But the last one in the book I tripped on: something about that cat's smile. It was familiar to me. He had a little toothbrush mustache and thick, coarse hair. Lots of lines on his face, though he didn't seem especially old. “I think I know this man,” I said. I thought I'd seen him with my aunt a few times, around our trailer. I pieced together that he was one of her many drug dealers.
The detective's eyes kind of flickered, when I pointed to the photo—and this photo wasn't a mugshot, it was just a candid. The man was at an office of some kind.
“Does he know you, that fellow?” Sergeant Wicker asked. I told him yes. I told him we'd exchanged a few words once or twice, that he knew I was in my aunt's charge. I mentioned that he'd taken me to school one morning, weeks ago, when Aunt Caroline's truck had been in the shop.
The sergeant didn't say goodbye once I said this; he just up and skedaddled, fast. He seemed agitated. I never saw Sergeant Wicker again, and I never saw that meal he promised. Next thing I knew I was in handcuffs and two officers were escorting me out of the cell and into a waiting cop car.
The only other thing you really need to know, to understand my miserable years in Waco (the only thing worth mentioning, anyway) is that I know people tended to forget about me. In school, because I was shy and strange and had no “people,” I flew pretty much below the radar. I had no friends. I was in no clubs. And though the boys liked to call out my tits and my ass and my hair, I'd bet you dollars not a one of them could remember my name.
But invisible people? We can be dangerous. Because we see a lot of things we're not supposed to see.
Chapter Six
As the meeting dispersed, Tuck wound his way towards God, his jaw set.
“Hey. Hey!” Tuck called to his already retreating leader. “What's with the girl? You really think it's such a great prank, telling a bunch of clubrats to keep their paws off a slice of jailbait like that?” From the corner of his eye, Tuck noted Yak moving in on Baby. “You know it's supposed to be a bunch of hens for one rooster—not the other way around.”
“I'm just doing an old friend a favor, lieutenant. Baby won't be around for long.”
“And what's that supposed to mean?”
“Means what it means what it means. Since when do you question orders?” For the first time, Tuck noted that his fearless leader looked tired—the lines around his eyes were rimmed with sleep.
“I just worry, sir. About the moral caliber of...”
“Since when do you care about moral fucking caliber?”
“I just thought—”
“BOY.” Now, the leader spoke loud enough for all the other bikers to hear. His tone seemed to carry across the Earth. “You listen to me, now. I say the club is watching a girl, the club is watching a girl. I promised no more and no less than that. You got some kind of problem with a directive, you may take it up with my gun. Are we clear?” His eyes blazed. As aggressive as the old coot could be, Tuck was unused to being on the receiving end of this kind of fury—such diatribes were usually reserved for fucks ups, like Yak and Spy. But lieutenant or no, here he was being treated like some second-rate sidekick. Just like that idiot kid he'd tried so hard to leave behind on Chartres Street.
“Yes, sir,” Tuck grumbled, in an attempt to save what little face remained. The man upstairs began his slow lope towards the main house.
Because the moon was full and the town was dry, the bikers now set to their typical evening bacchanalia. Someone—Needles, a grizzled older man notorious for his game in chicken—bent low in the middle of the meeting place now, as he set about the task of starting a fire. Other bikers lit cigarettes, a chorus of orange tips painting the night. Someone replaced the garage's mellow Motown with Appetite for Destruction, and Tuck immediately heard Athena's railing in protest. Looked like it would be a typical lost weekend for the Barons of Sodom.
Only Baby would be there. Tuck went looking for her, but he didn't see the new meat. So the chief had bestowed his blessing... was she really the new housecat? It had been such a dire, sweet longing, seeing her standing there with that blindfold ripped off her face...his jeans stirred again. Had it just been too long a dry spell in Texas? Why was he reacting this way to some little tart?
Maybe moral fucking caliber was ridiculous; they were bikers after all, not nannies. The man upstairs had practically issued a mandate: fuck her. Fuck that sweet little baby. Make her moan. And Tuck, he did what he was told, didn't he?
