If I can get five hundred copies printed, it'll be enough, Dog. Getting it down so it won't be lost is the thing."
"It'll cost a fortune."
"I've been putting money away for it, Dog."
"How much've you got, Stool? Honest now."
"Damned near ten thousand dollars."
"Ten grand? Geez, Stool, that might get some printed, but what are you going to eat on while you are writing? You'll have to make the rallies or you'll miss new history. For three years, man? You'd better find a woman who'll take care of you."
"I've got a place up in Piercy, California. You remember it, Dog?"
"You mean that old tourist cabin place along the river . . . what was its name?"
"Resting Oak."
"Yeah, hey, that's nice up there, Stool. Gee, those were good times." Dog sighed, "No helmet laws back then." He remembered, "Didn't you grow some pot up on the hill across the river?"
Stool grinned in happy memory. "I was younger then, Dog."
"Yeah, you'd just started riding free."
"I had to eat."
"You planning on growing weed again? You'll have to eat this time, too."
"God, no! That was then. This is now. I'll work it out . . . somehow."
Timmy came from school and took Stool to meet his mother. Old Dog called after them, "I'm going to sleep a while. If I hear gunshots, I'll know Arlis got you."
Arlis liked Adam's friend. He knew a thousand interesting things. Stool, what a peculiar nickname, but many of Old Dog's friends had strange names.
Stool knew wonderful cooking recipes. He appreciated flowers, and he understood exactly Arlis's brand of personal Christianity.
A very nice man, Arlis thought. It was too bad he could not escape the rowdy motorcycling.
Stool stayed at the house for a while, and that gave Old Dog time to consider one last problem and to work out a practical solution.
When Stool came back, Old Dog was rocking on the porch, his head fuzzy with narcotic, but not hurting too bad.
Dog did not beat about the bush. "Stool, I've got a story to tell and a proposition to make. To get the deal I'm offering you've got to agree to real secrecy and a long follow through on what I'm asking."
"What in hell are you talking about, Dog?"
"
Here's the proposition. You need money to hold you over while you're writing your masterpiece. Well, it happens I've got money I won't be needing. I'm willing to put it up, if you agree to some requirements."
"What requirements?"
"Nope, it won't work like that. Here's how it is. I'll give you cash money, thirty thousand dollars, for your living and printing expenses, and I'll hand over seven thousand more bucks as payment for your doing what it is I'm asking be done. But you don't get anything until you agree to do what I ask."
"My God, Dog, where did you get money like that?"
"I invested wisely." Hunch's saddlebag delivered the thirty grand and Stailey's pocket produced the other seven thousand smackers—for a good cause, Old Dog figured.
"What do I have to agree to?"
"Damn it, Stool! Are you dumb or something? I told you, you have to agree first. Then I'll tell you."
"Strange way to deal. It must be something awful."
"Try trusting me, Stool."
"Try trusting me, Dog."
"I will, as soon as you agree."
Dog held up a restraining hand. "We'll talk about it later, here comes Timmy."
A car also pulled into the yard. Two men in suits got out. They appeared uncertain for a moment, glancing toward the house, then at Dog's shanty with Stool's parked trike and people on the porch. They started back, looking serious and business-like.
"You know 'em, Tim?"
"I don't, Uncle Dog. They look like insurance men to me, though. Probably hunting Dad."
The pair came close and halted.
"Adam Carlisle? Official sounding, Dog thought.
"That's me."
"I'm Special Agent Maxwell, and this is Agent Calder, Federal Bureau of Investigation. We would like a few words with you."
Dog turned to Stool in apparent amazement. "Holy hell, Stool, FBI. Hard to believe."
He turned back to the agents. "Come on up. Find seats. This is Stool, and that's my nephew, Tim."
The agents shook hands, and Old Dog said, "Aren't you supposed to show ID or something? Or is this an unofficial visit?"
Maxwell offered his identification. It was unusual for an agent to more than show his papers. Hmmmm! Dog examined the credentials and passed them to an awed Timmy, who studied the plastic closely before handing off to Stool.
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