"I know, Russ, I know. I'm working on it, believe me."
"The Boss has got to know what he's risking."
Hans turned toward him, a new acuity in his expression. "What do you mean by that?"
Rusty realized belatedly that he'd crossed a line. Hans was friendlier toward him than any of the other veterans of the pack, but he was first and foremost Tiny's right-hand man.
"Nothing. It's just that you can't keep a bunch like this on its ass for this long. Guys will start to drift. Or they'll start making their own plans."
Hans's eyes were hard. "You feel that coming on yourself?"
Rusty began to demur, then stopped himself.
The Butcher lieutenant grunted. "Reach into your pocket and count your readies, Rusty. How much do you have on you?"
Rusty didn't need to count. "About twenty."
"Think there's anyone here carrying more? I ain't."
And you're the Paymaster. "You and the Boss got it all figured out, eh?"
Hans hoisted himself erect. He dusted the seat of his jeans, folded his arms and stood looking down at Rusty. "Most of it, Butcher, most of it. Tiny knows how to keep a troop together. He's been doing it for fifteen years. I just do what he says. Whatever he says, whenever he says it. And that ain't gonna change."
Rusty felt a tickle of unease as Hans gave birth to a thin smile.
"Want me to pass your observations along to him, Butcher?"
Rusty waved and tried to sound unconcerned. "Naw."
Hans smirked and walked away. Rusty watched his receding back and thought furiously.
That doesn't mean they ain't gonna get passed along. And I don't think Tiny's gonna like 'em.
***
It was evening that day when it all went down.
Rusty had kept to himself after the conversation with Hans. He hadn't seen Hans afterward. Once or twice he noticed a couple of the others glancing in his direction. He tried not to notice too obviously, but he couldn't deny to himself that he'd started to worry.
He was sitting alone on one of the loom tables, munching cold pizza left over from the previous evening, when a sharp blow across the back of his head pitched him forward to the concrete floor. He hadn't heard anyone approaching him.
Training from his time in Fort Benning took over. He rolled, spun, and rose into fighting stance to confront his attacker. Tiny and Hans were staring at him. The Butcher chieftain stood in a simian half-crouch, fury written across his face.
"So this is the guy with the plans. You sure you're smart enough to make plans, asshole?"
Had it come at any time during the previous four months, Rusty might have tried to placate the big biker. He was beyond that, now. "Somebody here better be, 'cause you sure ain't."
Tiny had plainly been expecting the newest Butcher to back and fill rather than face his wrath. Rusty's words straightened him up like a noose.
"You sure do seem to want that mouth of yours glued shut, boy. Maybe it's no use to you anymore, now that Rollo's gone. I can fix it for you real quick, if you don't get down on your knees right now and kiss my feet while you beg my forgiveness." He laughed. "I know that's not what you want to kiss, but you'll just have to make do."
Rusty screamed and shot at Tiny like a cannon shell, catching him in the midsection and driving him backwards over a loom table. Tiny's fists thudded against Rusty's ribs. His hands had just found the Butcher chieftain's throat when a dozen other Butchers pulled the two of them apart. He tried to shake them off and hurl himself again at the man who had caused his lover's death and now had the brass to laugh about it. It was no use.
Hans was one of the group restraining Tiny. He peered into his leader's face, waiting for the return of self-control. When Tiny had gotten enough of a grip, Hans nodded to the others, and their hands fell away as one.
Tiny's eyes stabbed at Rusty once more, and returned to Hans. "Form the square."
The hands holding Rusty fell away as well.
***
I can take him. I just have to keep my head.
It had been Rusty's choice, and he had elected to fight barehanded. Tiny had removed his leather jacket and chaps. After an instant's consideration, Rusty shed his leathers as well.
Tiny was an even more imposing figure without his leathers. He was taller than Rusty, perhaps fifty pounds heavier, and in excellent physical condition. Fifteen years of the road life had not fastened a beer gut upon him. He watched Rusty assess him, flexed his biceps and grinned.
