by Matthew Iden
“Well, I don’t know exactly. Maybe this Jason Ford has himself confused with one of the heroes he plays in the movies, thinks he can take on six ninjas and a killer robot and still come out on top. Maybe we go in there, he catches us in the act, decides he’s bulletproof.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, we might have to take matters into our own hands,” Randy said.
“Like what? Tie him up, stuff him in a closet?”
“That. Or hit him over the head. Maybe even snuff him.”
“Kill him?” Lee said, too loudly. “You out of your skull? We’re not going to kill anybody.”
It was now midmorning and even the late risers were awake. It had been a slow start, but the street was starting to buzz like it had the day before. Randy grabbed Lee’s arm. “You mind not shouting there, partner? I’m not saying we’ll have to, we just have to be prepared for anything.”
“I’m not killing anyone,” Lee said, shaking his head.
“Think about that. Now think about spending ten to thirty in the clink,” Randy said. “Chew on that for a while.”
Lee kept shaking his head, wagging it back and forth. “No way.”
“We got to think about witnesses, too,” Randy said, nonchalant, glancing at Lee from the corner of his eye. “Maybe Ford isn’t there, but say he’s got some groupies? Or this actress girl of his. What do we do about her?”
Lee stopped and grabbed Randy’s arm. “Randy, I’m not killing anybody, ten years in jail or a hundred. And I sure am not going to kill a girl for a couple of goddamn bikes.”
“Take ’er easy, bud,” Randy said, shaking Lee’s hand off. “Not saying we got to do anything, just mentioning it. The way people get hurt is by not thinking about things beforehand. Nothing wrong with some planning, is there?”
Lee was quiet as they continued to walk. Randy said, “You’re not getting cold feet on me, are you, partner? We came a hell of a long way to pull this thing off. Or you sweet on that movie star, don’t want to see her get hurt?”
Lee looked at Randy. “Why would I be sweet on a girl I never met?”
Randy shrugged, his face guileless, injured. “I don’t know, bud. You seem uptight about it, is all. Maybe you got a secret crush on the girl from seeing her in the movies or something. Say, speaking of crush, you call Raylene lately?”
Lee’s stomach did a flip-flop at the mention of her name. “No.”
“Huh,” Randy said, letting it hang there. “Say, you all right? You look like you’re constipated or something.”
“I’m fine.”
They walked on in silence. After ten or fifteen minutes, they passed the Dead Man’s Hand. Randy steered them towards the bar and stopped in front of the auction poster. They bent towards it, reading carefully.
Randy whistled. “Jackpot. Here’s your girl. Miss Becky Winters, celebrity auctioneer,” Randy read off the poster, slowly. “What’re the chances? You nearly get your bike sent to the block for charity and here she is, the one who’d be giving it away.”
“Yeah,” Lee said miserably. “What are the chances?”
They discussed the plan over lunch at a hamburger joint. It was pretty simple, Randy said. They’d go to the auction early and have an hour to case the joint. They’d watch and wait and see how their movie star had decided to travel: car, bike, helicopter, whatever. The auction would take an hour or two so they’d hang out, wait for the event to wind down, then follow her on the bike, since the truck would attract attention. Once they found where the movie stars were staying, they’d watch the place, see how many people were there, what bikes they had, if—God forbid—they had bodyguards. Then they’d come back with the truck and the trailer, nab the bikes, and wait until the last day of the Rally. If everything worked out, they’d leave town and cruise east, blending in with the thousands of bikers heading home.
Why not grab them on the last day? Lee wanted to know. It didn’t make sense to stick around, waiting for someone to recognize the bikes and call the cops. Randy said, “Yeah, but what if we miss it? What if they decide to leave early, get a jump-start on the way home to LA? We’re screwed. This way, we run a risk, but we’re also going to be two guys with bikes in the middle of thousands of guys with bikes. We lay low, wait for the big rush home at the end, and we get away, no problem.”
