Cruel Vintage

by Huston Michaels

With a sigh he rose and got organized.

  His first stop was the grocery store, which meant the pickup instead of a bike, where he bought enough provisions to feed a platoon for the next month. While waiting at the check stand he picked up the latest free motorcycles for sale newsprint magazine.

  After he got home and put things away he stood at the kitchen counter and thumbed through the listings.

  On page sixteen he spied a small classified.

  1951 HD Hydra Glide Panhead

  Total basket case, but should be all here.

  Serious inquiries only

  The ad had no price, only a phone number in the 818 area code.

  What the hell? He had a ’41 and a ’61. Might as well fill the inside straight.

  He called the number.

  “This is Damion Spencer,” a voice answered.

  “Hi,” Kaye said. “I’m calling about your ’51 Panhead. What can you tell me?”

  “Pretty much all I can tell you is that it’s just what the ad said, a total basket case. Except in this case boxes might be more accurate. Almost all the parts are in cardboard boxes.”

  “Your ad said that it should all be there. What does that mean?”

  “Look,” Spencer said, “I’m not really a motorcycle guy. I was told it was all there, but I can’t guarantee anything. You need to come look at it.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Kaye said, “but if you’re not a bike guy, how’d you end up with a 1951 Harley in boxes?”

  “I got it from my brother,” Spencer replied.

  “How long ago?” Kaye asked.

  “About six years ago.”

  “Did he decide not to tackle it?”

  There was a brief silence before Spencer said, “Mister, you ask a lot of questions.”

  “I’m just trying to find out about the bike,” Kaye said. “I’m not trying to offend you, and I apologize if I did.”

  Another, longer silence.

  “Okay, here’s the story,” Spencer said finally. “I got if from my brother. He bought it before he joined up and planned on restoring it when he got out. It’s still in boxes because when my brother came home, he was in a box. That cover it for you?”

  Kaye was embarrassed and speechless.

  “So,” Spencer asked, breaking the silence, “you want to come look at it or not?”

  “Yes, I would like to come look at it,” Kaye said. “I’m sorry about your brother. Truly sorry.”

  “No worries. Are you coming out today?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Chatsworth,” Spencer replied, then gave Kaye a street address.

  “I’m on the way,” Kaye said. “Give me an hour.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “You want my name?”

  “Nah. You’re the only guy that’s called.”

  A little less than an hour later, Kaye, riding the ’41 Knucklehead, rolled up in front of the address Spencer had given him.

  It was a well-kept two-story that looked like a crane had been used to plop the mismatched second floor down atop the original house in a desperate bid for more square footage. A boxwood hedge surrounded the front yard. In front of the closed, two-car garage door were an newer, black, full-sized SUV and an older, dark blue Jeep CJ with a canvas top.

  Seconds after he rang the bell the door opened and Kaye looked down at a tow-headed little girl, maybe five years old.

  She took one look at him, yelled, “Daddy, the motorcycle man is here! He’s a giant!” and turned and ran.

  She stopped where the entry way became the living room and turned around, eyes wide and fingers in her mouth, and stared at him.

  A man rounded the corner, saw Kaye, and knelt down next to the little girl. Kaye heard him whisper, “It’s okay. He’s big, but he’s not a giant. And what have I told you about answering the door by yourself? Now, go find your mom.”

  She was off like a flash.

  “Hi, Damion Spencer,” he said. “You called about the bike?”

  “That was me. Ben Kaye. I’m sorry if I was rude on the phone.”

  “That’s okay,” Spencer said. “I guess I’m a little touchy about the bike. It’s taken me a long time to be able to let it go.”

  “I understand,” Kaye said, remembering how he’d agonized over letting go of Amy’s beloved ’67 Corvette until he met Behar Shahnaz and she saved his life.

  “So, let’s go take a look at it,” Spencer said. “If you want to wait outside the garage, I’ll open the door.”

