Biker

by Baron, Mike;

  Cass burst into laughter. Even Pratt had to smile.

  “I’ve got an eleven-thirty. I’ll walk you out.”

  Bloom accompanied them to the reception area and said goodbye. As they were leaving he turned to his next client.

  CHAPTER 45

  They drove to Pratt’s place. Cass honked at a bicyclist who was a foot outside the bike lane. “Fuckin’ retard!” she yelled, accelerating past him. “These goddamn bicyclists think they own the road.” She switched gear to cloying nasal. “Oh, I’m a vegetarian earth person! I’m better than you because I ride a bike!’”

  Pratt laughed. “You got that right. In Portland, dozens of them will surround your car and beat it to death with their bikes.”

  Cass parked in the driveway. Pratt borrowed her key and got his weapons out of the toolbox. He stuck the Ruger in his fanny pack with the zipper open, went into the house through the kitchen and back out through the garage lugging a fold-up black steel ramp which he unfolded and fastened to the truck’s lowered tailgate. Carefully, he unbungeed his bike and backed it down the ramp. The stitches stretched to breaking as he wheeled the Road King into the garage next to the stealth Honda.

  Cass carried her overnight bag into the house through the garage while Pratt got his mail. As Pratt was walking back from the mailbox, he heard a voice.

  “Josh! Josh!”

  Pratt turned around. It was Lowry, coming down the smooth blacktop of his house wearing navy blue Bermuda shorts and a white Hawaiian shirt with purple and pink gardenias. Pratt waited as Lowry crossed the road, a bead of sweat on his brow.

  “What’s up, Dave?”

  “You didn’t RSVP. Are you coming to the party tonight?”

  Pratt recalled the unopened invitation in the pile of mail. “We’ll be there, Dave.”

  Lowry left. Pratt found Cass in the bedroom putting her clothes in Pratt’s dresser. She’d unceremoniously shoved the drawer’s previous contents into the drawer below it, which now bulged with socks peeking over the rim.

  “Don’t bother. We’re not staying here.”

  Cass pushed herself into him. “Come on. We’ve got plenty of time before the party.”

  Pratt was instantly hornier than a teenager playing footsie with the head cheerleader. Like a switch had been thrown. Lord, am I that weak? “Okay. Wait a minute.”

  He locked the front and rear doors and followed Cass into the bedroom. She went into the bathroom. Pratt heard the sounds of tooth-brushing, a flushing toilet, running water. He sat on the bed and pulled off his shoes and shirt.

  Cass came out of the bathroom wearing a pair of Pratt’s gym shorts. Fifteen minutes flew by. Pratt pulled up short.

  “You’re thinking about that kid again.”

  He was. He was thinking about the black hole.

  By six-thirty Lowry’s long driveway and turn-around had filled with Volvos, Lexuses, Infinitis, Mercedes and BMWs.

  “I want all these cars,” Cass said as she and Pratt walked hand in hand up the drive. Cass carried a rum and Coke in a plastic cup.

  Louise Lowry met them at the front door sausaged into tight black jeans and a frilly white shirt, a ruby the size of a dime nestled in her cleavage. “Josh! I’m so glad you could make it.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, Louise.”

  The older woman took Cass’ hand. “Did Josh tell you how he saved our doggies?”

  George and Gracie capered up on cue, dancing and barking.

  “He talks of nothing else.”

  Pratt felt an enormous surge of affection. “Actually, Cass was there.”

  “Oh really. You must tell me about that later. Please—the party’s out back by the pool. I’m on greeter’s duty.”

  Another couple was hot on their heels. Josh and Cass walked through the Spanish-style vestibule with blue and yellow tiled floor and rustic chandelier, past the winding staircase through the sunken living room, white shag rug, white furniture, fieldstone fireplace, out the sliding glass doors onto the broad patio, where about two dozen people had broken up into conversation clusters standing around a sky blue rectangular pool.

  A college kid in white shirt and red and white Bucky tie mixed drinks at a portable bar. Cass made a beeline, pulling Pratt like a dinghy.

