On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  ***

  It turned out that The Black Grape was a neighborhood saloon. It was small, clean, and didn't have anything that would pass for "decor." It did have a kitchen, but the bartender-proprietor was also the cook, so when the bar got busy you'd have to wait a while for your order. Its patrons lived in the immediate area, came there regularly, socialized with one another and ignored any unfamiliar presence. Rusty and his riders blended into the background without undue effort.

  They were about three hours into a quiet evening when Rusty, who was sitting alone at the bar with a beer before him, felt a hand descend on his shoulder. He turned to find Hans behind him. The big blond was shaking his head in disbelief.

  "Jesus motherfucking Christ, I was right. That is your Sportster out there. When did you roll in here, Rusty?"

  Rusty controlled himself, forced his voice to stay low and casual. "Just today, Hans. What's shaking with you?"

  Hans gave a half shrug. "Not a lot. The pack's at the barracks, Tiny's workin' on some capers. You know, the usual." He perched himself on the stool next to Rusty's. "Buy you a drink for old times' sake?"

  "Naw, let me buy you one." Rusty signaled to the bartender, who set up a stein for Hans and moved back to the far end of the bar.

  Barkeep's smart. Or he knows something I don't know. Something I'd better find out about, maybe?

  They drank, swapped pleasantries and biker small talk for several minutes before the inevitable subject arose.

  "Like having your own pack, Russ?"

  Rusty sipped from his stein and set it on the bar. "Beats the previous arrangement. Why?"

  "So what the hell are you doing here? Tiny would swim a sewer pipe to get his hands on you. And it ain't like this was your favorite place."

  Rusty scowled. "It's nothing, Hans. We're just passing through. Probably headed down to West Virginia, look up some buddies down there." He leaned back, the better to look the Butcher lieutenant in the eyes. "You telling me we're headed for a rumble if we hang around?"

  Hans's expression was unreadable. "Couldn't say, Bubba. I know Tiny wouldn't like hearing you were on his turf again. Specially wearing Butcher colors."

  Rusty's eyebrows went up. "Funds are low, Hans. This is the gear we've got." He sipped at his beer, took a moment to swirl it around his mouth before swallowing. "Right now, Tiny don't know we're here. So if you don't tell him, and he don't come here tonight, there ain't no issue, 'cause we're hittin' the road come sunrise."

  Hans nodded. "I figure that's best. He's got a major hard-on for you, y'know. You humiliated him in front of two whole packs."

  Rusty couldn't suppress a chuckle. "He thought he could take me. He was wrong. He don't like being wrong, that's all."

  Hans's shadowed look was enough to make Rusty wonder whether there'd be a rumble that night after all. "He don't like being defied, Rusty. He wanted your skills and your strength, but you gave him too much lip. And Goddamn, boy, couldn't you have done a little more to cover up the shit with Rollo? You damn near waved it in his face."

  That took Rusty aback. "Rollo was four months dead when Tiny and I locked horns. He didn't have a problem with me and Rollo, or we woulda gone at it a whole lot sooner."

  Hans shook his head. "Wrong, Bubba. You never bothered to learn anything about the man. You pledged your allegiance to him and then you stayed stupid. There's nothing he hates worse than a faggot. He left you alone as long as you toed the line in all the other ways. Once he had a reason, he went for you right away."

  And you gave him that reason, didn't you, Hans? I'd give my right nut to know why. What the hell did you get out of it, anyway?

  "Hans," he said, keeping his voice pleasant, "it ain't important now. Like I told you, we're hauling ass at first light, and I don't want no trouble. So tell me true, old buddy," he said, lowering his brows, "are we gonna have trouble anyway? 'Cause I got responsibilities now, and I figure you'd appreciate what that means."

  Rusty's gaze flicked to a point over Hans's shoulder. Hans turned to find Pete, Carl, Mac and Al standing in a loose semicircle around him. The Butcher lieutenant grinned, reached for his beer stein and drained it.