Rusty kept his face neutral and refrained from posturing. He could understand why anyone who had to face Tiny would want to have a weapon in hand.
He'll be trying to kill me. They won't let him do it if I go down or get knocked out, so he has to go for it all at once. That limits his range.
He's big and tough, but he's at least ten years older than I am, and he's probably had no training. Maybe he's never fought anyone who's had training. I've got to try to wind him, evade his blows, confuse him with stuff he's never seen. Counterpunching only. Once he's tired, I can take him, I know it.
He's used to fighting with weapons. What will he try to do without them?
Rusty's eyes swept the human square that surrounded them. It was about twenty feet on a side, an even mix of Butchers and Vikings. They would enforce the two rules of a biker duel: no blows at an unconscious opponent, and no leaving the square until only one man was standing.
His pulse pounded in his head. He was pumped higher than he'd ever been. He knew what he wanted to do, but he also knew that his life hinged on his not surrendering to impulse. If anything would get him through this, it would be his head, not his raging heart.
Hans stood at the center of the square, waiting for the two of them to face him. Rusty nodded at him first. Tiny's acknowledgement was a fraction of a second later. The Butcher lieutenant raised his right hand over his head, brought it down in a theatrical sweep, and stepped back to become part of the perimeter. A roar went up as the combatants approached one another.
Rusty crouched, arms spread and hands held before him, and rocked gently from side to side as he waited for Tiny to commit to a punch or a kick. When the Butcher chieftain grabbed for his hair, Rusty almost missed the signals.
Tiny's left hand swept for Rusty's hair as Tiny's right knee arced forward for Rusty's midsection. Rusty turned a quarter left and kicked for Tiny's locked left knee. The need to evade at two levels upset the counterstroke; Rusty's foot struck off-target at the bottom of Tiny's thigh, sending him staggering back with a howl, but not crippling him. Rusty dropped back into his crouch and waited.
Patience. Patience will win this game.
The head Butcher's next attempt was less subtle. Tiny charged in a pell-mell attack, hands extended to take Rusty by the throat. Timing it carefully, Rusty slid forward, turned right, and hooked for Tiny's right leg with his left. The biker lord twisted and went down with a yell, landing flat on his back. Rusty hesitated and lost his chance. Tiny scrambled to his feet with surprising speed.
Yet Rusty's confidence was growing. Nine-tenths of the audience had expected him to be dead on the floor by now. Tiny's reputation wasn't made of smoke. Rollo had told him several grisly stories about how the Boss had treated other dissidents. He was having a harder time today. The sense of being in command of the battle descended upon Rusty, and he grinned.
Tiny caught the grin and returned it with interest. "Having a good time, asshole?"
Rusty couldn't repress a response. "Passable. You?"
"Oh, it'll get better."
The Butcher chieftain surged forward and whipped a vertical kick at Rusty's head. Rusty threw himself backward in a panic. Tiny's booted foot only grazed the tip of Rusty's chin, but it snapped his head back and sent a jolt of agony down his neck. The impact dropped a gauze curtain over his sight. He still had his life, but the glancing blow had stunned him and his quick backward surge had left him unbalanced. Tiny lunged forward, eager to capitalize on his sudden initiative.
Throwing caution aside, Rusty heaved himself onto Tiny as the Butcher boss turned over. He poured four arcing blows into Tiny's face before Tiny managed to return fire. The chieftain's fist shot straight up to crash against Rusty's nose, and the younger man's blood fountained forth. He rocked backward as his hands flew to his face to stanch the flow. The veil over his sight thickened and turned crimson.
A massive surge of Tiny's hips tossed Rusty ass over teakettle against the square. Rough hands thrust him back into the ring. He staggered aside just in time to evade another bull rush from the enraged biker boss. Tiny tried to check his momentum, failed, and crashed into the square. The watching bikers shoved Tiny back into the fray, and Rusty was standing behind him at the ready.
