Biker

by Baron, Mike;

  BIKER

  Mike Baron

  CHAPTER 1

  David Lowry sat on Josh Pratt’s leather sofa with his arms on his knees, his disconsolate posture at odds with his chartreuse and magenta Hawaiian shirt. “Those dogs would never leave my yard. Never. We have the invisible fence! Louise is going crazy.”

  David and Louise Lowry were Pratt’s new neighbors across the street. They had built their four-thousand-square-foot mansion three years after Pratt had moved into his modest ranch house. Now Pratt was surrounded by McMansions and his home was considered an eyesore. The remains of a ’68 Camaro resting on cinderblocks in Pratt’s front yard did little to dispel this impression. He’d refused to sign the petition for a neighborhood association but they’d formed one anyway and now he was in deep shit because he seldom mowed his lawn.

  Lowry had showed up at Pratt’s door at nine on a warm Thursday evening frantic and disheveled. Pratt thought, oh no, he’s come to bitch about the lawn.

  Instead he said, “You’re a private investigator, right?”

  Smelling money, Pratt nodded and held the door open. His private investigator career was stalled. He was thinking about going back to repo.

  “You want a drink?” Pratt went to his liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black and two tumblers. He looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like a cage fighter. His skull had one eighth-inch buzz. His left eyebrow resembled a railroad track from prison fights. Inked biceps bulged from a sleeveless gray sweatshirt. Pale blue eyes looked back from a crackle finish, a delta of lines that made him look older than his thirty-four years.

  Pratt got ice from the refrigerator and poured a couple fingers into each tumbler. He set one glass down on the scarred coffee table next to an S&S engine resting on an asbestos pad like a hot dish. Lowry grabbed the tumbler in both hands like a man seizing a life preserver and drank. Pratt sat opposite in an overstuffed chair he’d salvaged from Student Moving Week.

  The fact was that for the six months he’d had his investigator’s license his only work had consisted of delivering summonses for attorney Daniel Bloom.

  “When did you first notice they were missing?”

  “Around five. We searched everywhere. Do you have any idea what could have happened to them?”

  Pratt rubbed the bridge of his nose. Pratt had introduced himself when Lowry first moved in, and Lowry, a University fund raiser, had been noticeably cool, like he’d opened his refrigerator and found a rat. Pratt had invited him over for a beer. Pratt had seen the faint sheen of disgust and a hint of fright in Lowry’s eyes as he mumbled something to the effect that yeah that would be swell, one of these days. What thefuckwas this blue-inked biker doing in his neighborhood?

  And six weeks later here we are.

  Pratt had a terrible thought. “I have an idea.”

  “What is it?”

  “There are gangs on the south side who cruise neighborhoods for small dogs they use as ‘bait’ to train their pit bulls.” Pratt didn’t mention the old white Ford panel van he’d seen earlier. It had just looked wrong. He’d meant to write down the license but it sped away before he could get a look.

  “In Wisconsin?!” Lowry asked, incredulous.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Lowry’s face morphed into a mask of horror. “Oh, no no no! Not George and Gracie!”

  Pratt had seen this before. You ripped the veil aside and life was full of maggots.

  “Do you have a photo?”

  “Are you online? Give me your e-mail address and I’ll send them as soon as I get home.”

  Pratt didn’t have a card. He took out one of Daniel Bloom’s and wrote his e-mail address on the back. “That’s a friend of mine on the front, you need a good criminal attorney.”

  Lowry stared. “Why would I need a criminal attorney?”

  “I’m just sayin’.”

  Lowry tucked the card in his breast pocket. He was sweating heavily and had a Nixonesque shadow on his jaw. He was in his late forties, an aging athlete gone to seed. Pratt could see Lowry’s pink skull through a bad comb-over whenever he leaned forward. “I’d like to hire you to find George and Gracie. Can I do that? Do you search for missing dogs?”

  “I get two hundred a day plus expenses. I report every Monday morning. If anything important turns up I’ll phone you.”

  “Do you need a check? I forgot to bring my checkbook.”

  Yes! Pratt exulted. He needed a new roof. The septic tank was backing up. He was spinning his wheels, working on the basket-case Harley, waiting for something to happen. There had to be more to life than handing out summonses, raising hell on Saturday night and going to church on Sunday. God must have had a higher purpose when he sprung Pratt from prison and got him his license.