  "Can't see how we have to, Rusty. But stay smart. You hang around here too long, trouble'll come to you whether you want it or not. Got me?"

  Rusty nodded. Hans rose from his stool, nodded to Rusty's riders, and made his exit.

  "There gonna be trouble, Boss?" asked Mac.

  Rusty scowled. "Call me Rusty, Mac. I ain't Tiny. But no, there ain't, 'cause we're gonna practice the art of defense through mobility." He dismounted from his stool, slapped a five dollar bill on the bar and waved farewell to the bartender. "Let's find somewhere else to dip our bills, and we'll talk it out in the morning. "

  When they were on the road again, Rusty raked the interview over in his mind.

  Hans'll tell Tiny he saw us, sure as shit, but unless we get really unlucky, we won't collide again tonight.

  Sergeant Avery always said timing was everything. I came here looking for trouble, and it found me before I was ready. Well, maybe timing ain't everything, but nothing else works right without it.

  Next dive, we're parking behind the building.

  ***

  Tiny's surprise was considerable. "The little faggot actually came here?" His voice rang in the empty barracks.

  Hans nodded. "Bought me a drink and everything."

  The Butcher chieftain shook his head in disbelief. "Does he think he's got some kind of safe conduct from God or something? I told him to stay the fuck away from Onteora, didn't I? I told him I'd grind his ass to hamburger in front of the whole pack!"

  The cocksucker must've really meant it about not being done with me.

  Rollo must have been some righteous fuck.

  Hans was as solemn as Tiny had ever seen him. "He probably don't think you can do him. But one way or another, it ain't gonna go away, Boss. You and him are gonna have to rumble again. And you're gonna have to put him down once and for all."

  "I know, champ, I know." The biker boss rose from his cot and paced his room, hands driven deep into the pockets of his chaps. "But not tonight, eh? The rest of the pack is scattered all over the county. As good as we are, I don't relish two of us going up against five of them."

  "So what do we do?"

  Tiny paced and thought.

  We've got a lot to lose now. We're rich and secure. Hell, we've got a Goddamned bank account! We're part of the power structure here...

  Tiny's mind recoiled from the memory of the price of admission.

  ...but only as long as we can keep up the right sort of appearances.

  He knew the Lawrences would never tolerate a pitched battle between the two biker gangs in their domain, no matter which one emerged the victor. Ray Lawrence would marshal the whole police department against them, and root his new allies out like a rotten tooth.

  Win or lose, that little faggot could spoil a lot more than he knows. But I still want to get my hands around his throat.

  "We tote up our strengths and theirs, and we do what the balance says is right. What else? We've got numbers, a home base, police protection. They've got mobility and concealment. So we don't go after them. They can track us without much trouble, because of our numbers and fixed base, but they can't afford to meet us head on, or give us any advance warning. They have to snipe." Tiny grinned. "So we force them to do their sniping under the worst possible conditions for it."

  Hans wore a puzzled frown. "Why, Boss? Why let 'em get even one shot off?"

  "Because we know what they're here for, and we can use it." Tiny dropped back onto his cot. "Think it through, Hans. It's good practice in case I ever kiss the grille of a truck. They're here because Rusty wants my balls in a jar. The others don't have any reason to be here, and Rusty doesn't have any other reason to be here. So we use that against them. If Rusty thinks he can make them follow him for long on his personal revenge mission, he's fucking nuts. I give it two weeks at the outside befor
e he's down to two side boys, maybe one, maybe none. Then he'll try a kamikaze play, and we'll be rid of him for good."

  "So how do we set up?"

  "Like a fort." Tiny swept an all-encompassing wave at the Butcher barracks. "We dig up our arms caches and make this place into an arsenal. We set watches. At least two guys awake and standing watch at any time. We travel in groups of six or larger. Make that eight, surprise might give him too much of an edge." A sense of mischief came upon him. "Maybe we notify our official friends about our little nuisance, see if we can get them to help out. On the QT, of course."

  Hans nodded. "Sounds good, Boss. When do we start?"