  The bartender handed two sixteen-ounce plastic cups filled with draft beer to a sunburned guy in a Lacoste shirt and khaki shorts, feet planted in two-hundred-dollar Skechers.

  The bartender swiveled to Cass. “What’ll you have?”

  “Rum and Coke please.”

  “A Cuba Libre. And for the gentleman?”

  “Just a Coke.”

  Cass made a face. “You’re no fun.”

  Pratt grinned. “Yes I am.”

  They walked around the pool, heads swiveling in their direction. What rough beast and a real fine slut. Some dude in crimson trousers arrived and the crowd gathered round like children at an ice cream truck. Turned out he was the UW athletic director, a former college and pro football great.

  Cass stood on her tiptoes. “Wow! Blake Torkelson. I remember watching him on TV. Didn’t he used to play for the Broncos?”

  “And the Pack.”

  They spotted David Lowry doing meet-and-greet by the open patio doors. “Come on,” Cass said leading Pratt by the hand. “Let’s explore.” She pulled him toward the house.

  “Josh!” Lowry said. “Glad you could make it. And Cass!” Lowry moved in for a gratuitous squeeze.

  Cass bubbled. “Oh, Mr. Lowry.”

  “Oh please! Call me Dave.” He turned to Pratt. “Jeez, you look like you were in a real crash. I was going to say something this morning but I didn’t think it was appropriate.”

  “It’s embarrassing. You’d think I’d know how to ride a bike by now.”

  Another party caught Lowry’s eye and he swiveled with the finesse of a long-term politician. Cass pulled Pratt into the house.

  “I don’t know if he wants us wandering around in here,” Pratt said.

  “Oh come on! I thought you were fun. Let’s see what’s in the basement. I’ll bet there’s a pool table.”

  Pratt let her lead him to the staircase descending into the basement. A fully finished family room with a large flat-screen TV, a computer desk, sofas and framed prints, several depicting the UW campus and Camp Randall, where the Badgers played. A photo of Lowry with the athletic director. The walls were knotty pine, the ceiling was ecru acoustic tile. One wall contained a large shelving system filled with golf trophies, books and testimonial plaques.

  A pool table dominated one end of the room. Cass turned in triumph. “See?”

  “You’re good,” Pratt said.

  “No I’m not,” she said, pulling Pratt by his belt toward a door. She opened it. Inside was a guest bedroom, one wall completely covered with books, a shallow window closed with drapes but letting in enough light to show the king-sized bed, the Queen Anne dresser, a door opening onto a full bath. She pulled Pratt in and shut the door.

  Cass turned and attached herself like a suckerfish to Pratt’s chest and hips. “I’m bad, Pratt. I’m very very naughty. But in a good way.”

  She began to unbuckle his belt. Pratt pushed her hands away.

  “Stop that! This isn’t our house!”

  Cass played him like a theramin. “Come on, Pratt,” she purred, sitting on the bed, hanging on to Pratt by his belt as she tried to undo the buckle. “We won’t be long. What’s this in here? Something with a mind of its own.”

  With a snarl of lust, Pratt unzipped his pants and pushed Cass back on the bed. She squealed, turning to the side to remove her jeans and panties. Pratt pinned her down and entered her, white ass bouncing.

  The door opened and the light went on.

  “Oh, excuse me!” said a startled female voice.

  CHAPTER 46

  The woman immediately shut off the light and closed the door. Pratt stood and pulled up his pants, mortified.

  “Hey!” Cass said. “Hey, where you going? She’s n
ot going to come back!”

  “You want to fuck, we’ll go back to my place. I’m sorry but I just can’t do it here.”

  Cass put on her pants. “You’re so romantic.”

  “Come on. I’ll buy you a frosty shake.”

  “Gee thanks!”

  Pratt cracked the door. The family room was blessedly empty. He quick-stepped across the floor to the stairs, Cass right behind him. As they eased their way out to the patio Pratt noticed a stout, older woman with a cap of white hair looking at him. She waited until Cass went back to the bar before approaching.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone,” she said softly. “I’m dreadfully sorry I stepped in on you two.”

  “That’s all right. Josh Pratt.”