Chapter Seven
BRIDIE: We drove for hours. Miles. I couldn't keep track. I tried, at first, to recall the familiar potholes in the roads I knew around Waco, but I got dizzy so fast. They had me blindfolded. Sergeant Wicker was gone, all the other detectives were gone, there were no voices. Just the crackly car talk on the AM radio, and presumably a driver.
Behind the blindfold, I started seeing things. I saw aunt Caroline in the kitchen again, her hair in its long braids—I saw her sitting on our couch with her watercolors laid out before her, like a map. I did manage to sneak in some happy memories there, you know? We'd been so lonely, but it was like we were lonely together.
I thought about Mr. Reginald, also. We'd only met for an overlapping fraction of a second, but it still seemed to me that I'd lost two very good friends that day. Have either of you fine boys ever seen pools of blood? Blood coating every surface you know and understand, blood like rain? Blood and guts gushing from all the pores of someone you love? Didn't think so. Huh. I thought about that, too—as much as you can hold on to the blur of things like that. I was still half-waiting for someone to slap me awake.
The car stuttered to a halt in such a way that I figured we were moving in circles. The stubby cop who'd pushed me into the car announced our arrival: “We're here!” he called. I didn't know where. Out the window I saw only country, a couple of lean-to shacks and the yellowy gloom of a few mosquito lamps.
When we got outside I slid in the mud; it hadn't occurred to me that it had rained. I wondered if we were still in Waco. It all looked like Waco, but then I'd never left my own county before, so I had nothing to compare the rest of the world to.
“What are we doing here?” I asked the driver. I remember trying so hard to keep the fear from slipping into my voice. You're tough, Bridie, I thought. You're strong, and no one can make you foolish.
“This is your protective environment.”
“Why? Why do I need a protective environment?”
The officer stepped toward me.
“You ask another question, I'll slap you into tomorrow,” he breathed into my face. I could smell cheap whiskey on his breath.
As he poked me, still shackled, towards the lights and noises of some mysterious party, my fear magnified. The men around me were clad in leather, and each wore a pair of sunglasses despite the lateness of the hour. They were thick, strong, heavy men, with tattoos and beards and biceps—utterly unlike the effete, artistic types my aunt had liked to bring home. Even her drug dealers, even the mysterious man in the photo, hadn't been like this. I'd heard rumors about these men. Aunt Caroline told stories of lost souls who adventured on the plains with a kind of cautious contempt: “You beware of the clubs, y'hear? Bunch of ne'er'do'well creepos. Remember, Bridie: men only want one thing. Some of them want it so bad they'll just take it, won't even ask. I want you to be prepared.” That's what she said to me.
These men called themselves the Barons of Sodom. I was still in a glaze of shock, but even in the waning light I could distinguish the colors on their leather jackets—an interlocking Evil Eye and the spokes of a bicycle wheel, both set in a blaze of kindling fire. No, I thought to myself, we couldn't possibly still be in Waco. Not the Waco I knew, anyway.
The men hooted and hollered as I approached—not unlike the cads at the local high school. But these men made me afraid. I set my chin, but I was quivering. Felt like a long walk into a gladiator pit—something else I remembered from high school English.
DET. RAMIREZ: And did you find it strange, even then, tha
t the police had taken you to a motorcycle club for protection? Did it occur to you to try to make a phone call, or ask to hear your rights?
BRIDIE: Oh, officer. You've clearly never been an eighteen-year-old girl surrounded by a cabal of lusty, dangerous men. Have you ever been so afraid you couldn't see straight?
DET. RAMIREZ: Well, sure, ma'am. In the line of duty, we—
BRIDIE: There you've got a brotherhood to depend on, at least. You ever been trapped? All by your lonesome, entirely? I didn't have a soul to call.
DET. RAMIREZ: Well, sure. But—
BRIDIE: Besides, cap'n, instincts? Those grow in later. In the eyes of the law I'd been a woman for twenty-four hours. And here was my first test.