  “Don’t worry about it, Dave. We’re neighbors. Send me those pictures and tell me what they were wearing, the color of their collars and what tags.”

  Lowry seemed almost pathetically grateful. He grabbed Pratt’s hand in both of his. “Thank you. Louise will be so pleased to learn you’re on this. She’s been hysterical all evening.”

  Lowry and Pratt rose together. At the door, Lowry said, “When can you start?”

  Pratt looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty. “I’ll start right now.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Pratt had once been Defense Minister for the Bedouins, an outlaw gang out of Milwaukee. It had been seven years since he’d been sentenced to prison for assault, possession of a controlled substance, possession of illegal firearms with intent to distribute and conspiracy to commit murder. He would still be there had it not been for Chaplain Frank Dorgan and attorney Daniel Bloom, who got his conviction overturned and helped him get an investigator’s license with the complicity of a flexible judge.

  Pratt put on a vest and leather gloves, went through the kitchen door into the garage and pushed the garage door button. The vinyl door retracted in a series of clanks, revealing a maroon Road King with a Screamin’ Eagle kit, bobbed fenders and drag-style bars. He wheeled the bike out onto the gravel drive and got on. He reached into his tank bag and pushed the garage door remote. It was a clear, warm evening in July.

  Pratt rode to the Anchor Inn at Schenk’s Corners, a biker bar in the heart of Madison’s blue-collar East Side. Across the street was a uniform store and a check-cashing place.

  Pratt backed his Road King to the curb and set the stand. Eight choppers were lined up like heavy metal soldiers in front of the Anchor. Signs on the wall said “MOTORCYCLE PARKING ONLY.” Seven of the choppers had ape-hangers, high bars that stretched you out like a drag chute. It was a shotgun bar—bar on the left, booths on the right, pool tables and restrooms in back. Pratt heard Bob Seger through the open door along with curse words breaking the surface of white noise like leaping dolphins.

  It was ten-thirty and the Aztec Skulls were in town. The Inn was their favorite Madison bar. They had chased out all the other clubs. Even the C.C. Riders avoided the Inn when the Skulls were in town. Pratt touched the gold cross around his neck.

  Lord please don’t let me hurt anyone.

  A familiar rush flushed outward from his belly. Pratt cycled air until he had things under control and pushed through the sea of bodies clustered around the open door. The bar was jammed. No one noticed Pratt. In his black leather vest, black boots, diamond earring and burred skull he looked like half the bikers in the bar. He scanned the crowd for familiar faces.

  A haze of cigarette smoke hung at head level. To the cops it wasn’t worth the hassle enforcing the smoking ordinance. Pratt glanced out the door as Madison PD cruised by in a plain-Jane Crown Vic. Pratt fitted himself sideways into the crowd like a nickel in a slot, working his way to the end of the bar. He caught the eye of the twenty-something waitress in Daisy Duk
es with a butterfly tat on her shoulder. He ordered a Fighting Finches Maibock. Did that make him a faggot? So be it. He watched while the waitress worked the taps, drawing Bud after Bud for the Skulls. He counted six patches including two Skulls playing pool in the back.

  The prez held court at the deep end of the bar surrounded by three bros, enough hair, muscle and leather to build a yurt. The rest of the crowd was East Side blue collars coming off the late shift at Oscar Mayer, a couple of well-tanned cougars in a booth and a handful of neighborhood drunks. The noise level was slightly less than a Boeing 747 taking off. The Skulls projected a two-foot force field in all directions.

  Somebody bumped the juke. Bob Seger skipped a beat and a scuffle broke out. Two drunks fighting over who hit the juke. The head Skull looked at the combatants with disdain. He was six three, ’roided out in wife-beater and leather vest with a broad Aztec face and Zappa mustache.

  The drunks formed a scrum and penetrated the Skulls’ force field, bumping into Zappa himself. The prez turned and without batting an eyelash slammed his bottle butt-first on top of a head. The other Skulls joined in and in an instant the two drunks were on the floor defending themselves against a fusillade of kicks from every side. The crowd moved back to give them room.

  As quickly as it began it ended, like a summer squall that roars up out of nowhere and blows itself out. The prez turned away in disgust. “More beer down here!” he bellowed. Bottles of Bud slid down the bar. The Skulls preferred their Bud in a bottle because it made a better weapon.