  “Yes,” the woman said. Up close she had wide-set brown eyes that were almost mesmerizing. She could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy. “You’re the man who saved George and Gracie. I know all about you. Good work, young man. I’m Morgan Teitlebaum. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back downstairs and get the book I was looking for.” She turned and went. She’d come upstairs to spare them any possible embarrassment when they emerged from the bedroom.

  Pratt backed up against a stone wall and observed. Most of the guests were older, well-dressed and had that academic look—the BoBo clothes, the studied casualness. Cass was chatting up a Mitt Romney look-alike with a pale yellow cashmere sweater tied around his neck. A college kid had fired up the grill and was setting out plates of hamburgers and hot dogs. Another table had been set up with condiments, paper plates and napkins. A couple sat on the end of the diving board eating from paper plates balanced on their knees.

  Morgan Teitlebaum reappeared next to Pratt holding a copy of Bruno Bettelheim’s The Uses of Enchantment.

  “I read that book,” Pratt said.

  Morgan stood next to him watching the party. “Really. Was it assigned to you?”

  “Yeah, by the chaplain at Waupun. He helped turn me toward Christ.”

  “Glad to hear it. How does an ex-con get a private investigator’s license?”

  “It helps to know someone who knows a judge.”

  “Ah.”

  They watched Lowry work the crowd like a maestro, cupping elbows, laughing, a hand to the back, a gesture toward the bar. George and Gracie lurked beneath the buffet table, eyes fixed on hands holding food.

  “Is Dave raising money?” Pratt said.

  “Dave is always raising money.”

  “Do you give him money?”

  Morgan had a hearty laugh. “No, we’re just old friends. I’m faculty. I teach child psychology, mostly for special needs kids.”

  Pratt looked at her. “You know, Morgan, I don’t put a whole lot of stock in fate, but this is just too weird. Can I tell you about this case I’m working on?”

  “Well, sure, if you’re not divulging any confidences.”

  “No names. Let me just tell you the situation. Let’s sit down.” Pratt led the way to a pair of Adirondack chairs on the lawn near the tree line. Through the trees they saw the bones of another incipient McMansion.

  Pratt went through the story from his meeting with Ginger. When he got to his discovery of Eric Morgan gripped his wrist like a vise. Her face turned to ash.

  “You saw this?”

  “It was dark but yeah, I saw enough of him to know he was real. Well enough to see that his spine was out of whack, his teeth were a mess, he could barely speak.”

  “This is the worst case of child abuse I’ve ever heard in my life,” Morgan said. “I’m not even sure therapy would do him any good, but we’ve got to try. Where is he now?”

  “He ran off. He’s mistrustful of everyone, probably has a love/hate relationship with his father. Probably dreams about killing Moon, but fears to do so because he doesn’t know how to survive on his own.”

  “That’s very insightful. Have you studied psychology?”

  “Just books in the prison library. My old man was a worthless piece of shit. I used to think about killing him a lot.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “You might benefit from therapy too.”

  “Are you a shrink?”

  “I’m a psychologist. The first thing is to find this boy and get him into a clinical setting. Unbelievable as this may seem, there are precedents. Kaspar Hauser is probably the most famous. Werner Herzog made a film about him. More recently there have been several from India. I don’t know why, but India has more feral children than any other country in the world. Alex the Dog Boy from Chile. In each case, these children were without socialization, no social skills. They don’t even know how to use a toilet. Fortunately we know a great deal more today than we used to. Unfortunately, the prognosis for any feral child is grim.”

  Pratt watched a hawk circling over the tree line. “I’m heading back out there as soon as I can clear my schedule with the intention of bringing him in. Any tips?”

  “By yourself?” Morgan said.

  “My girlfriend Cass will help. That’s her chatting up the movie star.” Did he just say girlfriend?

  “It’s not going to work if either of you drinks or does drugs.”

  Pratt sucked air through his teeth. Did they look like that? “We won’t be drinking or doing drugs.”

  “He might respond better to a woman.”

  “That’s what I was thinking although he did speak to me. Probably the first human other than Moon he’s ever spoken to.”

  “I’d like to help. Let me give you my card.”

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say, Doc.”

