Helmet Head

by Mike Baron

  Fagan drew the gun. Chainsaw shoved him back six inches and slapped the pistol out of Fagan’s hand as if he were a child. He grabbed Fagan by his belt and jacket and threw him savagely to the floor.

  “Larry was a Road Dog, motherfucker,” he growled. “He was a friend of mine.”

  Lightning struck followed almost immediately by the thunderous crack. The lights flickered. Chainsaw jerked forward and kicked Fagan in the ribs with the tip of his steel-toed road boots. Fagan felt it crack.

  Fred ran out from behind the bar and grabbed Chainsaw’s arm.

  “Chainsaw don’t—!”

  Chainsaw shook the bartender off and elbowed him in the face without even looking. Fred fell to the ground groaning. Fagan got to his feet, charged with his head low and took Chainsaw down amid the crunch and scrape of overturning chairs and breaking glass.

  “Stop it!” Macy snapped from behind the bar with an edge of hysteria.

  Fagan grabbed an empty beer bottle and brought it down base first in the middle of Chainsaw’s forehead whacking the shaved skull onto the wood floor. The thug was stunned. Fagan felt a sick triumph in his gut.

  Wild Bill shoved his chair back so hard it skidded into the wall. He yanked the Bowie loose lifting the heavy wooden table an inch in the air. The table banged the floor. Fagan scrambled to his feet, back to the bar, searching for his pistol while keeping his eyes on Wild Bill. Fagan grabbed the red-upholstered bar stool and held it like Jungle Jim in the lion’s den.

  “I’m a police officer!” he said.

  Wild Bill came on like an angry mountain, lupine fangs gleaming behind his unkempt beard, blade catching bar light as he flipped it hand to hand.

  “Bill!” Macy barked.

  BLAM.

  For an instant there was stunned silence as ears imploded from the force of the blast. Plaster fell in chunks onto the bar thinning to a steady column of dust as particles continued to trickle from the hole in the ceiling. Fred stood on a chair behind the bar cradling a truncated pump-action Remington twelve gauge.

  Another goddamn felony.

  Even Wild Bill stopped, blinking stupidly like a pig. His face split into a wide grin.

  “Fred. I never knew you had it in you.”

  The bartender surveyed the room, shotgun at parade rest. His blue eyes were bright and blazing and his mouth was buttoned shut with extreme emotion.

  “We all know what this is about!” he snapped. “Helmet Head.”

  ***

  CHAPTER 9

  Here Come De Judge

  “BULL. SHIT,” Wild Bill thundered. “I swear, every time you bring that up.…”

  “He’s real,” Fagan said. “I saw him.”

  The three Road Dogs surrounded him with red faces. Rage, testosterone and a shitload of meth. Wild Bill returned his blade to its sheath.

  “Spill it lawman,” Wild Bill said.

  Fagan told them about finding Larry’s body, his flight to the bar. “None of you have ever seen him?” he finished. “He’s hard to miss.”

  “They been telling that same stupid story for twenty years,” Wild Bill said. “My old man said it was a crock of shit then and it’s a crock of shit now.”

  “Cop said he saw him,” rolled up from the back of the room. The old white biker with a prodigious belly and a beard spoke without looking up from his cards.

  In the brief silence that followed Fagan heard the black man quietly say, “Gin,” and lay his cards on the table.

  “Sheeit.”

  “That’s Doc,” Wild Bill said, little pig eyes fixed on Fagan. “That other sorry ass fossil is Curtis. They’re married, ain’t that right boys?”

  “Thems was in Nammmm,” Mad Dog said. “Or was it the Civil War?”

  Thunder rolled over the Kongo Klub like a line of caissons. Rain poured in through the shotgun hole. Macy came out from behind the bar with a big saucepan, placed it on the floor beneath the leak. She was the brightest thing in the room and clearly didn’t belong there.

  What was she doing in this dive? She couldn’t possibly be involved with that ape, could she? Fagan hoped not. Focus, son. He was holed up in a remote roadhouse with five bloodthirsty thugs in tornado weather and a seven foot monster outside chopping off heads. Things always looked better when you put them in perspective. He tried his radio and got white noise. For all he knew Ptolemy had been flattened.