  Tiny rose again and reached for his jacket. "Tomorrow morning. For now, we get the hell out of this highly vulnerable position. How're you fixed for cash?"

  Hans dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out a large roll.

  Tiny grinned. "Then we go somewhere where there's food, booze, and a few distractions. Preferably the kind with slits between their legs."

  "Show me the way, Boss."

  ====

  Chapter 41

  Christine toyed with the remnants of her veal Marsala. It had been as delicious as Rolf had promised, but she wasn't hungry enough to finish it, and was unwilling to ask the waiter to box such a small amount. It wasn't the only thing she was toying with.

  Rolf sat across from her, stirring his fork through the puddle of sauce from his stuffed shells. His posture was relaxed, and his expression, as always, was pleasant and friendly.

  This makes three times this week.

  "Gonna let me pick up the check tonight, Rolf?"

  "Not a chance."

  "This has to be costing you a fortune." She'd never been to Grucci's Gardens before, but she knew a beautiful Continental restaurant like this wouldn't be cheap. The surroundings were opulent, the food was fabulous, and the waiters practically cut your bites and wiped your mouth for you.

  "It's my pleasure, Chris. Paying for it leaves me feeling less guilty, okay?"

  "What have you got to feel guilty about?"

  He shrugged. "Taking you away from your other pursuits. Friends. Boomer. Time spent with me is time you don't have for them."

  Ah, my other pursuits. Learning how to take down a million-man army with a jackknife and a sprig of mistletoe. And my copious friends. There is Boomer, though. And Malcolm, though he seems happy enough to be left alone with Louis's books.

  "I'm here by choice, Rolf." She studied his face. "Will you accept my word that you're good enough company to be worth my time?"

  He stirred the puddle of sauce again. "I believe the technical term for that is 'damnation with faint praise.' "

  "Knock it off!" Several other patrons glanced over to their table. In a lower voice she said, "You're very good company, and you ought to know it. I'm here with you. I'm not bored. I'm never bored when we're together. How much more convincing do you need?"

  And how much longer will it be before you ask me to come up and see your etchings, or however it's done these days?

  The memory of Louis and the pain of his loss was still strong within her. Likely it always would be. But he had wanted her to live and be well. He would not have wanted her to turn ascetic when he was gone. And she had decided she wanted Rolf.

  She could not imagine ever feeling for Rolf the same all-consuming ache of desire she had always felt for Louis. She had yearned to merge with Louis, to make from the two of them a single soul. Rolf was a good man, intelligent, decent, even handsome in a frail way that invited mothering, but not one to stir a passion like that.

  Rolf was always attentive and faultlessly courteous. He would do anything she had a mind to do, or nothing if she preferred that. He was comfortable with both activity and stillness, with both conversation and silence, as long as she was with him. He was good company.

  Yet his reserve, after six months' acquaintance, was still unbroken. They had gone out to dinner perhaps twenty times, had seen half a dozen movies together, and he had yet to touch her hand.

  He never talked about himself. He had let slip enough for her to learn that he had been married once, and that his wife had left him. She had nosed around among their coworkers, as subtly as she could, and had learned a little more. Apparently Anna Svenson had taken their children and fled their home without leaving a forwarding address. No one professed to know why.

  He asked no personal questions. The closest he'd ever come was, "What did you think of the movie?" Their conversations were always about work, or their coworkers, or the bizarre gyrations of Onteora Aviation's management. Tonight's conversation had run down some time ago, but it didn't seem to have made him uncomfortable.

  Louis and Malcolm would have told you to judge from the evidence. He seems to want only to be near you. In the absence of evidence to the contrary, perhaps you should adopt that premise.

  Are you taking on romantic counseling as a sideline, Nag? I can read the cards when they're face-up in front of me. That's not the problem.

  I know, Christine. The problem is the itch between your legs. You want it scratched. You've decided you want him to scratch it. But a man is not a scratching post. Think about how badly it went with Louis at first, when you feel yourself losing patience.

  Shock arrowed through her. Her blood rose in fury.

