A Mutual Friend

by Layla Wolfe

  Oh. He’s a fucking Bent Zealot?

  My joy was short-lived when a shot rang out. In the small clubhouse, the giant boom sounded like a fucking Howitzer. Of course, everyone froze, only creaking their heads to view the shooter. The swarthy stud beneath me stopped squirming. Another of the leather-vested enemy, ridiculously good-looking and grizzled and square-jawed, had evidently shot a different Nordic Zealot clean through the heart. I think it was apparent to everyone this was a fatal shot, the victim sprawled back against the bar, and after giving our statue impression a few more seconds, every last manjack northern biker in the world headed for the front swinging doors.

  Someone yelled after us, “That’s what happens when you Death Squad invade our turf!”

  “Fags!” one of us shouted as we sprinted.

  We kept hauling ass down past the dispensary and a few more shops. It slowly dawned on me as I ran. Why were the Bent Zealots running away from their own club? Why had that thug called us the Death Squad? Why wasn’t the Navajo girl with us? Or the dark stud with the delicious ass?

  The farther we got from the clubhouse, the more we laughed with relief, even though we’d just left a man behind. Our destination was a public parking lot where we leaned and panted all over several pickup trucks. I reached into my pocket for my Oxy bottle. I swallowed a pill, dry. Man. I had to touch my toes to counteract the spasms in my spine, but it had been worth it. Now the Zealots would know I’d been seriously ripped off through no fault of my own, but at least I was a cool guy, on their side.

  I shared amused looks with the shirtless bruiser even as I got a creepy feeling from a window sticker that proclaimed, “White Pride Worldwide.” Glancing around, I saw another sticker with a defiant fist that cried, “Good Night Left Side.”

  I supposed it shouldn’t be shocking that a biker gang was a bunch of alt-right racists. That wasn’t outside of the norm. But the more I examined my muscular new friend’s ink, the more it occurred to me that these “runes” were more aptly called “swastikas.” They had just appropriated some Nordic crosses and made them less obvious. My new friend had a blood red drop that I recognized as formerly being inside of a white cross on many trucker’s arms. Now the drop stood alone. It meant the same thing.

  “Hey,” said my friend, punching me good-naturedly on the arm. His gold grill twinkled in the setting sun. “Thanks for the help. Who are you? You’re not a Zealot.”

  Well, wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t he know his own gang? A sudden sense of caution overcame me. “No, of course not. Just a friend trying to help out.”

  The dodo guy ignored me. “That was some amazing action, Flannery. Those fags’ll know there’s a new game in town now.”

  Flannery chuckled. “Yeah, and they know our name. The Death Squad.” He again punched me happily.

  A guy in a leather vest held out a hand. “Wow. That Injun chick sure has some weight behind her.” He bowed. “Do I need stitches in my head?”

  A guy in a leather vest. And this vest didn’t have any Bent Zealots “colors,” or patches. No. His patches just said shit like “Rock Against Islam” and “Wake up White Man!”

  Holy shit. I’d been beating on the wrong people.

  I tested the waters. “What about our man we left behind? Should we go see if he’s alive?” I wasn’t about to show my face in there again, not even to give the real Bent Zealots the five large. No sirree Bob. I could leave the money somewhere, slide it under their door in the dead of night, but I wasn’t going to look a single one of them in the eye again.

  The dodo shrugged. “That was only Crusty. Anyone willing to go back to get him?”

  Another skinhead held a palm full of blood to his nose. It dripped off his knuckles and had already formed a pool by his boot. “If there’s anyone not injured.” He tossed his head in my direction, spraying blood. “You. How’d you not get trashed?”

  Flannery came to my defense. “I saw him whaling on those faggots just as hard as we were. He’s okay in my book. What’s your name, buddy?”

  “King,” I admitted. I was too dense and low to come up with a phony name. “So, you’re going to leave Crusty at the hands of those fags?” I used the word they used, just so I didn’t look suspicious. Were the Bent Zealots “fags”? Is that why they were “bent”? I’d never heard of a gay MC, and if that black-haired stallion was any indication—or the hunk who shot Crusty—they were a sexy bunch. I’d really fucking blown it this time. Could things get any worse?