  “You have a cellar?” he asked Fred.

  Fred shook his head. “This is it.”

  “Why’d this fucker chop off Larry’s head?” Chainsaw said.

  “Let’s find him and fuck him up!” Mad Dog chimed in.

  “You dumb shits,” Wild Bill said. “Can’t you see he’s playin’ you?”

  “No he ain’t,” the bartender asserted. He seemed to have gained courage from his shotgun blast. “How do you think my leg got messed up?”

  “You told us you hit a deer!” Wild Bill sneered.

  “I told you I got this runnin’ from that freak and you insisted I hit a deer! You were so fuckin’ drunk and stoned at the time I can’t believe you even remember.”

  Wild Bill pointed a bratwurst-sized finger. “Watch it, old man.”

  “He’s out there somewhere holed up in Milton’s Hollow most likely. That’s where he found me.”

  “What makes you think that, you old fool?” Bill said.

  “You know about Milton’s Hollow! You’ve heard the stories! Christ knows how many bikers he’s killed they never found the bodies.”

  Fagan held his hands up. “Gentlemen, I’m not looking to bust anyone for drugs or any of that shit. We have a more serious situation on our hands. Are any of you carrying firearms?”

  The Road Dogs looked at one another and broke out laughing. Even Doc and Curtis looked up with grins on their faces.

  “They’re all carrying,” Fred said.

  “You wanna form a posse, Marshall?” Wild Bill asked in an exaggerated Texas twang.

  “A pussy posse!” Mad Dog brayed. Wild Bill and Chainsaw guffawed.

  “You gonna swear us in as deputies?” Mad Dog said spraying spittle. Fagan thought he might actually be excited about the idea. “Dig it! There’s five of us! No fuckin’ road freak can stand up to the Road Dogs! Let’s track him down and light him up!”

  “Dog, you’re dumber than you look,” Wild Bill said. “Popo what’s the deal? You’re not about to deputize us.”

  “Just want to know what I’m dealing with,” Fagan said with a straight face. “I don’t think guns will stop him anyway.”

  “You say you gave him five in the chest.”

  “I hit him at least three times—I saw the perforations. He must be wearing ballistic armor.”

  “Like Doc!” the kid warbled. “Him and Rastus there wear helmets, too!”

  Wild Bill’s hand shot out like a bullwhip, smacking Mad Dog in the face and causing him to stagger. He touched the red mark and looked up like a hurt puppy. “I warned you about that shit. Curtis a charter member. You ain’t even a Dog yet. You just a pledge. Don’t go disrespectin’ Curtis. We don’t need that racial shit.”

  Mad Dog rubbed his cheek. “Sorry, Bill.” An afterthought: “Sorry, Curtis!”

  The old black man did not look up from his game.

  Somewhere in the back the generator sputtered. The lights went out.

  “Shit!” Wild Bill exclaimed. “What, you run out of gas?”

  “Just hang on,” Fred said. “I’ll go check. It has plenty of gas.” He rummaged around in a drawer behind the bar and found a flashlight. Playing the beam on the floor Fred went through a door to the left and behind the bar. A sickly light played through the big front window. Fagan checked his watch. It was five-thirty—it would be light out for a couple hours if the curtain of storm held off. Thunder.

  Everyone but Doc and Curtis were on their feet waiting for something. Fred to restore the generator. The lights to come back on. The all clear to sound. The wind blew hard rattling the windows and causing blinds
to buzz like a mad locust. Fagan found his gun and returned it to his holster. They heard Fred cursing and shoving things around in the back.

  At first it was subliminal, the sound a mosquito makes as it approaches the ear and you feel that first flash of apprehension/irritation. It grew a little and assumed a mechanical aspect, thrashing cams and gears, an intermediate buzz, a dentist’s drill, a weed whacker, pipes bellowing to fill the sky causing the floor to vibrate and bottles to migrate. Wild Bill and Chainsaw exchanged an Oh Shit! look. Fred rushed out of the back wild-eyed with grease on his face. He ditched the flashlight behind the bar and picked up the shotgun.

  A freight train pulled up to the door as crimson light splashed blood across the walls. The thrashing built to a crescendo and fell silent. Fagan, Wild Bill, Chainsaw and Mad Dog went to the front window and looked out.