It didn’t make a lot of sense to Lee, but not much was making sense to him at the moment. He was talking plans with Randy while trying to figure a way out of them. He was half in love with a movie star he’d just met and was planning to rob. And he hadn’t been in touch with—or, hell, even thought of—the girl back home he was doing most of this for. It made him want to get on his bike, pick a random direction, and keep riding until he fell off.
It didn’t matter that he’d felt something when he was with Becky. So had millions of other movie watchers around the country. He’d just had the good—or bad—luck of running into her outside of her normal stomping grounds, in a place that was as foreign to her as it was to him. If this had been Los Angeles or New York or anywhere else, he’d have just been an anonymous face in the crowd, another onlooker or lovesick fan, maybe. He wouldn’t have lent her his jacket, or learned about her folks, or had a nice, long walk with her, or gotten a big kiss at the end of the night. He had to face facts. He was a hillbilly that ran a failing car garage in the mountains of southwestern Virginia, and not much else. One strange night that threw a mechanic and a movie star together for a couple of hours didn’t change that.
Just forget it, he thought. Movie star Becky Winters falling in love and the two of you riding off into the sunset was about as likely as the cow jumping over the moon. It was pretend, is all, a nice idea. The reality was that he still needed money, Raylene and the garage and his life were back in Brumley, and he and Randy were here to steal from Becky, her boyfriend, and any other celebrity with a hundred-thousand-dollar bike parked on their front lawn.
“You all right, bud?” Randy asked, all kinds of helpful. “You look like you swallowed a bug.”
“I’m fine,” Lee said. “Let’s go over the plan again.”
The rest of the day was spent bumming around, catching shows and attractions, watching the drag races, and getting some sleep. They discovered by accident that their job would be made a lot easier since the charity auction—despite the celebrity draw—was the number two show in town that night, the other being a multi-venue rock and country music show they were calling the Rock-’N’-Roll Hoedown.
At seven, they went back to the campground, careful to avoid any of the BFGers, and drove the truck out of the campground, leaving the tent pitched and the sleeping bags where they were. Randy shook his head when Lee insisted on leaving a couple bucks pinned to one of the bags. They drove slowly around town, looking for a good long-term parking space and finally found one after twenty minutes of searching. Taking care and moving slowly, they wheeled Lee’s bike off the trailer and carefully stowed the chains, tarp, and bungees in the cab. Lee checked the bike, kicked it over, and signaled to Randy to get on the back. He looked up when Randy, scowling, hadn’t moved.
“What’s wrong?” he shouted over the noise of the motor.
“I’ll feel gay sitting behind you like that,” Randy said, curling his lip.
“Bud, you don’t have to kiss me. Just get on the back and hold on to the seat.”
Randy looked suspicious. “What about if we got to hit the highway?”
“Okay, then you might have to hold on,” Lee said, shrugging. “Just keep yourself from falling off. You don’t have to send me candies.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You want to walk?”
In the end, Randy got on, gingerly sitting down on the backseat, careful not to touch Lee. Shaking his head, Lee put the bike in gear and headed to the auction. It felt good to be riding, finally, at a rally of Harleys where riding was the whole idea. They’d seen their fair share of sneers when other bikers saw their trailer. Now they were one of the pack and felt
the excitement of being part of the larger crowd. Lee glanced back once and saw Randy, whose face had been a stony mask at first, actually grinning as they revved their engine down Main Street.
The auction was being held at a midsize outdoor arena that looked like it did duty as a cattle pen any other week of the year. Gates and fencing created a large oval area in the center where a makeshift stage had been set up, and the perimeter was surrounded by three tiers of seating. A small corrugated roof sheltered a portion of the seats, but otherwise it was open to the elements. The place smelled of cow dung and sawdust, with the ever-present fumes of bike exhaust hanging over it all. Some early birds had already taken their seats an hour before the auction was to take place, chatting among themselves and comparing their numbers.