He hammered his right fist into the small of Tiny's back with all the force left in him. The chieftain screamed and stiffened, and a third great roar went up from the assemblage. Rusty cocked for a killing blow to the same spot, but when he swung, he stumbled forward and connected with nothing. Tiny had gone to his knees.
Rusty tried to retarget, to deliver the coup de grace he had intended, but his arm trembled and his aim point wouldn't hold steady. It was a moment before he noticed that he had fallen to his own knees, and still couldn't hold himself upright. His hands went to protect his streaming nose as the floor rushed up to meet him.
***
The bikers had divided into three groups. One clustered around Tiny, who was recovering from the battering he'd received. A knot of four stood with Rusty, who'd soaked three dishtowels before his nasal hemorrhage had ceased. He clutched a fourth against the possibility that it might return.
The Vikings stood apart from both until Tiny rose and looked to have at Rusty again. Jake Bonham interposed himself.
"Enough."
Tiny began to shoulder his old friend out of the way, then thought better of it. "He's going to get his."
Bonham glowered at him from under lowered brows. "Maybe, but not from you, and not here, and not today."
Tiny looked him full in the eyes. "What are you telling me, Jake?"
"You're hauling stakes. Tonight. You think I want this shit in my barracks? I don't need this, from you or anyone." The Viking boss shook his head in exasperation. "I coulda had a dead body to get rid of, and it coulda been yours!"
Something in Bonham's voice struck deep into Tiny, touching nerves he didn't want to hear from. He scowled and tried to shrug it off. "His, maybe."
Bonham shook his head. "You were within a cunt hair, man. You got in one lucky shot, and it saved your ass. He took you, Tiny. Deal with it. You ain't staying here. You got your own pack and your own haunt, and I got my own troubles. Go back to Onteora and get your shit together." The Viking leader spun and strode away.
Tiny gaped at the Viking commander while what remained of his killing rage subsided. It left him close to clarity, for the first time in four months.
He's right. That little shit isn't my real problem. I've got to get back into motion before I forget what it's all about.
He took a few more seconds to compose himself before he spoke.
"Listen up, Butchers. We ride tonight."
He had everyone's attention after that. Hans was first to speak. "Where to, Boss?"
"Onteora, where else?" Tiny glowered murderously at the handful around Rusty McGill. "Our welcome's just been withdrawn here. Seems we don't match the decor. So we'll go where we know we're wanted, and where certain other little turds know they're not."
He hoisted himself to his feet and took a few steps toward Rusty, stopping well before anyone could interpret it as the prelude to a new brawl.
"Don't come near Onteora, faggot. I don't care if your whole family lives there. If I see your face within ten miles of my barracks, I'll crush you like a grape. You and any of your little gang of cocksuckers I happen to see."
Rusty threw his dishtowel aside. The group around him parted to allow him to step forward a pace. He carried himself like a leader.
"I keep my travel plans to myself, motherfucker. And I ain't done with you."
Tiny started forward again, then checked himself.
Jake's right. This isn't the time.
"You know where to find me, faggot. I'll be looking for you."
==
Chapter 33
Christine pulled her little Chrysler to a stop in front of the rectory. Helen sat in the passenger's seat, eyes forward, as silent as she'd been since they rose that morning.
She still doesn't look good. How long will it take her to get her grip back?
Hell, it's not as if I'm in such great shape.
Christine had read Louis's farewell letter barely twenty-four hours ago. Somewhere inside her was a grief bomb with an unknown time to go before it burst. She was getting from one step to the next on pure momentum. Even so, it was Helen she feared for.
I knew she loved him. I didn't know how much. More than me, maybe?
When Christine suggested a visit to Father Schliemann, Helen had nodded and gone to her bedroom to dress. She emerged twenty minutes later, dressed and made up in her usual style, but there was something missing that went deeper than grooming could affect.
