by Matthew Iden
Baby Boy froze, listening. Nothing. He picked the loose pieces out of the pane, reached in, and unlocked the door. He stepped inside as quietly as he could. The back door led into the kitchen where he came close to knocking over a pot when his jacket brushed against the handle and spun it around on the stove. He stopped it, his heart pounding, then continued through the dining room and into the living room, drawing his gun as he went. The entire floor was dark except for a dull flickering coming from the living room, throwing crazy shadows against the dining room walls.
The TV was on, a late-night horror flick, filled with bad costumes and a overwrought soundtrack. Slouched asleep in a chair was a bald man in a dirty white tank top. His belly bulged in an arc and his mouth hung open. A line of drool collected at the corner of his mouth, threatening to spill onto his chest. Baby Boy looked at him for a minute, then walked around in front of the chair.
He put the barrel of the gun against the man’s forehead, then shook him by the shoulder. “Hey.”
The man’s eyes opened slowly at first, then snapped wide as he realized what was going on. He made as if to get out of the chair, but Baby Boy pushed him back in his seat with a thick hand.
“Please,” the man said, looking at him. The man’s breath was sour.
Baby Boy stared at him, flummoxed. He’d forgotten what he’d wanted to say—his special line, the one he’d worked on for this exact occasion. Here was his big moment and he couldn’t remember a thing. The bald man continued to squirm and cry and say please and don’t. Baby Boy grimaced. It was no use. He couldn’t remember the line he’d worked on for so long.
He settled on, “You feeling lucky?” not believing he’d completely lost his line, then shot the guy twice. The man’s head bounced off the back of the chair, leaving a stain on it. The noise was much louder in a room than at the farm. A funny smell lay on the air. Baby Boy looked at the body curiously—it had slipped down in the chair, leaving a bloody smear on the fabric—checked to make sure he didn’t have anything stuck to his shoes, then retraced his steps out of the house. He got in his truck and drove away at just under the speed limit.
Gimme a reason, that was it. He punched the steering wheel. What was so hard to remember about that? Gimme a reason. He didn’t know what he meant by it, but it sounded pretty cool. He didn’t think it was in a movie, but he’d keep it, even if it was. He’d remember next time.
Chapter Twelve
Randy and Lee crossed the South Dakota state line early in the morning, feeling euphoric at finally reaching their destination, or at least the same state as their destination. They whooped and slapped a high five and laughed at the first, second, and tenth Wall Drug sign they saw. Randy wanted to stop at the Mitchell Corn Palace (“a whole damn building made of corn?”), but Lee shot it down, anxious to get to the Rally and get things over with.
They passed bikers on the way and every once in a while Lee would honk and give them a thumbs-up. There were couples on matched Harleys riding tandem, others with the sit-down sidecars—some of which looked like they could peel away and drive off on their own—as well as huge swarms of bikers, the ones that seemed like a parade: twenty, thirty, maybe fifty bikers all heading west with patches and flags saying who they were and where they were from. There was Sweet-N-Lo from Northampton, Massachusetts, and the Crazy Tigers from Columbia, South Carolina. Insignia marked Vietnam vets, Korean vets, Gulf War vets. Some memorialized 9/11, others past eras like the Hippie Brigade from Vermont.
“Would you look at that,” Randy said at one point, glancing in his side-view mirror.
Lee took a look. Running up on their left was a horde of bikers, some riding two abreast, others with bikes too large to do so. It took about five minutes for the whole group to pass. He lost count trying to pay attention to the road, but was sure it was over a hundred. Most had custom paint jobs and decked-out saddlebags with emblems stitched on. All of them were wide-bodied touring Harleys cranking it out on the road.
“Man, that’s beautiful,” Lee said, watching the last of them trail off.
“Beautiful?” Randy said. “That’s a million dollars’ worth of bikes, is what that is.”
They continued on Interstate 90, passing farms and rolling plains; the Wall Drug signs were the only break in the landscape. The land was open and barren but appeared raised somehow, as if on a plateau. “You get the feeling like we’re at the top of the world?” Lee asked at one point. He felt like he couldn’t see the horizon in any direction, just the indistinct continuation of land. No end, no beginning.