  Fagan struggled to control the pain in his ribs. He didn’t want them to see weakness. He looked out the window between Mad Dog and Chainsaw.

  The bike was big and black, covered with so many designs, runes, plates and covers that its nature remained a mystery. The rider kicked out the stand and got off. He was big, dressed entirely in black leather with a full-face helmet. He unhooked the bungees holding a large black helmet bag to the pillion, picked it up via the top handle like a briefcase and strode toward the club.

  “Holy shit,” Mad Dog said, voice cracking.

  The rider’s tread was heavy on the steps. The boys backed away from the window unconsciously forming a semi-circle facing the door.

  The door swung open.

  ***

  CHAPTER 10

  Poor Service

  Helmet Head paused in the door and looked around. The door frame cut off the top of his helmet. He stooped as he stepped inside and the door wheezed shut behind him. Water trickled off his leathers and helmet and fell from the helmet bag to the floor. He walked to the bar passing within three feet of Fagan but taking no notice. He set the helmet bag on the bar with a ponderous thump. Pinkish water leaked from the bag onto the bar top.

  Fred backed himself up until he was leaning against the whiskey, eyes wide open, mouth stretched into a Dodge grill. The shotgun resided under the bar where the visitor couldn’t see it. Helmet Head leaned on the bar with his hands and stared at Fred.

  Fagan thought about shooting the black rider in the head but he’d already tried that and look where it got him. Nor was he certain the Road Dogs wouldn’t turn on him afterward and testify against him. And then he saw the black leather sheath affixed to the rider’s back. A long, gently curving black scabbard. Fagan’s eyes returned to the helmet bag like a mesmerized deer.

  Helmet Head extended one black-leathered hand toward the bar pointing at the bottle of Jack.

  “We’re closed,” Fred croaked.

  The featureless shield stared at him like an X-ray machine. Helmet Head straightened up and slowly took in the assembled starting with Wild Bill on his left, gaze pausing on each, serially and separately. His gaze particularly lingered on Macy who shrank back against a cabinet. Helmet Head spread both hands in an Italian gesture.

  Whaaaa—?

  “We’re closed,” Fred choked again. “These boys were just leaving.” He sounded like air escaping from a child’s balloon.

  Helmet Head placed his right hand on the helmet bag and waggled his fingers as if pondering something. He jerked the helmet bag off the bar and headed toward the door. Just before he reached it he turned, pointing a finger at each of them in turn like counting passengers for a tour bus.

  He left the bar as a curtain of rain washed over them, lashing the windows and playing a discordant tune on the shutters. The outside world blinked white followed by the crash of thunder. Wild Bill and Fagan returned to the front window and watched as Helmet Head attached the helmet bag to the back of his bike.

  Macy ran out from behind the bar into Wild Bill’s arms. “Oh my God,” she sobbed.

  “It’s all right, Mace,” the biker assured her. “Just a lotta show.”

  “You see those punctures in his jacket?” Chainsaw said. “The pig speaketh truth.”

  In back, Doc picked up another card.

  “Oh yeah?” Fred said, grabbing his shotgun. “OH YEAH?!”

  The little man hobbled out from behind the bar and stumped toward the front door.

  “Fred, wait a minute,” Fagan said but the bartender was on a mission from God. He ran out the front door, down the steps, toward the black rider. Helmet Head turned to face him, hands at sides palms open.

  Whaaaa—?

  Fred went down on one knee. “Remember me, motherfucker? Remember me?!”

  Two blasts struck Helmet Head in the chest further shredding his expensive black jacket. The black biker staggered back but stopped himself from falling when his butt hit the bike.

  Fred got to his feet dazed as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just done. Helmet Head strode toward him drawing the katana from over one shoulder, passing it through Fred’s neck and returning it to his back in one perfect parabola.

  For three long seconds Fred stood quivering. His head slid one way and his body the other. Helmet Head stooped, picked up Fred’s head with both hands like a basketball and Michael Jordaned it toward the roadhouse.

  Fred’s head smacked through the window like a seven pound cannonball, striking the back wall and falling to the floor spewing blood. Glass flew.

  Macy screamed.

