“What’s yours?”
His dark hooded eyes bore deep into my soul, and I have to look away. I am about a mile short on nerve, an inch away from tears, and my throat has turned to sandpaper. “Uh…my name—is Wade—sir.” Minnie Mouse sounds like a baritone compared to me. I feel Luke trying to squeeze himself between me and the rock.
Scar snickers in a way that I take as scorn. “Wade, you say?”
“Uh huh—” gulp—“Wade Parker, sir.” I dare to look at him. Scar’s eyes never leave mine as he bites off the end of a new cigar and spits it to the ground. I take it he could just as easily do the same with my head. My stomach squirms.
Slowly shifting his gaze, he scrutinizes Luke’s exposed hindquarter like a vulture ogling carrion before the feast. “What’s that hiding behind you?”
His deep voice rattles me up and down with chills, and when I don’t immediately answer, he flicks his eyes back on me, the more appealing hunk of sustenance, and angrily jams the cigar in his mouth.
Magically, a Zippo lighter appears already aflame, a living creature anticipating its master’s every wish. Trembling, I watch as Scar puffs hard, engulfing his head in a glowing fog of pungent amber smoke. The luminous cloud queerly pulses in the capricious licking fire of the lighter. My heart trips in sympathy with the hypnotic flame as the fissure dominating Scar’s face catches and spills the light, casting an evil liquid shadow across his face. He brandishes his disfigurement like a weapon, a sign of absolute invincibility. I see Frankenstein’s monster in the flesh, and intimidation stabs me with a syringe full of paralyzing fear, making me inert, and incapable of further speech.
A woman straddling the banana seat behind Scar looks over his shoulder at me. Her face captures some of the flickering light, startling me. I hadn’t noticed her before due to the harsh glare of the motorcycle headlights. I squint to get a better look, and she immediately acknowledges me with a scintillating smile.
Gosh, she is pretty. No, more than pretty—lovely. I begin to thaw, to relax. I can’t help myself. I smile back at her for a second or two until a spurt of instinct or just plain providence makes my eyes dart away. It can’t possibly be prudent to smile at Scar’s woman.
Scar grunts at me, a sovereign wild boar barking a dismissive command to an inferior male. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”
The woman distracts me, causing my comprehension to lag a couple of beats behind my hearing. “Beg your pardon, sir?”
Scar grins, the expression making him look almost handsome. I wish he’d keep the smile permanently because he doesn’t look nearly so dangerous that way.
“Pardon you for what? We haven’t tried and convicted you for anything yet. I asked you who that is hiding behind you there.” He cocks his head slightly to get a better visual angle on Luke.
The presence of the woman somehow makes me feel safer, less threatened. “Oh. Sorry, sir. That’s my brother, Luke. He’s scared. He’s only six.”
“Look at them sitting there—oh, aren’t they just the picture of innocence,” the lovely lady gushes, further diluting the oppressive tension surrounding me.
With a burst of enthusiasm, she swings her long legs to the ground and lithely slips herself off Scar’s Hog. Now I can see her completely awash in the motorcycle lights. Wow! She is stunning. Her hair, thick and golden blond, flows nearly to her waist. She’s wearing brown leather boots that run up to her knees where white riding pants take over and cover her up to her waist. Draping from her shoulders, a pale blue gypsy blouse plunges to a snug fit around her waist, which seems tiny behind a big glimmering belt buckle. Her silky mane glows in an amorphous circle surrounding her angelic face. A beauty queen she is, and for a moment she seems to pose in front of the motorcycle lights like an actress dramatically lingering in the focus of stage lights.
Somehow I scrounge up the courage to smile at her again. I feel a little woozy, spellbound.
She starts toward us, but Scar grabs her arm. “You best be careful, Miss Cherry.” He playfully pats her behind. “You never can be too sure. Even this sorry looking pair of squatters could be dangerous.
The gang enjoys a hearty laugh while several more women riders dismount and come toward us. I dare to stand up as she approaches, Luke rising up with me like my shadow. Gosh, she is even prettier up close.
“How old are you, honey?”
Miss Cherry posed the question to me, but in my starstruck state Luke gets the jump on me. “He’s eight. He thinks he’s some kind of big shot.”