“Yep, like…like we’re at the top of a range, but didn’t really go any higher at all. It can’t be taller than Powell Mountain back home but it looks like you could go forever.”
Route 90 took them across the bottom half of the state and they passed Chamberlain, Murdo, Kadoka. They rumbled on throughout the day, watching the signs count down the mileage to Rapid City, the “almost there” point, they figured from looking at the map. As Rapid City came and went they felt a growing excitement that dribbled away as the traffic started to gridlock. They slowed to forty-five, then thirty, then to a crawl.
“Is there an accident?” Randy asked, craning his neck out of the window.
They got a break after they crested a hill, the view spreading for miles. Lee whistled in amazement. The right-hand lanes, as far as the eye could see, were solid with traffic. There were a few cars, SUVs, and trucks. But the rest was a sea of bikes, thousands of them, going so slow they had to weave back and forth to keep their balance. No one seemed upset, though. In fact, most of the riders were laughing and calling to each other, knowing they were all heading for Sturgis.
“Lord in heaven,” Randy said. “I thought I knew what half a million bikes might look like. Guess I was wrong.”
One biker, stick-thin with a braided beard going down to his belly button, yelled to Lee as they eased along, keeping pace by putting his feet on the pavement and walking the bike along. “Bro, you should be riding whatever’s under the tarp, not towing it!”
Lee smiled and leaned out of the window. “I got my mind on selling it, man. Every mile on it is a dollar.”
“What’s your ride?”
“Eighty-four Softail.”
The biker laughed and turned to the guy beside him, explaining. A flaming skull was tattooed on the side of his neck, drawn so that the flames curled up and around his ear. He turned back to Lee. “Good luck, bro. That ain’t bad, but you’re going to see some damn fine machines today. They’ll put that thing you got to shame.”
Lee tilted his head and said, “You do what you can, know what I mean? I ain’t a rock star or a banker. Just trying to get by.”
The other man nodded. “Sure enough.”
Randy leaned over Lee and yelled, “Hey, where y’all staying?”
“South Butte campgrounds. You?”
“We don’t have a place,” Randy said.
The biker’s mouth opened in an O. “What? Boys, you’re hosed if you don’t have a place to stay by now. Rooms have been booked for a year in advance, fifty miles away. Don’t you know that?”
Lee glanced at Randy, then turned to the biker. “You got any ideas?”
The biker turned to his friend again. They talked something over, the other one shook his head, then the biker said to Lee and Randy, “I’d let you crash at our place, but we don’t have room for your truck or trailer. You get to Sturgis, though, see if you can’t find the BFGers. They might be able to hook you up.”
“The who?” Randy asked.
He grinned. “Bikers for God. They’ll have a booth on Main Street. They’ll help you if they can.”
“I don’t want no sermon,” Randy said, making a face.
“They’ll give you one, you let ’em,” the biker said. “Don’t mess around, though. They’re kind of Old Testament, if you know what I mean. You bad-mouth the Lord, they’ll punch you in the mouth.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Lee said.
“No problem, bro.”
He glanced at the road. “Looks like things are clearing. We’ll see you around.”
“Take ’er easy,” Lee said as the two took off, engines rumbling.
The pace picked up and they cruised off the exit ramp to Sturgis and inched along with the rest of the traffic towards town. They were now the only non-bikes on the road as far as they could see and some of the bikers nearby yelled “Get out and ride!” and “Why didn’t you ship it?” Randy gave a couple of them the finger and was ready to cuss at them, but Lee collared him and pulled him inside, not interested in starting a fight before they’d even reached town.
They finally turned onto Main Street, pulled by the flow of traffic under a huge banner that said Welcome, Riders! and into the central section of Sturgis. “It ain’t much bigger than Brumley,” Lee said in wonder, looking at the dinky, two-story drugstores and Wild West–style brick buildings.
“Wish I’d brought a camera,” Randy said, turning in his seat to watch one girl, walking along the sidewalk, wearing nothing but a thong and an X of electrical tape over each nipple.