  Pratt slowly began to make his way toward the back of the bar. A boot extended from one of the booths. “Yo Josh.” Pratt traced the boot to a familiar face. Brian Andrews owned Cap City Choppers, where Pratt had had his ride modified. Andrews had a shaved skull and mutton chops and was sitting with a pale-faced girl in a halter top with dirty blond hair down her back. Opposite was a biker and another woman whom Pratt didn’t know. The biker’s greased-up pomp and her bouffant were dyed an identical mahogany with caramel streaks.

  “My man, my man,” Andrews said, exchanging a slap dap with Pratt. “Scoot over, kitten. Make room for the man.”

  Pratt slid in. Andrews introduced the other couple as Forrest and Amelia, up from the Quad Cities on their way to the Ho-Chunk Casino, in Baraboo. An Altoid tin served as an ashtray, overflowing with a half dozen American Spirit butts. A lit cig dangled from Forrest’s lip.

  “You know what they say,” Forrest growled. “You can lose a ho’ chunk of change at that casino!” His laughter turned into coughing. Amelia smacked him on the back of his black leather jacket with the flat of her hand.

  “Cough it out, baby. Cough it out.”

  “How’s that chopper coming?” Pratt said.

  Andrews was building a chopper with a custom frame and two Yamaha 650 engines in tandem. The bike had dual chain drives, one on each side of the rear wheel. The front fork jutted forth at an impossible angle. The front suspension was made out of a leaf spring from a ’59 Chevy. It had a turning radius of a quarter mile.

  “Takin’ her to Sturgis next week. Wish me luck.”

  Pratt bopped fists. “You got it.”

  Andrews never missed the annual Sturgis Rally. He met his first two wives there. Pratt had been to Sturgis four times before he went to prison. Even from inside the walls, cons followed the annual rally closely on the Internet. The official Sturgis website listed fines for breaking such city ordinances as Indecent Exposure, Disorderly Conduct, Dog Running at Large and Pratt’s favorite, Atrocious Assault.

  Pratt nodded toward the rear. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Those motherfuckers are into dog fights.”

  “Dog fights?” Pratt said. “Really?”

  “They should be shot,” Amelia said.

  “The head honcho was showing off pictures of pit bulls. Doing lines on the counter.”

  Pratt excused himself. “Catch you later.”

  He worked his way to the end of the bar where the Skulls clustered. A snork cut the air. A Skull was snorting meth off the mahogany bar with a cut-up soda straw. The bartenders looked the other way. The head Skull held a snapshot of a pit bull and showed it around. The pit had a scar slicing through one eye like a canyon.

  “That’s Money!” he said. “Money in the bank. He got jaguar in his blood, man.”

  “Nice Staffy,” Pratt said.

  The Skull turned toward him with pinpoint pupils. “What choo say?”

  “Nice-looking Staffy.”

  “The fuck business is it of chours?”

  Pratt held the leader’s angry gaze. “None. I just know a good Staffy when I see one. I’d bet on that dog.”

  The leader stared at him with such fury Pratt steeled himself for attack. The prez was like some of the pits Pratt had worked with in the joint. You didn’t know if they would bite you or lick your hand. Like a switch was thrown, the Skull’s face morphed from anger to bonhomie as he grinned snarkily. “What’s choor name, motherfucker?”

  “Josh Pratt. What’s yours?”

  “Manny Robles. These scumbags are Dog Breath, Taco and Deuce. Make room for Josh Pratt. Choo know what, Josh? Choo can bet on that dog! What are you drinkin’?”

  Pratt quickly drained his glass. “Bud.”

  Taco, who had the Harley logo tattooed on his forehead, looked at him with undisguised malice.

  “Hey Annie honey!” Robles yelled, making a circular motion with his hand. “’Nother round!” He handed the photo of the pit bull to Pratt. “Sir Money his own bad self. He’s fighting Chucho’s Machine Gun, eighteen and oh.” Robles watched Pratt closely for his reaction.

  “Really. I would like to see that.”

  “Ride with us you’ll see it.” Robles held his hand up for a dap.

  “How do we know this guy ain’t a cop?” Taco said.