The gang laughs again. I give Luke a discreet elbow in the ribs.
“What are you guys doing up here at four o’clock in the morning?”
She steps closer and I notice her perfume, inhale a little deeper. Unlike the male members of the gang, Miss Cherry is clean and—lovely.
Luke allows me to answer this time. “We got up at two, ma’am. We were supposed to meet some of our friends here.”
“What on earth for?” She casts a quizzical smile back to Scar.
Scar chimes in. “Yeah, what are you guys planning?”
“Nothing much, really.”
Loud-mouthed little Luke steps on my words again. “He was gonna run the Crippler in the dark.” He blurts it out before I can get my hand over his mouth. He shoves my arm away and glares at me.
Miss Cherry smiles sweetly at Luke. “What’s the Crippler?”
“It’s over there.” Luke points past me toward the cardboard canoe.
Scar gets off his chopper and strolls over to the cardboard box, his heavy biker boots kicking up puffs of dust. He looks over the ledge and squints into the black.
Miss Cherry walks over next to him and peers down the slope. “Oh my gosh!” She eases back from the ledge and stares at me.
My cocky smile shows up unannounced, the same one that got me into this predicament when I mouthed off to Gooey. Miss Cherry starts giggling, and again I can’t help noticing her unusual beauty in the headlights as she walks back toward me.
Her thickly painted eyebrows arch up into upside down V’s. “Were you really going to slide off that cliff in the dark?”
“Well, ma’am, yes I was. But Gooey, the kid who challenged me, hasn’t shown up yet.”
Several in the gang chuckle suggesting I lack nerve. One of them says, “He’s afraid,” but Miss Cherry spins around and hushes him.
“I’m not afraid to go down that hill.”
Luke is a little miffed, too. “Wade isn’t afraid of the Crippler. He’s the champion of Billy Goat Hill.”
With that the whole gang roars. Luke snarls at them, not understanding what is so funny.
Scar seems riled. “The heck you say? I thought I was the boss of this hill.”
“This boy is claiming your turf, Scar!”
“Yeah. What are you gonna do about it, Scar?” chimes a big fat biker wearing a chrome Nazi helmet with a spearhead on top.
The gang passes around assorted snickers and guffaws, and even Miss Cherry can’t resist another giggle as she turns to look at Scar. He tries to be serious and play along, but when he looks over at me, the sight is more than he can take. My failure to appreciate their humor apparently has my face looking as stern as a constipated preacher, and he lets go and laughs out loud.
Although still very frightened, I begin to feel that we probably aren’t in any serious danger. Each one of these marauders looks like he would slit his own mother’s throat for a cold beer, but in my gut I don’t feel they intend to harm us.
Scar finally gets the laugh out of his system. “Hey, kid, come over here. I want to ask you a serious question.” He sucks hard to restart the cigar that almost extinguished during his fit of laughter.
I move only a couple of hesitant shuffles in his direction.
“Go on.” Miss Cherry gives me a gentle push. “He won’t hurt you.”
Reluctantly, I ease myself over next to him. Luke, no longer my twin shadow, opts to stay by Miss Cherry, and she promptly puts her arm over his shoulders.
<
br /> I decide it can’t hurt to be respectful. “Yes, sir?” I can tell he likes being called sir, so I say it again. “Yes, sir?”
“That’s one heck of a drop down there.” He looks at me and gulps for dramatic effect, cigar smoke puffing from his nostrils, and then resumes looking down the pitch-black slope.
“It is pretty steep, sir.”
“No telling what you might run into.”
“The trick is to stay on the cardboard.”
He flips me an admiring glance and then quietly, so the others can’t hear, he asks, “Do you really think you can run the Crippler in the dark?”
“If I can’t, nobody can. I’m the champion of Billy Goat Hill.”
He smiles, and with his eyes growing big, he adopts a melodramatic tone. “You could get hurt real bad. Maybe even kilt.”
I giggle when he says kilt. It reminds me of the actor Fess Parker speaking in the voice of Davy Crockett. “I’ve been hurt before.”
He leans closer and whispers, “Or even worse—you could get paralyzed.”