Lee slapped Randy on the arm. “Look at that,” he said, pointing down Main Street. Harley bikes of every make, model, and kind littered the street, as though every bike the company had ever made was either parked along the street or cruising by. Old Knuckleheads, Panheads, and Shovelheads stood gleaming next to chopped Fatboys and Softails. Many had custom paint jobs like candied flames running down the side or skulls, knives, rock stars, and girls on the side. They continually passed groups of ten or fifteen bikers, drinks in hand, gathered around looking at especially crazy or good-looking bikes.
The sidewalks were crowded with bikers and their girlfriends. Some of the guys wore beards down to their buckles; others were bald as a cue ball. They sported leather jackets with patches, jeans, and boots. The girls wore leather, denim, or next to nothing. Shapes and sizes didn’t matter; three-hundred-pound mamas wore the same halter tops or string bikinis that slim nineteen-year-olds had on. Tattoos stood in place of shirts if they were good enough and sometimes even if they weren’t. The town’s regular storefronts had temporary signs in place proclaiming tattoo parlors, biker gear, souvenirs, and cold drinks. A thousand odors drifted over the street, all of them overpowered by the smell of exhaust.
“Is that what we’re looking for?” Lee asked, pointing to one small storefront with a printed banner in the window. The banner said Burn Rubber, Not Your Soul in huge letters with stylized flames licking the bottoms of the words. Bikers for God was in smaller print beneath it.
“Looks like it,” Randy said. “Hope they won’t make us sit through a come-to-Jesus talk just to get a place to crash.”
“Might do you some good,” Lee said. “Let’s look for a place to park.”
Half an hour later, they found an off-street place to park the truck and the trailer. Lee was nervous about leaving the bike—after all, they were here to steal bikes—but Randy laughed and said with that much beer and booty on Main Street, no one was thinking about taking Lee’s piece of shit. They made their way back to the crowds and walked down Deadwood Street to Main, sidestepping people taking pictures of bikes, women, and each other. Bikes continued to pour into town in a never-ending line stretching back to Route 90.
After about fifteen minutes, they found their way back to the Bikers for God sign. A man stood outside the door, watching the bikes go by. He was about six feet tall, bald, and shirtless, with a huge round stomach that only a lifetime of beer drinking could produce. It hung over a black leather belt like a cliff and tattooed above his navel was a single word, IS. A large silver cross hung from one ear and another on a chain around his neck.
“Nice ink, bud,” Randy said to the man as they approached. “What’s it mean?”
The man turned and, without saying a word, made his hands into fists and held them to either side of the IS on his stomach. Lee leaned closer to look. The right hand had J-E-S-U-S tattooed on it, one letter per knuckle including the thumb. The left hand had L-O-R-D-! inked the same way.
“Jesus is Lord, bro,” the man said, nodding once for emphasis. “You can take that to the grave. I’m Brother Gene.”
“Great,” Lee said, a little uncertainly. “Hey, we met a guy on the way in, said that y’all could help us find a place to crash. We’re a bunch of numbnuts and don’t have a place to stay for the Rally.”
He smiled a little and said, “The Lord helps those who help themselves, but we might be able to find you something. Brother Sam isn’t here right now, though. He’s the one can help you. He’ll be back around five.”
“Damn,” Randy said. “You can’t do anything for us?”
Gene shook his head. “Sorry, bro, I’m drug and alcohol counseling. Don’t know a thing about getting a place to stay.”
Lee thought for a second. “Is he around somewhere we could talk to him before then?”
“He’s bouncing over at the Dead Man’s Hand right now. You go there, better be civil…they put him on the a.m. shift and he can get a little mean. He’s normally a gentle man, but he ain’t a morning person.”
“He’s a bouncer?” Lee asked.
Gene nodded. “Sure. Make some cash and get a chance to do a good deed, reduce the violence. Plus, any of them look agreeable, he’ll take the opportunity to introduce them to our Savior. It’s win-win. Except for the loudmouths he has to smack around. Then it’s kinda win-lose, you get my drift.”
They got directions to the bar, Lee thanked Brother Gene, then they pushed slowly through the crowd to make their way over to the Dead Man’s Hand. “Randy, how in hell are we going to find anybody in this place?” Lee asked when he passed what felt like the three hundredth biker wearing what looked to be the same chaps and jacket.
