by Matthew Iden
Stealing Sturgis
Matthew Iden
Copyright 2014 Matthew Iden
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are entirely the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved.
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For Renee, who continues to make the whole thing possible.
For my family.
For my friends.
The truck shot down the slope, engine screaming. Stands of knapweed were uprooted and caught in the grill, waving back and forth until they were ripped away to disappear under the pickup’s bumper. Rocks and flat pieces of gray-brown shale dislodged by the truck’s tires slid down the hillside, forming a comet’s tail of dust and scree. A jackrabbit sprinted away from the truck in a panic, scaring, in turn, a flock of starlings that took off in a storm of feathers.
Dozens of small hummocks littering the hillside caused the truck to bounce and buck like a rodeo bull, throwing the driver around the cab like a doll. What little control he maintained came from his left hand, which squeezed the life out of the steering wheel as he tried to keep the truck on a straight line. His right hand was pressed to his side where the blunt handle of a butcher knife protruded from between two ribs. Each time the truck slammed into the ground, the pain caused his vision to blur. Blood from the wound ran down the inside of his jacket and pooled on the seat—enough, in fact, that thin, red rivers ran down the seams and formed right-angled lines of scarlet that dripped over the edge and onto the mats. Stacks of twenty-dollar bills were scattered across the seat or fell onto the floor with each rocking motion of the truck. A few stuck to the leather where they met the man’s blood.
The driver, although accustomed to pain, cried out loud as he hit the largest hump yet. The truck went airborne and landed with a tremendous crash, pitching him forward and causing him to crack his head on the steering wheel. His vision went dark and he struggled to stay conscious and in control of the vehicle. The last hill had been the worst, however, and as he blinked his way out of a daze, the four wheels hit the asphalt. He punched the gas in a storm of gravel, dirt, and weeds, then forced himself to straighten and check the rearview mirror. Cutting straight down the hill had given him a lead, though a rising dust cloud told him that the bikers had turned around and were less than a minute behind him.
He took the truck to eighty, then ninety, barely keeping it on the road as he headed for the highway. With one hand on the wheel, he took a deep, painful breath and wrapped his hand around the knife. He yanked it free and felt the metal scrape on a rib. He’d been stabbed before, but this was like nothing he’d ever felt and he howled as he threw the knife on the floor. Lacking anything else to stop the bleeding, he grabbed a stack of twenties and pressed them to his rib cage.
Teeth bared, he concentrated on getting to the highway. When the exit appeared a minute later, he shoved the pedal to the floor and flew onto Route 90 at a hundred miles an hour. The bikers, with less to gain and more to lose, followed him for a short while before giving up. By that time, the driver of the pickup was fifty miles away, heading east and with no intention of stopping until he got to Virginia or died trying.
Chapter One
Randy’s plan started like a lot of questionable ideas do, while he was hungover and flipping through channels on a Saturday morning. Later, when the whole story came out—who got shot and how, where the money went, what the real score had been and how crazy it was—people who knew him would say, “Yep, that’s about right. That’s just how he would’ve thought it up—dizzy and damn close to being sick.”
He’d gone out to the Drake the night before by himself, although every once in a while he got lucky enough to buy a girl a drink. He knew he was on the skinny side and looked a little stringy, but he wasn’t so bad. His hair was long in the back, the way the ladies liked it, and his teeth were in pretty good shape. He’d introduce himself as Randy and they’d talk and eventually he’d get around to asking if she wanted to know his whole name. Reluctant, usually, she’d say “I guess” and he’d tell them it was Randy Anger Watson. RAW for short, he’d say with a wink.
Things would go pretty well for a while—they’d talk about movies or school or boozing. Most of the girls would look bored or distracted, but they never walked away. He’d pat himself on the back, thinking he was on his way to getting his crank turned. Inevitably, though, he’d have to take a leak. “Don’t you go nowhere,” he’d say, sliding off the stool and shooting them with a thumb and forefinger. He’d excuse himself to go to the john and when he returned, the girl would be gone, every time. Cussing a blue streak, he’d run outside to check the parking lot—in vain—then go back to drinking shots of Virginia Gentleman with Miller Lite chasers and swapping jokes with the bartender.