“Paralyzed?”
In an explosive change of direction, he yells over my head, making me jump so I darn near go down the Crippler without the cardboard canoe right then. “Hey, Cherry! What’s that called that happened to Moose Bachman when he crashed his Hog up on the Angeles Crest last summer, para-something?”
Geez. My ears are ringing.
“The word is paraplegic, baby.”
Scar shakes his head. “Moose is a real sad case now, Wade. Poor guy can’t even use the restroom without some help.” He sighs, and his face shifts to a pained expression that makes the ghastly gash fold in a zigzag across his cheek.
Curiously, now I feel good. Mr. Scar is talking to me as if I were one of his gang members and not just a rambunctious eight-year-old daredevil out on a moonlight run. “Poor Moose,” I solemnly concur.
“There won’t be any more manly business for Moose either. Myself, I’d rather be dead.” He shakes his head some more.
His directness catches me a little off guard, but I notice that Miss Cherry doesn’t seem to mind. As a denizen of the wrong side of the tracks, I am familiar with most of the slang terms for sex. And I have learned better than to make inappropriate utterances in the presence of a grown woman. A year ago, Lucinda overheard me saying the “F” word, and being a disciplinarian inclined to proverbial remedies, she helped me experience how long it takes to get the foul flavor of soap out of your mouth.
“I don’t know anything about manly business, sir.”
Scar chokes on a puff of cigar smoke and laughs. He playfully slugs my shoulder. “No, I don’t imagine you do.”
Just then, one of the bikers hollers from the back of the pack. “Hey, Scar! The cops are coming!”
Everybody turns to look.
In the dark-filled distance, a red emergency light crawls along a rutted firebreak that runs up the knobby north side of Billy Goat Hill. Several of the bikers grumble their displeasure over the impending visit with LA’s men in blue; a few laugh. However, none make any effort to leave. My gut tells me this is not a good sign. Scar shows no reaction at all, which in itself is a disturbing reaction.
He turns his powerful gaze back on me. “You guys better make yourselves scarce. The cops won’t take kindly to finding you two out here with us, especially in the middle of the night like this.” He nudges me to get moving.
“Come on, Luke.”
I am not interested in the cops finding us out here, period. Our nocturnal habits have thus far gone undetected by our most immediate form of authority, namely Lucinda Parker. If she ever finds out we are sneaking out at night, there will be serious consequences.
There is a small outcropping of rock about thirty feet down from the top of the Crippler, a nook custom made for hiding two young boys. I heave the cardboard canoe over the edge and motion to Luke to go ahead of me.
Scar watches while we slide down to the rocks and secrete ourselves behind a jagged boulder. I look up the slope and he pats his lips with his forefinger. I wave to him, acknowledging the universal sign of silence, and lower my head like an Indian brave preparing to ambush a paleface cavalry scout.
Luke’s head bobs up like a curious prairie dog sniffing the wind, and I have to yank him down behind the rock with me. He is hypnotized by the flashing red light, which now washes over the hill in surreal waves the color of blood.
This moment, a mere wink in time, burns deeply into my psyche. A fantasia of impressions and emotions crystal clear in every detail is locked into my memory forever. The smell of the weeds, the gritty dust in my mouth, the break in the low hanging clouds directly overhead, the shattering red bursts of the police cruiser’s emergency flasher igniting across Scar’s muscular torso—all will be relived time and time again.
Oh my gosh! What have I gotten us into?
A black-and-white 1956 Ford police cruiser pulls to a dusty stop among the enclave of two-wheeled rebels. I can just see over the top of the rise above me and observe the upper bodies of the bikers and the top half of the police car. The crickets have returned, adding a dramatic whirring meter to the scene. The air feels hot and charged with electricity, as if the potential for violence is packing the oxygen molecules tighter and tighter, creating the heat of friction. Current skitters over my dampened skin, giving me chills, while my breathing squeezes down into shallow, rapid pants. My terrified heart drums loud in my ears, a frenzied drum…a drum of war.
