Bike Week Blues

by Mary Clay

  “Sure, I believe that,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “No, really, I was preoccupied.”

  I thought of the nights that she’d come home late with smeared make-up and a big grin. I supposed she might be telling the truth. “Penny Sue, even if we have a key, we can’t take Lu Nee in there. Spying is illegal. Besides, the cleaning crew would surely notice it.”

  “Put it in the closet?” Penny Sue suggested.

  “Closet? Lu Nee 2 wouldn’t see anything.”

  “She could hear.” Penny Sue stared at her wine as if trying to divine the future. A bust, since the Australian was crystal clear, no grape flakes or residue to swirl into patterns or portents. “Okay, we’ll forget Lu Nee and concentrate on finding him in person. Rich came to survey Harley dealers. I’m sure he’s already visited the local shops. My guess is that he’s scoping out the major bike events now.”

  “Do you think it’s safe for the three of us to go?” Ruthie asked nervously.

  “Ted said we’d be fine as long as we stuck to the beaten paths—the Pub, J.B.’s, the bars on Flagler, even Main Street in Daytona,” I reminded her. “Why don’t we start with the Pub tonight? That way we can check things out and see how everyone is dressed. We want to blend with the crowd.” I gave Penny Sue a look that said, “No wedding ensemble.” She curled her lip at me. “Anyway, Ted’s probably working traffic there tonight—we couldn’t be safer.”

  “Won’t we stand out if we pull up to bike bashes in a car?” Ruthie asked.

  “My car,” Penny Sue insisted immediately. “No offense, Leigh, but your little bug is not fit for adults.”

  At the police station, I’d had to pull her out of the front seat, again. Size wasn’t the only issue here, agility was a factor, too. Penny Sue probably needed to sign up for a yoga class or something. The old joints were stiffening with age. (Gawd, what was I saying? We were the same age!)

  “Ted said that most of the people who go to the Pub park at the shopping center across the street. No one will know we arrived in a car,” I said. “I do wonder if we should take the Mercedes, since someone has a grudge against it.”

  “Pooh,” Penny Sue said, draining her wine and holding it up for a refill. “It’s Woody who has the vendetta—the gun shot was pure chance.” Our waitress arrived with glasses of water and another wine for Penny Sue. “Do you go to Bike Week?” Penny Sue asked the petite blonde whose nametag read Angie.

  “Sure, it’s a lot of fun. The Pub has a slew of great shindigs. Bands, contests, and there’s a web site where you can get the schedule.”

  “Do you go with a man on a motorcycle?” Ruthie asked.

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I go with a bunch of girls.”

  Ruthie was still not convinced. “So, you think it’s safe?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s a big party, like Mardi Gras.”

  Penny Sue sipped her wine demurely, wheels turning in her head. Finally, in her best Georgia Peach persona, Penny Sue drawled, “You’ve lived here a while?”

  “All my life.”

  “Do you know of a man named—he has a funny nickname—Vulture?”

  Angie stiffened instantly. “I’ve heard of him,” she said flatly.

  Penny Sue showed surprise. “What have you heard?”

  “He’s a rough dude—the kind that would kill your mother for a warm Busch beer. If I were you, I’d steer clear of him. I’d also wouldn’t throw his name around.” She eyed our conservative black outfits. “People might get the wrong idea.”

  Ruthie held her hands up. “We don’t know this guy; we’ve only heard about him.”

  “I don’t know what you heard, but he’s not a person I’d want to look up.” Angie turned on her heel.

  “Thanks, we appreciate the advice,” I said to the girl’s back as she walked away.

  Ruthie came unglued. “Don’t you ever mention that name to a stranger again!” She wagged her finger at Penny Sue. “We want to find Rich, not Vulture. Otherwise, you can count me out of this whole mess. I’ll take the next plane to Atlanta.”

  Penny Sue tilted her head contritely. “Get a grip, Ruthie.” She stared into her drink again. “Woody showed me a picture of Vulture. He’s the second man I saw with Rich at the Riverview Hotel the day we broke up.”

  “For goshsakes,” I nearly shouted, “why didn’t you tell us before?”

  She avoided my eyes. “I didn’t want to upset you. Besides, I thought you might not help if you knew about Vulture and Rich.”

  “Darn right. I’ll help search for Rich, but at the first sight of Vulture, I’m out of here with Ruthie.”