Last night had been no different and he’d ended the evening modestly drunk and definitely alone when he’d decided to call it quits and thumb his way back to the Pit, as he called his home, which was really just the storeroom in the back of Lee Baylor’s service station. After tossing and turning most of the night, he awoke sick from the booze and sweaty from the weather. Despite being so close to the mountains, July was hot as hell in Brumley and his head felt like someone had taken a bat to it. But if he rested his head against the cool, cinder-block walls of the Pit, it was almost as good as aspirin. Sitting was hard and standing was out of the question, so he lay there with his head pressed against the wall and watched television, waiting for the hangover to go away.
The TV was a fourteen-inch General Electric black-and-white relic at least twenty years old. It was a good day when it got three channels—and even those hard to see from the snow on the screen. If he scooted forward on his stomach with his feet on the pillow, he could reach the channel knob, but that made him queasy after a while, so he found one station that was less annoying than the others and settled back. The show was the typical Hollywood gossip merry-go-round: who got pregnant, who got them pregnant, touching stories of celebrity families, tales of lawsuits and busted deals. It wasn’t Randy’s cup of tea, but the show’s hostess had a nice rack and the station might show Baywatch reruns afterwards. He had the door propped open to let in some fresh air, but what little breeze reached him had to go through the garage, so it smelled of gasoline fumes and oil pans. After a while, he kicked it shut with his foot.
Just as he was dozing off, a short piece caught his eye. He wasn’t a complete gearhead like Lee, but he could appreciate a decked-out Harley when he saw one, and they were showing three dozen of them ripping down some desert highway. The sound was down on the set, so Randy eased himself forward, careful of the nausea in his gut, and turned up the volume.
The story was about some huge motorcycle rally in August. He’d heard about it but couldn’t place where it was going to happen. He watched and waited for them to get back to the facts of the story.
Sturgis, that was it. Some backwater town in South Dakota. He watched, entranced, as the TV showed hundreds, probably thousands of bikers pulling into town in their leather chaps and helmets. Most of them looked like old farts, with salt-and-pepper beards if not completely bald, but Randy laughed when they showed a hot chick lift her t-shirt and flash the camera. The TV show blurred it, covering the naughty parts, but it looked like the bikers were having a hell of a time. Beer kegs, live music, races, you name it. Looked like the biggest tailgate party of the year, except the people and bikes were the main event.
/> He was wondering why a Hollywood show would care about the Sturgis Rally when they cut to some good-looking dude being interviewed by a reporter. He was completely outfitted in snug leather pants, fringe jacket, and German officer’s cap. A small tag at the bottom of the screen read “Jason Ford — Actor, Director, Producer.” The two were in a wood-paneled bar that looked like a barn, with a crowd swelling the area behind them shouting for drinks. The reporter, a young blonde girl wearing khakis and a sleeveless knit blouse, stared at the camera with a pasted-on smile, waiting for her cue.
“I’m here at Patrick O’Brien’s Bar and Grill in San Bernardino with Jason Ford, the actor, director, and producer of such movies as Comanche and Goodbye, My Dominatrix! When he’s not making movies, Jason has an interesting weekend hobby.” She turned to the man next to her. “Jason, folks at home are probably wondering what a clean-cut guy like yourself is doing riding around on a Harley and wearing leathers. What’s all this about?”
Ford flashed a white-toothed smile. His blond hair was matted and tousled from riding, but it still looked good, like it had been styled far too often to ever look bad. “Riding a motorcycle is about freedom. About the open road. It’s a chance to see the country the way it was meant to be seen.”
“Wow, that’s great. You’re going to the Rally in Sturgis, in South Dakota,” Julie the reporter said. “Are you going to…rumble?”