I am as scared as I have ever been in my entire life. But at the same time I am consumed by an intoxicating fascination for the show. A libertine grin beams forth revealing my jangled emotions…
I want to leave. I want to stay. But this time the theater has been locked from the outside. Man oh man…this is better than a John Wayne double feature at a drive-in theater. Even popcorn, bonbons, and a ten-cent Butterfinger couldn’t make it better!
Everything stands still as though the forces of nature have converged on this historic site to impose a pax, to hold the fiasco back, to force reconsideration before untold tragedy lays waste to this no-man’s-land.
The group trance breaks when two uniformed officers burst from the patrol car. They do not look happy, particularly the one who slams his door and stomps toward Miss Cherry. His rigid comportment and piercing glare warn of vested anger aching for release.
“Lieutenant Theodore Shunkman,” Miss Cherry spews. “How nice it is to see you out and about on this lovely evening.”
Her sarcasm is venomous as she defiantly throws her head back, tossing her long blond hair over her shoulders like a high-strung filly whipping its tail. Some of the bikers chuckle in a way that is clearly intended to needle the cops.
Scar stays at the top of the Crippler directly above where Luke and I cower in the dark. I hope his plan is to guard us and make sure we remain safe. Glancing nervously from the center of the action to Scar and back, I am thankful he has chosen to stay close by.
Without warning, Lieutenant Shunkman grabs Miss Cherry by the arm and drags her over near Scar. I duck, and for a second I fear the irate cop has seen me. But he is blinded by his anger, oblivious to everything except Miss Cherry and Scar, who is standing completely unperturbed with his arms casually folded across his chest. The back of my neck bristles, and my cheeks are hot. I do not like this cop one bit.
“How’s it going, Shunkman?” Scar inquires dispassionately, outwardly not offended in the slightest by the cop’s rough treatment of his girlfriend. I am dead certain he is ready to kill, though.
“Let go of me!” Miss Cherry struggles for a moment, then manages to break free of the cop’s humiliating grip.
I am astounded when she doesn’t move away from him. Instead, she leans right in and swears at him, something long and vile that makes me cringe, and then she plasters him with a haughty, defiant glare.
The other cop, a baby-faced rookie, positions himself at the open door of the squad car. The motor is idling, and occasional unintelligible
squawks blare out from the police radio. Everything about the young cop—uniform, shoes, leather, even his haircut—appears new and clean-cut in a fresh-out-of-the-academy textbook sort of way. At the moment, however, the rookie appears as nervous as a mouse surrounded by a pride of pugnacious alley cats.
His stance is tentative, and his collegial face is gaunt with fear as he obviously struggles to find the poise that has so recently been drilled into him. His eyes blink and twitch as they dart around the group of bikers, all of whom remain steadfast upon their imposing chrome mounts. One of the bikers hawks up a wad of phlegm and spits it onto the hood of the police car.
I imagine the rookie cursing himself for not calling for backup when they first spotted the motorcycle gang. Even from this distance, I can see rivulets of sweat trickling down his forehead as he repeatedly brushes his arm against his side, double-, triple-, quadruple-checking that his service revolver is where it is supposed to be. He reminds me of Mac during a thunderstorm—desperate for something to crawl under.
Lieutenant Shunkman ignores Miss Cherry’s invective and reels around to face down Scar. His malignant profile throbs crimson with each slapping pass of the whirling emergency beacon. His eyes are death daggers, eminently threatening. On the brink of detonation, he clenches his fists and steps within punching distance.
Unbelievably, Scar just stands there twiddling his thumbs like a bored third cousin at a family reunion. He remains completely cool, apparently not worried in the slightest by the policeman’s menacing approach. I am dumbfounded, exasperated.
Like the poisonous spit of a viper, saliva sprays from Shunkman’s mouth as he rails at Scar. “I told you before, loser! I don’t want my sister hanging around with the pathetic likes of you!”
Sister?
A chilly silence closes in.
Scar doesn’t move a muscle. Impalpably at first, his face blossoms into a tantalizing smirk. “Cherry does what she pleases—and she does it very well. Ain’t that right, boys!”
The gang hoots and hollers their agreement, and Scar’s smirk ripens into an all-knowing grin that is so specific even I resent the salacious implication.
Billy Goat Hill Page 3