DET. RAMIREZ: Right.
Should we take a break, Ms. Calyer? You seem overwhelmed.
BRIDIE: No, no, I'm fine. If someone would just freshen this up?
(static)
BRIDIE, cont'd: Story's just about to get good, anyways. I was just about to meet the Lieutenant.
Chapter Eight
Athena was raving when he reached the garage. She always made her bad moods visible—clanging materials together, stomping her heavy work boots in the dirt. The Barons had a joke that no one ought to let Athena work on their bike while she was in one of her...strops. A bruised mechanic spelled dents, chipped paint, a dangling wire, or four.
“What's the rumpus, doll?” Tuck called to her in his best Jimmy Stewart. The bar she'd used to work at in New Orleans had played Frank Capra movies on a continuous loop.
“How can you be so blasé about all this?” his best friend hollered over the twanging thwack of her gear wrench colliding with metal. “They bring some kid into your 'protection'? What is this, a fraternity? A stag party?”
“What's got your panties in a twist, exactly? Chief says we have to protect her, we protect her.”
“I'm not an idiot, Tuck. I know what protecting some hot piece of ass means to all you bastards. She's going to get raped here.”
Tuck slowly lit a cigarette as he searched for sating words. “Look, A. The men here are rough, but they'd never break the code. We only take the willing kind.”
“And you sound just like God with that fucking mumbo jumbo. I'm sick of it.” She sat down heavily on a teetering stack of Michelin tires. “I hear there's some dark business about it, too. Something about the law.”
“But we don't abide by the law.”
“Then why was she escorted here in an undercover's Buick? Why did I see some dick take handcuffs off her when he showed her to the chief? She was trembling like a leaf! Look, I think this whole thing is out of order.”
“You're being paranoid again, A.” In his mind's eye, Tuck had already wandered back to the task of seducing Baby. His friend had a point: Spivey and Yak and the others wouldn't be so genteel in their advances—but then, they didn't look like he did. He'd resolved to take the chief at his word. There'd been no reason to doubt his judgment or favors before that night.
“Just wait a moment, before you go diving after the pussy. Have you seen this?” Athena reached into her red toolkit and pulled out a newspaper. It was dated from two days prior. The most prominent headline ran: Trailer Park Massacre! Mysterious Murders Mount in the Low Country.
“You know I've been on the road, A. Don't really have time for newspapers.”
“Really, Tuck? You don't think that maaaaybe this girl you're 'protecting' is related to the hottest
story this town's seen in years?”
Tuck dragged on his cigarette some more, blowing a neat set of circles into the air. “Oh, you're talking crazy now. You think we're hiding a murderer? You think that baby's a murderer?”
“I just think, be careful. And ask your leader questions.”
“I already tried that! He practically spat in my face!”
“You poor, defenseless body-builder,” Athena said, before cracking a hint of her unwilling grin. Perhaps her bad mood had broken.
Tuck moved toward his best friend, arms outstretched. “You poor, defenseless beauty queen!” He leaned in to pick her up, wrapping two tickling hands around her waist.
“Tucker Jay LaRouche, don't you fucking dare!”
“But I love you, Athena! I love you something fierce!” He began to plant his sloppy kisses up and around her cheeks and neck, eliciting shrieks of mock distress. The friends struggled together playfully, yelling and pulling and screaming as they always had. Tuck overturned the stack of tires with his foot, and once she'd wriggled free, Athena chucked a wrench at his head.
“Oh, I'm gonna kill you!”
“Not if I kill you first, bitch!” Athena ran towards Tucker with a tire iron outstretched.
Then suddenly, quietly, from the edge of the garage, came a noise: a soft gasp. Turning, Tucker saw it was Baby. She peered into the light of the garage like a moth drawn to flame. She looked horrified at the scene.
But Athena hadn't seen the girl yet. She was waiting for Tuck to take typical evasive action, but he, distracted, did not. Before she could retrace her path or fully slow down, she had careened into his buff chest, knocking him to the ground.