He laughed and threw his head back. “This isn’t The Wild One, Julie. Sturgis is just a place to blow off some steam. Have a good time, drink some beer, hear some great music. We, you know, we start in LA. It takes us about a week or so. We take it easy—easy rider, ha-ha. We could do the trip in two days if we pushed it, but where’s the fun in that?”
“That’s great! Your newest squeeze, actress Becky Winters, hasn’t made the trip with you yet. Why is that?”
“Oh, Becky’s a great girl, just great. She hasn’t fallen in love with bikes, but she will. I’ll drag her there this year.”
Eyes wide, Julie asked, “Is it true you’re part of a gang?”
Jason grinned. “I don’t know if I’d call it a gang. I’m a member of Hell’s Hawgs, it’s a local SoCal motorcycle club. Most of the time we ride up and down the PCH but we make sure we fit in the Sturgis trip. We’ve done it for years now. Nothing I wouldn’t do for my Hawgs!” He yelled the last part over a shoulder and the place erupted behind him. A couple of fat, bald guys in jean vests and chains leaned into the camera shot, flashing the peace sign over Ford’s shoulder, screaming “Wooo” hoarsely, and jostling Julie the reporter.
“Oh, wow,” Julie said as she got knocked around. Ford laughed as they pushed him playfully, just one of the guys. He shoved them away and turned back to Julie, bending over to catch her next question.
“I hear you ride quite a bike. Can you tell us about it?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s my baby, that’s my prize. One of a kind, almost. It’s a custom 1978 Harley Electra Glide. Big Skull Custom in Santa Clara spent three thousand hours tweaking it. Most of their stuff is in museums, but why would you buy a bike and not ride it?”
“Your baby, huh? What’s Becky say about that?”
Ford laughed again, showing his teeth one more time. “Nothing. Becky’s an important part of my life, but my baby comes first.”
“Okay, thanks, Jason!”
Ford turned around and yelled “Hawgs!” one more time, pumping his fist, which started another round of hooting. One of the bald bikers handed Ford a full pint of beer and he started to chug it, leaning his head back as the Hawgs yelled encouragement.
Julie turned back to the camera. “It’s a heck of a party here! Larry, he won’t say it, but a couple of the bike collectors we’ve talked to tell us that Jason’s baby, as he calls it, cost him a cool hundred thousand dollars, and after all the customization, it’s probably worth a lot more. Every bikers at Sturgis would give their eyeteeth for that bike. Of course, it’s nothing compared to what Jason made on his last film—five million dollars. But he looks like he’s having more fun. Back to you, Larry!”
The TV cut back to tan Larry back at the studio. He smiled like a plastic doll. “I think I’d rather have Becky Winters than a motorcycle, but I guess he’s got both. Ha-ha, lucky guy. That was Julie Sanderson reporting from San Bernardino—”
Randy turned off the set and sat in the dark. A hundred thousand dollars for a bike? Or more? Who the hell paid that much for a motorcycle? A filthy-rich movie star, that’s who. He thought for a minute. Today was July twentieth, so the next Sturgis Rally was in three or four weeks. A huge party (five hundred thousand?), a ton of beer, chicks. And a bunch of bitch-ass celebrities who were sitting on small fortunes. Literally.
Randy lay back on the pillow and put his wrist on his forehead, resting and thinking. He liked to dwell on his future from time to time, imagining wild ideas and plans, conjuring wild scores that would set him up for life. There was the one where he robbed the Burke and Hubert bank in Richmond, just a guy and a gun, Bonnie and Clyde style. Well, without Bonnie. Or he’d hijack an armored truck and lead the cops on a chase scene right out of a movie, but he’d get away because of some kind of Dukes of Hazzard screwup by the police. He always got the money, maybe got the girl, and definitely got away. The fantasies were always fuzzy on the details, but whatever. It was the end result that mattered, anyway.
The TV show had him thinking. A plan started to take shape, a crazy score that had him grinning despite his headache. He examined the idea, prodded and poked it, turned it over and upside down. Well, hell, he thought, after looking for holes and finding none. Sounds better than what I’m doing now.