  Basket case was an apt description. The bare frame stood up against one wall, surrounded by some of the larger pieces. Six good-sized boxes, obviously the worse for wear, were stacked against the wall. The gas tank and fenders protruded from the top layer of boxes, too full to close, and a box tucked under the frame was filled with a tangled mass of wires and cables, across the top of which rested the handlebars.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Spencer said, smiling. “Basket case, right?”

  “That it is,” Kaye said, walking slowly around the pile. He lifted the red pearl and black gas tank to check it, and was surprised to see that it was undented and the paint wasn’t all that bad. He put it back and looked around.

  “Do you have the front forks and tree?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry,” Spencer said, spinning on his heels and walking to the opposite back corner of the garage. He came back with the necessary pieces. “Too big for a box. The pipes are there, too.”

  “The rest is in the boxes?”

  “As far as I know,” Spencer said. “But, like I said, no guarantees. It’s strictly as-is, cash and carry.”

  “Do you have paperwork? A title, old registration?”

  “Yep. It’s still in my brother’s name, but he gave me Power of Attorney before he deployed.”

  “How much are you asking?” Kaye asked.

  “Daddy,” a small voice said from behind Kaye. He turned and saw the little girl who’d answered the door.

  “What, Punkin’?”

  “Is the giant taking Uncle Alex’s motorcycle away?”

  “Maybe,” Spencer said. “But it’s time for Uncle Alex’s motorcycle to find a new home with somebody who can fix it up and ride it and love it. Uncle Alex would’ve wanted that, right?”

  “But I love Uncle Alex’s motorcycle, too,” she said. Her eyes fill with tears and her chin trembled as she slowly turned and walked, head down, back into the house.

  “How old is she?” Kaye asked.

  “Four,” Spencer said. “She wasn’t even born when my brother was killed in action, but…she hears us talk and sees his picture.”

  “When was he killed?”

  “April the fifth, two thousand and thirteen, Helmand Province, Afghanistan.”

  “I’m really sorry for your loss,” Kaye said. “As an ex-Marine, I thank you for his service and his sacrifice.”

  “Thank you. I –”

  “Damion, what did you tell Ellie?” another voice interrupted, and Kaye turned to see a very pregnant woman, one hand held under her belly, standing in the open door to the house. She nodded at him and he acknowledged her.

  “I told her it was time for Uncle Alex’s motorcycle to find a new home.”

  “Oh, okay,” the woman said. “I’ll talk to her.” She turned and disappeared.

  “My wife,” Spencer said. “Casey.”

  “I gathered that,” Kaye said, smiling. “I don’t mean to be rude again, but when’s she due?”

  “Any time now. Trust me, we are both very ready. It’s the big reason we’re selling the bike.”

  “Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?” Kaye asked.

  “Boy,” Spencer said. “His name will be Alexander.”

  “So,” Kaye said, steering the talk back to business, “what’s your asking price?”

  “I’ve kind of settled on five hundred,” Spencer said, avoiding eye contact.

  “Five hundred?” Kaye said. “I can’t in good consc
ience give you five hundred dollars for this.”

  “I think that’s pretty fair,” Spencer said.

  Kaye laughed. “Not to you, it’s not. This may be a pile of boxes filled with old motorcycle parts, but inside those boxes is a very desirable bike, even if there are a few things missing.”

  “What do you think it’s worth?”

  Kaye did the math.

  “A fully-restored 1951 FL sold at auction not long ago for a hundred times what you just told me you’d take for it. Even if everything is here, it’s going to cost a bit to put it all back together and make it road worthy. Whatever isn’t here isn’t going to come cheap.”

  “How about you make me an offer?” Spencer said, trepidation in his voice.

  Kaye looked at the dusty frame, which he could tell was straight, and the pile of parts and boxes, and thought about the very pregnant wife and the brother killed in action.

  “How about fifteen?” Kaye asked.

  “Fifteen hundred dollars? For this?” Spencer said, astounded.

  “No,” Kaye said. “Not fifteen hundred. Fifteen thousand. If that’s not good, I’d go seventeen five.”