Lee and Randy circled a few times to get a feel for the layout of the arena and parking lot. After the third circuit, Randy clapped Lee on the shoulder. “All right, bud, drop me here. I’ll go in, blend with the crowd, keep an eye on our little birdie.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Looks to me like there’s only two ways to leave the parking lot. Stick as close as you can to the arena and keep an eye out for Winters or Ford or both. They might come in a car; they might ride their fancy bikes in. Either way, keep your eyes open and stay close, ’cause when it’s all over, I’ll be running hell-bent-for-leather to you so we can follow her home. Got it?”
Lee nodded. He wasn’t happy about having to sit through the entire auction, but couldn’t argue with the logic. And since Randy couldn’t drive the bike, Lee had to be the one to wait in the parking lot.
Randy hopped off. “Don’t fall asleep, son. I know it’s going to be boring as hell, but this is our main shot.”
“I got it,” Lee said, irritated.
“Wish me luck,” Randy said before heading for the front gate.
Becky was fuming. Jason had decided, despite the fact that she had told him about the auction a week ago, that he’d much rather make an appearance as a guest star at the Rock-’N’-Roll Hoedown, even though no one knew Jason Ford was in Sturgis or would care if they did. He apparently figured that if he dropped enough names and made a few phone calls, he’d be onstage screaming “Magic Carpet Ride” at the end of the night. He’d wanted her to blow off the auction and they’d fought about it. Jason had left in a huff, disappearing in a gravel dust cloud, giving her the finger as he drove away. What a rebel.
That meant she had had to find her own way to the auction, so she called the only limo service in a hundred miles and had them drive her from the house to the arena where the auction was taking place.
It turned out better than she’d expected. It was the first time in a week that she hadn’t driven somewhere with her ass throbbing and, if she had to ride in a car, it might as well be a limo. She stretched out on the seat, reveling in the luxury, and promised herself that, wherever she was going after the Rally, New Jersey or LA, she’d be flying there, not riding on the back of a bike.
The only problem with the limo was that Sturgis was a place for bikes, not twenty-foot-long cars, and it took them twice as long as it should have to get to the arena. She had only about six or seven minutes to get backstage and meet the auction managers to get things rolling, so she had the limo driver pull through the parking lot and to the arena’s doors.
She popped out of the limo, telling the driver to wait for her, then jogged to the entrance, looking for someone in charge. One of the managers found her and, amid apologies and last-minute instructions, got her outfitted in leather chaps and a vest, both too small. With no time to complain, however, she walked onto the stage, waving to the crowd and flashing what she called her “charm” smile, all teeth and dimples. There were a decent number of people—maybe a couple hundred in the place—most of them older and more interested in the auction than the Hoedown, though everyone could clearly hear the tunes from the concert like it was being piped in as background music.
The crowd was rowdy and grumbled a little as she got her bearings on calling the ID numbers from the bidders as she saw them. When she missed someone or read a number incorrectly, the wronged party would correct her loudly until she got it right. By the third item—a free tattoo at one of the temporary parlors that had a shop in town—she was finding her feet so that, when one guy yelled the ubiquitous “Show us your tits!” she fired right back at him, “Those aren’t on the block, mister. Get your own pair.”
A couple of the men booed, but most of the crowd laughed, and some of the wives and girlfriends were happy to oblige anyway so that the attention was drawn off Becky and into the crowd. The auction rumbled on, going through helmets, homemade quilts, posters autographed by biker babes, subscriptions to magazines, cases of motor oil, tools, boots, jackets, chaps, and gloves. As predicted, the biker casket fetched top dollar, as did the V-twin-shaped urn. Last on the list were the bikes and since the bidding was going to be hot and heavy, Becky was more than happy to hand over the MC duties to a real auctioneer, who started the bidding war, the names and numbers spilling from his mouth faster than she could keep track.
Becky took a bottle of water from an assistant, nodded her thanks, and leaned against a fence rail. She had the bottle raised halfway to her lips when she thought of something. Where was Lee?