Randy scratched the back of his neck. “It won’t be easy, bud. But, like I told you before, everybody wants to see a real-live movie star. Once they get here, they’re going to turn up at one of these bars or shows eventually. Word’ll get out, people will start to gather. We just got to keep our ear to the ground and we’ll learn soon enough where they’re at. Today’s only the first day.”
“Just like that, huh?”
“Yep, just like that,” Randy said, turning to Lee. “If you got a better idea, feel free to share.”
Lee glanced at Randy, then away. “I got nothing better. Just can’t help wondering what the hell we’re doing here. Feels like ten million bikers, not a half. Seems like we’re working on a hope and a prayer.”
Randy shrugged. “Is it worse than sitting back at the garage, waiting for the bank man to show? Or for Mrs. Howell to call again? C’mon, bud, we’re going to do this. One step at a time.”
They stopped outside of the Dead Man’s Hand, taking a second to look at the sign—a giant, cartoony billboard of Wild Bill Hickok getting shot from behind by a buck-toothed kid with straw-blond hair and wearing a cowboy hat. The perspective of the painting was larger in the foreground so that Hickok’s cards—two pair of spades, two pair of clubs, aces and eights with the fifth card down—were larger than the rest, tumbling from his hand onto the table. It was early, but the place was already loud with shouts, laughter, and the occasional sound of breaking glass.
They went inside and let their eyes adjust. The place had the stock Western paraphernalia on the walls and tables: lariats, barrels, cowboy hats, spurs, old-time coffee urns, spittoons. There were around fifty people in the place, making a racket, being served by cute girls in ten-gallon hats, short shorts, and tight spandex shirts that said “Keep your Hand to yourself!” on them. Three guys in black jeans and black t-shirts stalked the bar area, watching the drinkers and glancing in the booths every once in a while. Lee and Randy headed over to the biggest one.
His eyes flicked over them in a professional once-over, then dismissed them. “Are you Sam?” Lee asked.
“No,” the man said. He pointed to the shortest of the three bouncers, standing in the corner and talking earnestly with a group of three bikers sitting at
a booth. They nodded at whatever he was saying to them. “That’s Sam, there.”
Lee and Randy walked over to Sam as he shook hands with the bikers. He was shorter than either of them, but had a chest like a water barrel and arms larger around than one of Lee’s legs. A thick brown beard hung to the middle of his chest and a long, braided ponytail shot with gray stopped at the middle of his back. A dark blue cross was tattooed on his throat and he had thick leather bands on each wrist.
“Hi, are you Sam?” Lee asked. He gave them the same once-over the other bouncer had and apparently reached the same conclusion.
“That’s me,” he said. “What do you need?”
“We just talked with, uh, Brother Gene, over at your office on Main. He said you might be able to help us find a place to stay. We weren’t thinking straight and didn’t get a spot. Now we’re stuck.”
Sam shook his head. “I might be able to help, but I don’t get to the BFG office until five.”
“We know,” Randy said. “But we’re in a tight spot. We’ve got a trailer and a truck and—”
“A truck?” Sam said. He frowned as his eyebrows came together, making a crease in his forehead. “You didn’t ride here?”
“We came for the Rally, but also to sell a bike.”
“At the MD auction?”
“Yeah,” Randy said, a little uncertainly. “At the auction.”
Brother Sam’s face cleared like clouds parting on a sunny day. “Why didn’t you say so? I can help you. The truck is the problem. Most guys who are in a bind just hopped on their bikes, threw a bag on the back, and rolled into town. We can stick them in a corner of a campground or in some good neighbor’s backyard.” He thought for a second. “The only thing I can think of is to have you come by the BFG campground and stay with us. We can make room for the truck and if anybody doesn’t like it, I’ll tell them you’re part of the auction.”
He took them over to the bar where he borrowed a pen and a piece of paper. He wrote something down and handed it to Lee. “That’s the address of the campground. This town is only about ten square blocks, so you shouldn’t have trouble finding it. When you get there, tell them I sent you and explain about the auction if you have to.”