She was right about vitality being the wellspring of beauty.
"Come on, Helen, it's time to be sociable."
Helen nodded and began to unbuckle her seatbelt. Christine was at her door and holding it open before she'd finished. The older woman climbed out of the little car with a weary air.
Christine slipped an arm around Helen's shoulders and guided her up the walk to the rectory steps. Perhaps it wasn't necessary, but it felt right. The older woman's forlorn silence suggested that Christine had better take the lead in anything they did that day. Before they mounted the rectory steps, Helen spoke, taking her by surprise.
"What's that on the door?"
Christine looked up. The black-bordered sheet of paper on the door registered on her consciousness for the first time. She uncurled her arm from Helen's shoulders and strode up the steps to read it. It was in an ornate blackscript.
On Friday, October the seventh, Father Heinrich Schliemann of the Society of Saint Dominic, for forty-seven years Onteora's beloved Pastor, returned to Our Father in Heaven. He was seventy-four years old.
There are no words adequate to express Father Schliemann's love for and dedication to Onteora Parish and its parishioners. It is difficult to imagine how the parish will function without him. He will be sorely missed by all who knew him.
The Archdiocese will dispatch a new pastor to Onteora Parish within the week. In the interim, Onteorans are welcome to attend services at any of the surrounding parishes, all of whose members and clergy send their most heartfelt condolences.
Father Patrick Keaveney, Pastor, Broome Parish
Oh God, no. Now what do I do?
Trying her best to feign mild irritation, Christine retreated down the steps, turned Helen about and walked her back to the car. She bundled Helen back into the passenger's seat and got them into motion at once.
"Weren't we going to visit Father Schliemann, dear?"
Shakes and sobs were struggling to wrest control of Christine's body. How she kept them locked down, she could never have said.
"The Father isn't receiving visitors today."
***
The day wore on. Helen remained silent. Christine refrained from trying to draw the older woman into talk. Helen would answer when spoken to, but no more. Boomer sat on the sofa with her for much of the day, his head in her lap, as if the Newfoundland could sense her need for quiet, uncritical affection.
It was late in the afternoon before either of them thought of food. Not wanting
to press her friend, Christine went through Helen's refrigerator herself. There wasn't much in it. She assembled a sketchy ham and cheese omelet. With toast, it would approximate a meal.
They ate in silence. When they had finished, Christine cleared the dishes and Helen returned to the sofa, where Boomer still sat. The Newfoundland put his head back into her lap, and she stroked it absently.
I probably don't need to really worry about her. She's upset, but she's strong. She loved Louis, she'll miss him a long time, but she has so many other friends and responsibilities and things to occupy her. I don't have anything but Boomer, and I know I'll be okay, in a hundred years or so.
She seated herself next to Helen opposite from Boomer, and put her arms around her friend. Helen leaned into her. Christine pulled the older woman's head to her bosom. "Are you going to be okay to work tomorrow?"
"I suppose so, dear." There was little animation in Helen's voice. "Sooner or later, so why not sooner?"
"Would you like for me and Boomer to stay again tonight?"
"No, dear, that's all right. You must have a thousand things to do at home. You mustn't spend all your time looking after me. It's time for me to be an adult again."
Thank you for not making me say it.
"We both loved him, Helen. Probably everyone who ever met him loved him. Don't be ashamed to miss him."
"Of course not, dear." Helen looked up into Christine's face. "Will you still come to see me, now and then?"
"Helen! Of course I will. Probably more than ever."
The older woman smiled wistfully. "Somehow I don't think so, dear, but we'll see. I just hope you won't forget me completely."
Christine hugged her friend. "I could never forget you." She pondered for a moment. "You could move in with Boomer and me."
"No, dear, it would never work. I'll just be content to see you when you have the time. You're going to be so terribly busy."
On Broken Wings Page 25