  Damion Spencer’s mouth hung open and he stared at Kaye.

  “Seventeen thousand five hundred?” he managed to say.

  “Sold!” Kaye said, holding out his hand.

  Spencer grabbed it with both of his and pumped it up and down.

  “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.” Tears welled up in Spencer’s eyes.

  “Don’t thank me,” Kaye said. “I’m still coming out ahead, and I think I got lucky being the first guy here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cash. “Obviously, I don’t ride around with that kind of cash on me, and, also obviously, I can’t take it with me today,” he hooked his thumb toward the Knucklehead, “but if you’re willing to take a thousand as good faith money and confirm the sale in writing for me, I’ll come back in my truck, with cash, tomorrow and we can do the paperwork.”

  “I… I guess we could do that,” Spencer stammered. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Kaye confirmed.

  “I’ve got a Bill of Sale form inside,” Spencer said. “Will that do?”

  “Works for me.”

  Spencer headed inside, and Kaye could hear him shouting excitedly.

  “Casey! Casey!”

  Thirty minutes later they’d worked out the details of Kaye picking up the bike, and a Bill of Sale listing the terms, which Kaye would hold onto until the next day, had been signed.

  Just as Kaye was about to head out to the ’41, the door from the house opened and Casey, holding Ellie’s hand, stepped into the garage.

  “Go ahead,” Casey urged the little girl.

  She took two tentative steps toward Kaye and looked up.

  “Are you taking Uncle Alex’s motorcycle away?”

  Kaye knelt on one knee to look her in the eye.

  “Yes,” he said. “But not until tomorrow. I’ll make sure it has a good home.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise,” Kaye said, crossing his heart. “When I get it all fixed up and shiny I’ll bring it back and show it to you. Shake on it.” He held out his hand.

  She looked at Kaye’s hand and her eyes got big. Slowly, she reached out, managed to grab his index finger, and started to shake it.

  She looked up at her father, her eyes still wide, and whispered, “See, Daddy, I told you he’s a giant!”

  ***

  Kaye was elated on the ride home. He knew he’d uncovered a diamond in the rough. He’d paid handsomely for it, but he was confident it would be worth considerably more when it was back on the road.

  And it would provide a much needed distraction.

  He found himself wishing he had someone to share his good fortune with, and, to his surprise, Auggie McMaster was the first person that came to mind. He thought about it for a minute, then dismissed it and went back to mentally planning the restoration of the ’51 Panhead.

  After going to the bank the bulk of the afternoon was spent preparing the garage to receive the Pan-in-a-Box, as Kaye had already dubbed it. It didn’t take much. Had the Corvette still occupied one end of the garage it might have been tight, but now he had plenty of room.

  As the afternoon wore on he realized he was doing busy work and decided to call it. He’d do a short practice, clean up, and ride to the café at Paradise Cove to treat himself to a celebratory dinner.

  About an hour later he idled the new Road King down the driveway and headed for Coast Highway.

  When he approached Paradise Cove Road the light was red and traffic was stacked in the left turn lane. He slowed and started working down through the gears. When he hit third, the northbound lights turned green. He hit the throttle, shifted up, stayed in the through lane and kept going.

  He wondered, why not? It’s a nice evening for a ride.

  Two hours later, almost fully dark outside, Kaye rolled into the Auggie’s Wine’N’Diner parking lot.

  The lot was packed, at least a hundred bikes lined up in rows that basically conformed to the lines painted on the asphalt. Oddly enough, no riders hung out outside.

  The tricked-out Street Glide was again parked on the sidewalk not far from the front door.

  Auggie’s was jammed, the noise and activity level twice what it had been at lunch a week ago. The space seemed much larger, and Kaye realized a portable wall had been opened to make room for many more tables. Every table was packed, and the tables were covered with white linen tablecloths.

  He stood at the unattended hostess’s podium for several minutes, scanning the room for Auggie, but not seeing her. The bartender was a man Kaye didn’t recognize.

  Maybe this was a bad idea, he thought.