  “Motherfucker!” Wild Bill exclaimed, reaching into his vest and pulling out an Arsenal double-barreled .45. Chainsaw reached down to his leather gym bag and withdrew a long-barreled .357 magnum. Mad Dog pulled a nine from his backpack and the bikers surged toward the front door like the Three Stooges.

  “Hold it!” Fagan yelled, drawing his own pistol.

  The black bike roared to life. Three foot gouts of flame erupted from the pipes. Helmet Head pulled out of the rain-slick lot and motored down the road, the shrieking cacophony becoming fainter until it merged with the sound of the storm.

  ***

  CHAPTER 11

  The Freezer

  Fagan went out on the porch. Chaos was chaos but this was getting out of hand. The wind had tumbled the cheap -plastic chairs and tables into the wall. “Can anyone fix the generator?” he called, his voice sounding unusually loud in the absence of thunder.

  “I can fix anything runs on gas,” Mad Dog said turning back toward the club. He brushed by Fagan, deliberately giving him the shoulder as he went into the club and behind the bar. Fagan still felt weak and sore from his crash and that kick to the ribs didn’t help.

  Fagan followed him in. “Is there a freezer back there, something that will hold the body?”

  “If it’ll fit,” the kid said and disappeared through the door.

  Doc and Curtis remained at their back table playing cards.

  “One of you guys help me carry the body in?”

  “What for?” Doc said without looking up.

  “Might be awhile before we can get an ambulance out here,” Fagan said.

  Curtis pushed himself back from the table. “I will.”

  He was a wiry black man with close-cropped steel-gray hair and beard wearing tinted round glasses. He had a diamond stud through his left ear and his brown eyes were devoid of the rage Fagan saw in the others.

  Together they went outside. Wild Bill and Chainsaw were arguing, oblivious to Fred’s body. Blood had poured from Fred’s neck to mix with the rainwater.

  Curtis stooped and grabbed the headless body beneath the arms. “Looks like he’s pretty much exsanguinated.”

  Fagan took the bartender’s boots, stitch lancing across his ribs where he’d been kicked. “You have medical experience, Mr…?”

  “Curtis. I’m an RN.”

  Fagan led, going up the three steps to the deck. “That’s a new one on me. A black RN outlaw biker.”

  Curtis followed Fagan into the bar. “Yeah well we don’t get too many Jewish cops around here.”


  Fagan opened the bar door with his elbow and Curtis followed.

  A thrum rose from the rear of the building. The lights flickered and went back on. Mad Dog came out of the back door grinning and slapping his hands together in an exaggerated manner.

  “Told ya.”

  “Good on ya, Mad Dog,” Curtis said as they squeezed by him into the storeroom.

  Mad Dog flattened out against the wall as Fred’s corpse passed.

  There were two doors behind the bar at right angles. One led to the storeroom. The other led to Fred’s private quarters.

  Inside the store room the door shut automatically behind them. The big, concrete-floored space was lit by two sixty watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling—a fire marshal’s nightmare. Stacks of Cutty Sark, Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker, Four Roses and a dozen other brands formed sentinels against one wall. A deep horizontal freezer sat against the opposite wall next to two old uprights.

  “What makes you think I’m Jewish?” Fagan said, as they gently laid Fred on the floor next to the freezer.

  “Knew a cat in Nam named Fagan. Tom Fagan. Told me it was a Jewish name. Plus you got that nappy hair. Plus you ain’t from around here.”

  Curtis chuckled.

  Fagan carefully went through Fred’s pockets: a folding knife, three quarters and a penny, a moist blue bandanna and an old Zippo lighter with a Harley logo. He placed these items in an empty cardboard box, stood and opened the freezer. It was half full of pub food including pre-pressed burgers, frozen French fries and drink mixes. There were two upright refrigerators to one side. Fagan stuffed as much of the perishables as he could into the uprights’ freezers leaving plenty of room for Fred’s body.

  They carefully laid it inside. It just fit without the head.

  “I’ve seen a cut like that,” Curtis said. “When some North Viet big shot wanted to make a point he’d decapitate a prisoner.”

  “You were a POW?”

  “Three months. Then the bombers came. They fly so high you don’t know they’re there until the ground explodes. Seen men lose their heads to a flying tin roof.”