  “Where you live, King?” asked Flannery.

  “I’m a truck driver,” I confessed. The guys who jacked me were probably Death Squadders too, only they hadn’t had time to get to this particular rumble. “I live in LA. Does anyone know where the pill mill is here in town?”

  Flannery held an arm into a welcoming arc. “Come with us. We’ve got a handle on all that shit.”

  Apparently, things could get worse. I’d accidentally joined a band of Aryans. But maybe this was a good way to sniff out where the heroin had gone.

  A

  I

  was paying penance of the worst kind.

  I suppose only a recovering addict would know how I felt, making amends to those I’d harmed. I’d ridden to the Indian reservation from New York on my new Harley, to have something in common with my beloved who also rode a Harley. I wanted to experience what he had, to feel the rumble of pipes between my legs, to stop in at local churches and pray like one of the congregation, to meet the real people of the Midwest who had no clue of my true identity.

  I came from Spain, so I wanted to experience America.

  I had damned myself in the eyes of the church by being accused of a homosexual affair. I wanted to feel what Noel must have felt, riding off from his Standing Rock Reservation to this paltry, dusty one. Dejected, rejected. Unable to live his true life by showing his true self.

  Apparently that was all over now. Father Noel Moloney was living his best life, as they say, openly gay on this rez. “Come on down,” he had texted. “I’ll get you set up properly.”

  Now we sat in Noel’s adobe living room, uncomfortably balancing tea mugs on our knees. I knew what was foremost on Noel’s mind. Was I here to pay penance or to restart our affair?

  “I’m here to repair things,” I started out. Not sure of myself at all. That was unlike me. “I feel like I was a coward during our meeting with the bishop. I feel like I let you down.”

  Noel held out a calming hand. “No, no. You did what you had to do to save your hide. Anyone else would’ve done the same. I think I was just done with the church. With the Romans.”

  For we’d been Roman Catholic, the absolute worst place to be gay—unless you were a handsy priest, of which there were hundreds. No, we were the rarest of all things on a vegetable farm—fruits. Noel and I had been caught making out in a gay nightclub in New York. What that deacon was doing in the club was another story entirely.

  I didn’t let myself off the hook. “No. I sat there denying everything until the cows came home. But you, Noel, you were brave. You told him where to stick it.”

  “I was ready. I couldn’t deny my own nature anymore. That’s why I left the Romans and went with the Episcopalians. Much more leniency.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Is that what you’re considering?”

  I shook my head. “No. You may notice I don’t wear a collar anymore.”

  “I did.” Noel wore a collar. Even in the middle of a godforsaken desert populated with natives, my dear Noel Moloney wore his dog collar and even his cassock in the ninety-degree heat. His little house had no air conditioning, but the adobe seemed to keep it cool.

  “Because I left the church.”

  Noel froze for a few seconds, his hand holding his mug in mid-air. Then he tried to grin. “Renounced your vows?”

  “That I did.”

  “And they let you?”

  “I think they were relieved to see me go. They don’t need any more negative publicity.”

&
nbsp; A much longer silence this time. At last Noel sank back into his chair. His long dark brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, and I longed to run my hands through it. I hadn’t had a single lover since we were forced apart. A few depressing encounters at jackoff clubs—wearing civilian attire of course—was about the extent of it.

  He sighed, deflated. “Well. That’s a big move. What are you going to do now?”

  Pick up where we left off? “Resume my former career—“

  “Full-time? Another bold move, Antonio. I applaud you for it. But then, you’ve never been timid.”

  “I was timid when I denied our reality to the bishop.”

  Noel leaned forward again. “And you were disciplined heavily to a lifetime of penance and prayer. Were you timid the first time you came to New York? That boy was a week away from dying from lack of food or water, chained to a bed. He weighed about sixty pounds, remember?”

  I corrected him. “Fifty.”

  Noel pointed at me. “Fifty. He would’ve died if not for your strength, your power.”

  That was true. I admitted, “I’ve been endowed with the gift of discernment. St. Paul spoke of it in his First Epistle to the Corinthians.”