  You bodiless cocksucker. You meddlesome, supercilious, pseudo-moralistic prick. I know right from wrong! I learned it from a lot better teacher than you!

  "Chris, are you okay?" Rolf had half-risen from his seat and was leaning over the table toward her. She pulled her attention out of her interior world and returned it to him.

  "Hm? Yeah, Rolf, everything's just super. Why?"

  He resumed his seat. "Jesus, you could have fooled me. Your eyes glazed over, and then you turned this amazing shade of red. I thought you might be having some kind of fit."

  Yeah, some kind of fit, all right. You'd have been a little surprised at your role in it, though.

  She grinned. "I did feel a little lightheaded there for a moment, but it's passed. Probably the wine. I've never been much of a drinker." She probed the recesses of her consciousness for traces of the Nag, and found none. Perhaps her spike of anger had put him outside for the night. She could hope, anyway.

  He nodded and said no more. When the waiter brought the check a few minutes later, he laid a credit card on it without speaking.

  As she drove him back to the plant, he said, "You have a performance review Monday, you know."

  "What?" She kept her attention on the road, which the hard winter not yet completely behind them had rendered treacherous. Onteora County's customary inadequate road lighting amplified the hazards. "What's that?"

  "Dick Orloff is going to ask you into his office, and the two of you are going to talk about how you've been doing, and where you're headed. It's nothing to worry about. Everybody around here practically worships you." He paused. "Especially me, and I wrote most of your review myself."

  There was a long silence.

  "Nothing to be worried about, then," she said.

  His hesitation triggered her alarms.

  "Not for you, no." There was a slight emphasis on you.

  She swung her Chrysler into the OA parking lot, flashed her badge at the guard, and pulled up next to Svenson's battered old Ford.

  "Rolf, what's up? Don't make me have to fish it out of you."

  He shrugged. "It's no big deal. Dick will want to discuss your possibilities with you. Take you up on a high mountain and offer you all the kingdoms of the world. He'd probably agree to clean your house every day if you'd bind yourself to the company with a long-term contract." His casual air vanished. "Don't do it, Chris. Keep your options open."

  Good policy in any strategic situation.

  "I think I would have known to do that, Rolf. And thanks for being concerned for me. But what's got you worried? You didn't make a big production out of this review thing just to give me seven words of common-sense advice."

>   "Eight words."

  "Seven. You get no points for telling me my name."

  She stared at him, willed him to speak. His features were invisible in the darkness. Only the gray-blond fringe of hair above his ear caught any of the meager ambient light.

  "Just keep your options open, Chris. Don't commit to anything too quickly. Orloff is a good guy, but his interests aren't identical to yours. Whatever he might offer you, take it home to chew on before you give him an answer. If he says there isn't time for that, then I'd advise you to say no."

  "Regardless of the offer?"

  "Regardless. An offer that leaves you no time to think is a trap nine times out of ten. The tenth time, it usually isn't as juicy as it was puffed up to be." He turned toward her, features still swathed in darkness. "Chris, you're the best there is. The absolute best. No one anywhere can touch you, take my word for it. You don't have to commit yourself to anything. The world will make a place for you no matter what."

  The dry, managerial tone failed to hide the current of passion that thrummed beneath the words. She started to reach for him, before recalling the exchange with the Nag only a few minutes past.

  "Rolf, I...thank you. I appreciate it." More than you know. "And I'll act on it, you can count on that."

  He nodded and opened the car door. "I was sure you would."

  ***

  Malcolm looked up from his book as Christine stepped through the front door and into the living room. Boomer rose from his bed in the corner and came to greet her.

  "Was he good?"

  Malcolm shrugged. "Isn't he always? How was dinner?"

  "First rate. What is it tonight?" She gestured at his book.

  "Lombrosian Cephalometrics and Crimes of Conspiracy."

  "Huh?"

  "An Italian sociologist named Cesare Lombroso had a theory about a correlation between skull shapes and the propensity toward a life of crime."