Chapter Two
Randy had returned to Brumley, Virginia, by way of Green Rock Correctional Center back in June, riding a bus the whole way because, unless you had a sweetheart on the outside waiting to take you home, a bus is about all anyone managed right out of the gate. And if you didn’t have that sweetheart’s house to go back to, you headed for familiar ground, even if it was Brumley, a whistle stop of less than a thousand souls wedged in the hills of southwest Virginia. Blink and you’d miss it.
He laughed as the bus pulled away, the back tires spitting gravel. They couldn’t be rid of him fast enough. Well, he felt the same. He’d had a little fun on the trip from Richmond, pestering the hell out of the people on the bus, then bugging the driver when he couldn’t get a rise out of the others. He didn’t know why he did it; he just liked getting under people’s skin. It was a gas, watching people’s faces twitch and wrinkle as they tried to think of a nice, polite way to tell you to screw off. Most folks would rather die than tell you how they really felt, even if what they thought was written right on their face. It’d been a while since he’d been free to screw with people. Try that at Green Rock and you’d have a piece of steel in you so fast it’d make your head spin.
He looked around. The 7-Eleven hadn’t been here the last time he’d rolled through town, although that wasn’t surprising. A lot of things would be different. He hitched his duffel bag high on one shoulder and swaggered around to the front of the store, shading his eyes with a hand as he caught the full tilt of the afternoon sun. He thought briefly about buying a drink at the store, but skipped it. He had exactly fifty bucks and it wouldn’t take long before that was gone. Instead, with nowhere to go, he headed up Main Street to see what else had changed in his hometown.
There were some new fast-food restaurants and some of the old stores like Hammond’s Grocer had changed hands, but it was still the same sleepy Brumley he remembered as a kid. Parking was free—no meters—and there were open spaces all the way down Main. Storefronts announced sales that had been running since he’d been in high school. A few people were out on the street, sauntering, not wasting time but not in a hurry to get anywhere, either. They fanned themselves and talked in lazy rolls of conversation. They glanced at him as he made his way along the street, then looked away.
He knew he was quite a sight. A limp, acquired
from jumping off a loading dock stealing TVs, probably made people look twice, though he imagined they were sorry that they did. He probably looked the worst kind of hick. Filthy jeans, dirty denim jacket, long blond hair, and a three-day beard. All his worldly possessions—a change of clothes, a pack of Marlboros, and a couple of dirty magazines—were in the patched and ragged duffel bag he’d carried with him the day he’d been booked. His face sported more creases and lines than the last time he’d been in Brumley, but the green eyes were still sharp, taking things in, always looking for an angle.
It was those eyes that spied a hand-painted sign sitting outside Donnie Snyder’s old garage on the corner of Palmer Street and Main. His eyebrows arched in surprise when he recognized the name on the sign and he laughed quietly to himself, a wheezing sound that brought on a cough. He remembered when the garage had been a gas station, but now the pumps were wrapped in plastic bags with signs taped to them that said No Gas written in Magic Marker.
The building was an ugly cinder block and tin roof affair. Parked to one side was a tow truck with pitted fenders and rusty wheel wells, while tires leaned against a cyclone fence in a neat row behind it. The garage had room for two cars side by side and in the shade of one of the bays was an old Eldorado raised on blocks. A pair of sneakers stuck out from underneath the car, swaying slightly as the mechanic worked on the engine. The clink of metal striking metal and the mechanic’s swearing became clearer as Randy shuffled closer. He watched for a minute, listening to the grunts and ratchet sounds, then stepped close and kicked the bottom of the sneakers as hard as he could.
He grinned as Lee Baylor, who had always been the nice guy with a temper, rolled out from underneath the Eldorado, a two-pound wrench in his hand, ready to smack the son of a bitch who had kicked him. But he stopped dead when he saw Randy grinning at him like a dog in a butcher shop.