  “Blah, blah.” Noel laughed, irreverent as always. “Another way of saying you have the talent.” Putting his cup on a side table, he scooted his chair closer to me. Inside, I thrilled. Was he finally going to admit he never stopped loving me? For I’d never stopped loving him. Three endless years I’d longed for him.

  When he took my hands in his, my cock swelled against my jeans. In fact, I was dressed like an ordinary American—or what I imagined an ordinary American out west resembled. 501 jeans and a tight T-shirt that would display to Noel how hard I’d been working out. Now I realized with a pang that I probably looked more like someone out of American Graffiti. All I needed was a pack of cigs rolled up in my sleeve.

  “Antonio. You have a brilliant future ahead of you. You’re the strongest man I’ve ever known. You’ve fought demons and won. Now you can travel, do your long-term investigations, your data analysis, counseling, follow-ups. All those things you longed to do full-time, but the duties of the priesthood got in your way.”

  “Yes, exactly,” I said excitedly. He was getting me. He knew me.

  When Noel lifted a hand, I thought he was going to thumb my lower lip. But he stroked my cheek as a parent would. Was that not definite love in his eyes? It was as though we adored each other with our eyes. “I can help you,” he said, quieter now. “I have faith in you and your far-flung abilities.”

  I scooted closer too until our knees dovetailed erotically. With my hands on his thighs, my bulging crotch was his to see. My breath became shallow with anticipation that we’d kiss again. His lovely hawk’s nose would touch my cheek and our tongues would entwine. And soon I’d be on my knees between his thighs.

  Except the front door opened and some worker stomped in. Fuck that guy! Apparently he was important enough for Noel to break our embrace, scoot back, and yell over his shoulder, “Hey, Fremont! I’ve got someone special I want you to meet!”

  And apparently Fremont had to go crack a beer in the kitchen before coming to stand behind Noel, a hand on his shoulder. I frowned. That was a sort of possessive motion to make, the hand on the shoulder. The guy had a healthy, free, happy-go-lucky quality about him which I instantly loathed. He was outdoorsy. He was athletic. He was tan.

  “Antonio, meet my lover, Fremont Zuckerman.”

  “Fiancé,” corrected Fremont good-naturedly as he shook my slack hand.

  I’m sure my lower jaw hung open. Had Noel been waiting all day to spring this on me? Why hadn’t he opened with this part? Was he getting a secret thrill from raising my hopes only to dash them in the sand?

  “Oh!” I tried to remain unmoved. “How long has this been going on?”

  They looked at each other. I could see their connection. It was way more powerful, at least currently, than the connection between Noel and me.

  “Six months?” guessed one, just as the other guessed, “Six months?” also. This caused them to laugh and grope each other some more.

  I might as well fucking go. “Well!” I said with false cheer, slapping my own knees. “That’s great for you, I’m happy.” I stood.

  Their palsy-walsy ribbing stopped. Noel stood, too. “Antonio. I said I’ve got some ideas for you and your new career. Come with me.”

  Leaving that odious outdoorsy guy behind, we went into the garden between his house and the chapel. It was a lovely miniature version of the desert around us, with towering saguaro, squat barrel cacti with their crowns of thorns, and wispy ocotillo topped with flaming orange flowers. A bench was near some headstones, and Noel indicated we should sit.

  Damn. The heat from his thigh stirred me again. He said, “I know your specialty is something you don’t broadcast.”

  I nodded. “No sense in alarming people.”

  “Right. But at the same time, you need work. Look. I’ve joined with this motorcycle club. No, not the kind you’re thinking. That would be a riding club. This MC does good and does bad and they’ve surely seen everything in between. A bunch of great guys and get this—they’re gay. Yup. You heard it right.”

  “A gay motorcycle club,” we said simultaneously.

  I said, “You think they could help me out?”

  “No doubt! Listen, they’re located up in Lake Havasu City just north of here. I want you to go to their clubhouse on Surprise Street, The Happy Hour. If no one’s there, they’ll be at the dispensary on the same side of the street, Herbal Legends.” He thought aloud. “Or, I guess Lock could be at his Los Toros Hermanos Bail Bonds. Well, start with the clubhouse first. I want you to find Turk Blackburn. He’s the Prez of the club. Tell him what it is that you do, and he’ll be able to send you on the right track pronto.”