“Why didn't you fucking move, idiot?” Athena screeched—by way of apology—into her friend's chest. Tuck's head knocked against the wet cement. The tire iron had gotten him good, between the floating ribs.
“Where is she?” Tucker asked.
“Who?”
“Baby! She's by the door!” Athena launched herself off the ground with surprising aplomb.
“There's nobody there, Tuck.”
“But I saw her!”
“Not so sure you did.” Then she brushed off her coveralls, and extended a hand to help him to his feet. “That's enough horsing around. You just remember what I said. Promise?”
Tuck nodded—though once more, he found it difficult to keep an eye on his mission. All he could think of now was the look in Baby's frightened-doe eyes. All he could think of now were Baby's eyes on him.
That night, crawling into the messy room above the garage that he shared with three other outlaws (Bruiser, Fish and Dom), Tuck really couldn't think of anything else. He didn't think about the massacre, or the chief, or the dull sights of Waco.
He thought only of his would-be woman.
Chapter Nine
Athena Sark pushed the heavy quilt off her small frame, and lurched out of the small-but-cozy cot she kept in the corner of the garage. Her bedroom was Spartan, but it suited her. She liked being close to her workplace at all times—the Barons' banged-up bikes curiously felt the most like home.
She took survey of the other little objects that constituted her kingdom: the cracked vanity, with its pictures of old muscle cars edged along the mirror's frame; photo booth shots of herself and Tuck taken in bars along the French quarter; a mason jar full of dried bluebonnets that she'd plucked from the countryside as the troupe had moved across Louisiana and into Texas. Athena, tomboyish as she was, normally didn't fall for girly nonsense like flowers—but something about those frail stems reminded her of the person she'd used to be. The wide-eyed lady of the bayous, the one always game for an adventure. An optimist, somehow. These days, more often than not, Athena just felt jaded about the cards the world had dealt her. Playing mother hen to a bunch of ne'er do-wells hadn't exactly been a part of her young runaway's grand plan.
Yet she'd found a kind of balance. As irritating as the Barons could be, through it all there was still Tuck. They'd met when they were little more than children, both little derelict shitheads roving the city like pioneers. She'd left a stepfather who'd crawled into her teenage bed one night, and he'd left a Pops who liked to use him as a punching bag. They used to huddle together in the alleys and plot their eventual world domination. Tuck didn't have a particular career in mind, but he knew he wanted to be a rich man. The kind of man who could make someone like his father work, or better yet pay, for all his sins. Athena, on the other hand, had always wanted to make and fix things. She'd always b
een attracted to the idea of restoring beauty and order to the world of objects—especially when the world of men seemed so perpetually unable to grasp this conceit.
Oh, Tuck. Tuck, who towered above his best friend like an unreachable statue, but held her gaze like she was the most important woman in the world. That boy respected everything she said and did. He took her words, her creature comforts, as law. But he didn't love her. Not like that. They'd established this once and for all during that miserable last night in the city. She'd had two Jim Beams over the limit and then told him, point-blank: “I've always loved you. I love you now.” It was stupidly cliché, which made it all the worse—Athena was in deep, serious love with her oldest and dearest friend, who himself wasn't capable of reciprocating. “You're my sister,” he'd said. “And you're drunk.” These days, they pretended the confession had never happened—but Athena woke up every morning to the knowledge of this curse. It hit her afresh in the daylight, like a ton of bricks. Just a few floors above her head, Tuck was sprawled in the throes of some wonderful dream. He was completely unaware of the woman who longed for him below, who lived a waking nightmare because of it.
Because she didn't like to waste daylight, Athena rose. A single, half-hearted rooster crowed the hour in the distance. The garage smelled of its usual cocktail: gasoline and Old Spice. As she looked around to make certain that everything was as she'd left it, Athena's eyes stuttered on a small ball in the corner, huddled by the toppled tires. Right. The Barons' ward.
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