  “Good question. Here’s one way to find out.” Robles reached inside his vest and removed a glass vial filled with white powder, took off the lid, shook a lump out on the smeared bar top and put the jar away. Robles flipped out a balisong knife with a flashy reverse maneuver and wrangled the powder into a line. Taco grabbed a straw from the bar and used his boot knife to cut off a three-inch segment, which he handed to Pratt.

  “Hoover that,” he said.

  CHAPTER 3

  “What is it?” Pratt said.

  “What the fuck do you care?” Taco said. His swarthy skin was pockmarked like the moon. “You want to ride with the Aztec Skulls you do the line.”

  “’Cause I like cocaine but I don’t like meth,” Pratt said.

  Robles put a hand on his shoulder. “Well choo in luck ’cause that there’s straight from Hugo Chavez’ house stash.”

  Pratt had done his share of coke and knew what to expect. He’d come to dread the howling void it left when it wore off, the countless wasted nights lying awake sweating, listening to his pulse. He hadn’t done coke in years. One line. It would be fun for the first twenty minutes, not so much riding a bike at night.

  Pratt took the straw, leaned over the bar and snorted half the line. He put the straw in his other nostril and did the other half. A surge of electricity jolted his nervous system. Instantly everything seemed brighter and sharper. Strength and reflexes grew exponentially. The boom of the juke’s bass popped his soles like a suspension bridge. The waitress sashayed their way holding a tin tray containing five Buds and five shots.

  Robles laid out lines for the boys.

  Taco grabbed his shot, tossed it back and slammed the glass on the bar glaring at Pratt, daring him to do the same.

  Fuck, Pratt thought. He took a shot and slammed it home. He got in Taco’s face, so close he could connect the blackheads like constellations. “Still think I’m a cop?”

  “I don’t know, homes. Maybe you wearin’ a wire.”

  Pratt could smell Taco’s rank animal scent. “It ain’t enough you see me snortin’ blow, now you want to do a pat-down? You’d get off on that, wouldn’t you?” Robles, Dog Breath and
Deuce laughed. Taco showed his teeth. Pratt pulled his shirt out of his pants to reveal a six-pack with nothing on it but ink.

  Robles put his hand on Pratt’s shoulder. “It’s cool, bro. It’s cool. Taco’s been up for three days. He won’t sleep until he mangles some motherfucker.”

  “Hey Taco man,” Dog Breath said. He was a young, powerfully built Hispanic with a goatee. “You get in another fight here they gonna eighty-six us. Chill, dude.”

  “Let’s ride,” Robles said. “Tell them fuckers.”

  Deuce went back to the pool tables and cued the brothers. People pulled away from the gang as they headed for the door like Poison taking the stage. Outside they climbed on their bikes.

  Robles was parked next to Pratt. Robles rose up and came down on the kick starter three times before the engine roared to life with a shriek that made trash dance on the sidewalk.

  Robles turned toward Pratt. “HEADIN’ FOR THE ILLINOIS BORDER. JUST HANG WITH US!” Robles faced front and screwed two wax earplugs into his ears. Pratt reached in his tank bag and did the same.

  Pratt gave him the thumbs-up, feeling the liquor in his belly, a bright sharp glaze in his head. He could handle it. Nothing to it. Muscle memory. By the time they got to the dog fight the coke would have run its course, leaving him jangly and wanting more. Robles in the lead, they pulled out one by one and headed up Williamson toward the State Capitol. Taco waited until Pratt pulled in line behind Deuce before leaving the curb.

  They cut over to East Washington, where they picked up a Dane County Sheriff’s cruiser that followed them around the Square, out West Washington to the Beltline. Pratt felt the atavistic satisfaction of being part of the pack. Nobody fucked with the pack. It must be like how a wolf felt. Or a jackal. They turned south on Highway 14. The county mountie followed them all the way to the county line. In his rearview Pratt saw the big HPO get out of his car with a Smokey hat and stand there watching until they were out of sight.

  At Brooklyn they turned off the highway onto a county road.

  The bikers headed south through heavily forested hills, the din of their engines careening off the trees and rolling over the fields. Robles set an 80-mile-per-hour pace. The Aztec Skulls clustered in tight formation like fighter planes. Pratt always thought he had too much imagination to ride. He could easily envision the aftermath of a clash at speed. He’d seen it happen. Twisted bikes, smashed bodies. No one wearing helmets. Brains like spilled oatmeal.