  He turned to leave and almost ran into a woman, elegantly dressed in a black, mid-calf length skirt and a white, ruffle-front blouse with an elaborately embroidered collar and lower sleeves. Her black hair was done up, held in place with a wide, diamond-studded clip that matched her diamond earrings.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Strabler,” she said, smiling as she leaned in close to his ear to be heard over the din.

  Kaye suddenly tumbled to the fact that he was face-to-face with Auggie McMaster.

  Almost.

  In her heels she was three inches taller than he was.

  “Glad to be back,” he said loudly. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  She laughed. “I noticed.”

  “Well, you look…” He stumbled for the right word.

  “Different?” She helped him out. “Yeah, we’re having a special event tonight. A tasting. I’m in my finest Master Sommelier get-up, including,” she reached up and touched an elaborate silver necklace that competed for space with a string of pearls, “my tastevin.”

  “Your what?”

  “My tastevin.” She held it up, opened it, and Kaye realized he was looking at a small cup. “They’re mostly ceremonial these days, but they’re coming back. Plus, they’re part of the whole wine schtick, so I wore it.”

  “Looks like it’s going well,” Kaye said.

  “Very,” Auggie said. “We’re jammed.”

  “I see that. Maybe I should come back another time.”

  She frowned. “If you’d like to stay, Ben Kaye, I’ll make a place for you.” She smiled again. “After all, I do own the joint.”

  “I’d like that,” Kaye said. “I’ll be fine at the end of the bar, out of everybody’s way, if there’s room.”

  Her smile expanded. She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned in close to his ear.

  “Follow me.” She led him through the main part of the restaurant toward the bar.

  To Kaye, the whole place was a visual contradiction. Tables set with elegant dinnerware, candles, a variety of stemware glasses and a single red rose in a crystal vase, all atop snow white tablecloths, were surrounded by diners who looked more suited for a South Dakota saloon in August.

  But the conc
ept clearly worked, and by the number of people obviously enjoying themselves immensely, it worked very well.

  Auggie led him to the same end-of-the-bar spot he’d occupied on his first visit, held up a finger in a ‘wait a sec’ gesture, disappeared through the door behind the bar and reappeared carrying a bar stool.

  “Here you go, officer,” she said as she put the stool down.

  Kaye stared at her.

  “Oh, please,” she said over the din. “My Dad was on the job for thirty years. I can spot a cop a mile away, and your preference for the gunfighter seat just confirms it.”

  Kaye smiled and said, “You got me. LAPD.”

  “Oh, the big time,” she teased. “Dad was SLO – she pronounced it ‘slow’ – County Sheriff’s Department. Retired as the head of the Patrol Division. What’s your grind?”

  “Detective. And what’s ‘slow’?”

  “That’s how the locals shorten San Luis Obispo,” Auggie replied. “And let me welcome you, Detective Kaye, and your definitely un-girlish figure, back to my establishment. As you may have noticed, we’re big on local wines here, so feel free to imbibe those of your choice, on the house. I trust you’ll use extra caution if you’re riding.”

  “I always ride,” Kaye said, stopped, and added, “Almost.”

  “Me, too,” she said, then signaled the bartender. He came over, they put their heads together in a conversation Kaye couldn’t hear, and then she turned back to him. “Please stick around?”

  He nodded, and she headed off to mingle, throwing a smile back over her shoulder.

  The bartender brought him the menu for the evening. It was hardly the bar food selection he’d seen on his first visit. Instead, there were a half-dozen exotic sounding selections with French and Italian names. Listed below each one were several suggested wine pairings, and flights were available.

  Kaye chose the one he could translate; steak; and ordered a glass of one of the suggested wines. He also made it clear to the bartender he was not in a hurry.

  It was after 10:00 p.m. when the last of the diners straggled out the door, many carrying bagged wine club orders to stash in the saddlebags on the ride home, and all of them wanting one last good-bye from Auggie.

  After seeing off the last of them, Auggie walked over and sat down on the barstool across the corner of the bar from Kaye.