  “Call me Morgan.” She rummaged through her feedbag and drew a business card. Pratt tucked it in his wallet, wrote his phone and e-mail on the back of one of Bloom’s and handed it to her.

  When Cass looked up the hill, Pratt waved his arm. She came toward them weaving slightly and holding a drink. Pratt cringed.

  “I was wondering where you went,” she said, oblivious to the fact that the woman with whom Pratt was seated had walked in on them making love.

  “Cass, Morgan. Morgan’s a child psychologist. She might be able to help us.”

  Cass stuck out a hand. “Very pleased to meet you.” At least she wasn’t slurring.

  Pratt stood. “I’ll call you. Come on, Cass. We’ve got to get going.”

  CHAPTER 47

  Pratt went through the house one last time. Everything was up tight and out of sight.

  They left at seven-thirty, Cass’ pick-up laden with drinking water, food and blankets. They ate trail mix, granola bars and apples. Cass played Queen loud on her six-speaker system.

  Pratt turned it down. “Loud music makes me want to drink and do drugs.”

  Cass laughed. “Life makes me want to drink and do drugs.” She cracked the window, pulled a cig from the armrest and lit it with a Zippo. They drove north toward Sauk City, inspiration for Sinclair Lewis’ Main Street, sun blazing in from the west. Four riders appeared around a bend heading toward Middleton. Pratt slouched in his seat as they passed.

  As soon as the last one passed Pratt popped up and stared out the rear window trying to see their colors. Couldn’t make them out.

  There was an APB out for the War Bonnets but you never knew. The Bonnets were bat-shit crazy. They’d do whatever their supreme commander demanded. Moon would know how to get Cass’ license number, the make and year of her vehicle. Pratt put nothing past him. He drew comfort from the lump of metal at his waist.

  They crossed the river at Sauk City. The town was chock-a-block with bikers, choppers lined up outside every tavern, dozens of them slowly cruising the two main drags. Pratt slumped in shadow as they drove with the windows open. At the red light a skinhead on a Warrior pulled up next to Cass.

  “Hey pretty mama! Whatchoo doin’ out here?”

  Pratt leaned forward in his Gargoyles and gave the man a hard look.

  “Whoops. My bad.”

 
; Cass headed north alongside the Wisconsin River as Pratt straightened up and pulled out a dog-eared copy of the Wisconsin Atlas. “Turn left in two miles at Factory Road.” They passed the deserted Baraboo munitions plant, hundreds of acres fenced off and filled with bunkers.

  The road cut west through rolling farmhand toward the blue Baraboo Hills. All other traffic disappeared. Pratt directed Cass through two more turns. The road wound through cottonwood and alder. Through the trees Pratt saw an old red barn lit by the setting sun.

  “There it is. Pull in at that mailbox.”

  The mailbox sprouted from a milk canister filled with concrete. Next to it screwed into a solid wood fence post was a sign. PRIVATE-NO TRESPASSING!

  The eastern sky turned velvet. The farmhouse was set a hundred yards back from the road, a typical two-story wood frame job with a front porch and a slanted exterior cellar entrance. The barn was trash, leaving only a few vertical piles and a floor that had rotted through.

  Cass pulled up in front of the house and shut off the engine. The silence was shocking.

  “What a dump,” Cass said.

  “Bloom got it from some druggie he represented.” The druggie begged Bloom to get his ass out to the farm and clean out the refrigerator before the cops came. Bloom found several eight balls and a half pound of killer weed which he dutifully relocated to his own house. He called up Pratt and they had a victory celebration.

  Pratt went up the creaking wooden steps to the front door, opened the shredded screen door and inserted the key Bloom had given him. He had to joggle it around for several minutes before it clicked. He opened the door and stepped inside. The interior was musty and smelled as if it had been closed off for a long time.

  He flipped a switch. The electricity had been shut off. There was a pump in the backyard from which they could draw shivery groundwater. Pratt expected Cass to squawk. The air weighed heavily. Pratt wished he had a laptop, then realized there would be no service. He felt cut-off without his computer.

  Pratt went back out. Cass came up the porch stairs with her bag and stepped inside.