She’d been so riled by Jason blowing off the auction and the fact that she had arrived late that she’d totally forgotten about Lee and his bike. She walked around the perimeter of the stage, peeking at the lineup of bikes and trikes that were to go on the auctioning block, but there was no sign of him. She didn’t trust herself to recognize his bike—it had looked like every other Harley she’d seen. But all of the other bikes on auction had their owners nearby, proud to wheel it onstage.
She found the auction manager, looking frazzled as the event was reaching its close. She stopped him as he raced by. “Yes, Miss Winters?”
“I thought there was supposed to be one more bike for auction,” she said.
“Everything is here and ready to go,” he said. He looked down at a clipboard in his hand. “Do you know the model or year?”
She looked pained. “Sorry, I don’t know anything about the bike. The owner’s name is Lee Baylor.”
He checked his list. “Nope. Not on this list.”
“Is that the master sheet?” she asked. “Could he have slipped through?”
He shook his head, the pen behind his ear wagging. “Sorry, Miss Winters. I’m the one in charge of everything going onstage and he’s not here. Not to mention, we’re nearly finished. Even if he was on the list, it would be too late to go on now.”
She thanked him and let him go. The manager, relieved, went to close out the event. She was surprised at how upset she felt when she wondered if he’d been lying to her. Or if he’d run into some kind of trouble. She wanted to see him again and had taken it for granted that he’d be there tonight.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the manager sent an assistant over to her, asking her to come back onstage for a curtain call. She gave the crowd the charm smile again and got a big round of applause which turned into a roar when she faked like she was going to flash the biker who had yelled to her earlier. That started a stomping and hooting, but she waved them away, laughing. The manager thanked her over and over again, holding on to her hand too long. Becky thanked him for the opportunity, said she’d see him next year, and made a beeline for the exit.
A small knot of people were waiting for her near the exit, looking for an autograph and foiling her plan for a quick getaway. She sighed, lit the charm for the third time that night, and picked up a pen to sign the first autograph.
Perfect, Randy thought, as he watched the crowd slow Becky down as she was bolting for the exit. He pushed through the crowd, which was loud and happy, chatting about the auction and comparing loot. He got through the last of them and found Lee backed into a half space near an SUV and a row of bikes. He raised his head as Randy came near.
“Find her?
” he asked.
“Yep,” Randy said. “She’s stuck inside, signing autographs for all the moonstruck fans. What about her ride?”
Lee motioned with his chin. “The limo. Thought it would sit here the whole time, but he left five minutes after he dropped her off. Probably grabbed something to eat or chug a beer. Pulled back in about ten minutes ago.”
Lee walked the bike back a few feet to hide it in the shadows, and watched the gate, waiting for her to show.
“I’m an eejit,” Randy said, watching as the crowd exited the arena. “But I think it’ll be okay.”
“What’s that?”
“All them people. I thought they’d make it hard on us, all leaving the arena at the same time, getting on their bikes, making a mess of things. But they ain’t driving anywhere. They’re all going to the Hoedown or to a bar next door. There’ll hardly be anybody on the road.”
“What if she doesn’t go back to wherever it is she’s staying? Just goes to the bars like everyone else?”
Randy looked at Lee. “Why make the limo stay, then?”
Lee tilted his head, conceding the point, then said, “No sign of Ford.”
“Huh. Maybe that’s a good thing,” Randy said, considering. “From what I’ve seen, he’d make her party all night. Nothing wrong with that, but it helps our cause, her going straight back to their house. Wonder why he didn’t show, being her boyfriend and all.”
“Movie stars do things different.”
“Maybe so,” Randy said. “Damn, where is that girl?” He started to pace, then stopped and glanced at Lee. “She sure is a looker. Too bad you didn’t get to see her.”
“I saw her go in,” Lee said, his face expressionless.
“Man, her ass is perfect and she has the cutest little face. Makes you want to do things to it. Or on it, if you get my drift.”
Lee squeezed his hands together and didn’t say anything. Randy turned so that his back was to Lee, fighting the urge to laugh. “Ah, there she is.”