  I looked at him askance. “Pronto? Just like that?”

  “Sure! They get all kinds of strange things up there. That you’re gay will stand you in good stead. They’re as gay as a picnic basket.”

  “And they’ll have . . . jobs for me?”

  “Sure, why not? You wouldn’t believe the things that club runs up against.”

  “Look, I’m not a purveyor of voodoo, in case you didn’t know. I can’t help them get revenge on their enemies.”

  “Of course not, Antonio. No, Turk will listen to your story. He probably already knows a couple houses that could use you. Trust me. Go for it. You could be there in a little over an hour.”

  I pretended to laugh. “Trying to get rid of me?”

  “No. It’s great to see you again, Antonio. It’s just that . . .” And he waved helplessly in the direction of his adobe.

  I nodded. “I know. Zuckerman.”

  Noel lowered his voice. “We only just hooked up. He’s a soils engineer, but it works. We’ve been concentrating on getting rid of all the uranium in this rez left over from testing in the 40s. It’s a noble—”

  “—noble goal,” I said, back into our old mode of finishing each other’s sentences. I sighed. “Look, Noel. I really want your absolution. I can continue on if I know you forgive me for having chickened out in front of the bishop.”

  Again, he took my hands, but this time it didn’t excite me. “Of course I do! I forgave you the second you chickened out.” We both laughed. “I knew it was what you had to do at the time. You’ve been both blessed and cursed from an early age with discernment of spirits. Remember when you saw a woman in your bedroom one night?”

  How could I forget? This ghostly woman had been embroidering a sheep into a farm scene, rocking back and forth in a chair. “When I described it to my mother the next day, she said, ‘That’s your aunt!’ I’d never met my aunt. She died before I was born.”

  Noel squeezed my hands harder. “She was a nun who’d undergone massive suffering. That’s how you heard your calling.”

  I deflated. “Yes. Yes. But I’ve been released from consecration now.”

&
nbsp; Noel tried to look me in the eyes. “You’re still a priest for all good purposes even if you’re no longer ordained. The work you do is what you’re meant to do.”

  I closed my eyes as though praying. “Why does life bother waking us up?” I wondered quietly.

  Noel leaned in and kissed me chastely on the cheek. “My love for you knows no bounds, Antonio. Go forth and do the work you were meant to do. I’ll call Turk and tell him to expect you.”

  I nodded. There was no point in any more talk, so I wandered back to my new Harley Softail and strapped on my helmet. We shared a glance for a long time. Then I turned the fuel switch on. No point in lingering.

  I had to pop a big U-ie to get back the way I had come. By then, Fremont Zuckerman had come to stand next to his fiancé. He waved cheerfully at me, as though I were not in love with Noel. He didn’t have a jealous bone in his body, another positive checkmark for him. I knew deep down they were a perfect match, like Noel and I used to be. We were no longer. He’d moved on, and I needed to also.

  I sighed a lot as I rode, getting bugs in my mouth. I kept telling myself this was a new chapter in my life, but it was difficult convincing myself of it.

  a

  “I got to tell you,” said Turk Blackburn, “you’ve got a fascinating background. We’d be lucky sonofabitches to recruit you, Antonio. I know it’s far-fetched. But you can consider yourself a consultant to the Bent Zealots.”

  I sat up straight, pleased. Noel was right. They needed me—for some reason.

  We sat in their “chapel”—what would pass for a conference room with lit-up beer signs, crossed swords, and hand carvings of their logo adorning the walls. Unconventional photos of their board of directors were there, too, above the executive fish tank. Turk, the Prez, was a stunningly handsome man with perfect, even features. He’d chosen a picture of himself grilling some sort of fish as his official photo. Veep was his partner, Lock Singer, equally as handsome but blond. I guessed he was the guy who ran the bail bonds outfit. In fact, to punctuate this, he posed between two men with zip tied wrists, taking them down to the station house for questioning, I presumed.