  “Vulture is our only lead for finding Rich, so we have to ask about him. There’s a half million bikers in the area, if we don’t use the Vulture connection, we’re looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  She was right. The probability of running into Rich was virtually nil. Yet, I feared that asking about Vulture was like spitting in the wind—it might blow back in our faces. If the guy was as nasty as everyone said, he probably wanted to keep a low profile and wouldn’t take kindly to someone spreading his name around. Still, without him, we didn’t have a chance of locating Rich. “I’ll concede that we need to find Vulture, but we’re not going to probe everyone we meet. We’ll only ask people we know and trust—people who won’t tell Vulture we’re after him. Lord knows, we don’t want him to come after us.” I glanced at Ruthie.

  She shrugged. “I’ll go that far, no farther. If things start looking dangerous, I’m making reservations on the next plane.”

  “Fair enough,” Penny Sue conceded.

  We downed our wine, paid the bill, and headed to the condo. On the way, we stopped at Publix for air freshener, the kind that killed odors instead of simply masking them. The vanilla scent we used had made things worse. Vanilla simply did not compliment sage, smudge stick, tobacco, and Bloody Mary mix—the result being a putridly sweet stench of monumental proportions.

  We’d purchased three cans of freshener and each of us entered the condo with our can spewing. Within a few minutes we’d expended our ammunition and opened all the windows, for the third time that day. While we waited for the place to air out, Ruthie fixed Uga’s wound with white fingernail polish. Even Penny Sue had to admit that it did the job and said she’d remember that trick for the future. By then, the odor in the condo was finally approaching tolerable, so we sat in the living room, next to the open sliding glass doors.

  “Angie said the Pub had a web site. Let’s check out today’s events.” Ruthie fetched her laptop computer from the bedroom and put it on the coffee table.

  I watched curiously. “Don’t you have to plug it into a telephone socket?”

  “No. Poppa gave this to me for Christmas. It has a remote access card and connects to the Internet by satellite.”

  “Amazing. Pretty soon people will just talk to their computer instead of using keyboards.”

  “I wish they already had that. We could sure use it for Lu Nee 2,” Penny Sue said.

  Ruthie nodded as she typed in the commands for a Google search on the Pub. Amazingly, she found it right away. “Tonight is the Blow Out Party. There’s also something called the Wall of Death.”

  “They used to have those at the state fair,” Penny Sue said. “You know, a guy rides a motorcycle on the inside wall of a big barrel thing. It’s amazing.”

  “Centrifugal force,” I said, recalling college physics.

  “Whatever. It would be fun to see again.”

  I sighed. “You know, we only have a week together, and I really don’t want to spend the whole time hunting for Rich. We have to compress this search—go to several places each day. Let’s hit J.B.’s and the Pub tonight.”

  “We’ll start at J.B.’s—their seafood is good—then swing by the Pub,” Penny Sue suggested. “We won’t be conspicuous in my car at either place. Main Street in Daytona is a whole ’nother matter. I don’t think we should go there in either the Mercedes or your bug.”

 
“It’s a Turbo Beetle.”

  “Excuse me, I didn’t realize you were so touchy. But, even a Turbo Beetle is not a match for a Harley.”

  “Frannie May’s son, Carl, has a motorcycle. Maybe he’d go with us to Main Street,” I said.

  “I’ll ride with Carl,” Ruthie blurted. “I prefer an experienced driver.”

  “Like a Klingon?” Penny Sue asked peevishly.

  “Don’t make fun of Carl. Do you want to hear snide comments about Rich? There’s plenty of material there.”

  “I wasn’t making fun of Carl—well, maybe a little—but Ruthie dissed my driving.”

  I shook my finger. “I’ll ride with you, but you must promise to leave Carl alone.”

  * * *

  We dressed in the hippest, most biker-looking outfits we could manage. Ruthie wore her $200 black Moschino jeans and the biker shirt that I’d given her. I wore the same black tee and Liz denim capris. (No $200 jeans in my wardrobe.) Penny Sue was decked out in the white bustier with black stretch pants, a leather jacket, and Harley boots with red flames on the side. She hadn’t shown us the boots before. I shuddered to think what else was stashed in her closet.

  We took the Mercedes and arrived at J.B.’s a little before six, thinking we’d beat the dinner crowd. Wrong. One of New Smyrna’s oldest fish houses, J.B.’s was known for Southern Cooking with Attitude, a trait that explained Penny Sue’s fondness for the place—the food matched her personality. The other reason was a tall, handsome bartender she’d all but swooned over on our first visit.

  On normal days J.B.’s was busy, but Bike Week pushed it to a new height. The parking lot was packed with bikes, mostly Harleys, forcing us to park on a side street a block way.

  “We’ll never get a table,” Ruthie said as we tromped along Turtle Mound Road.

  “Don’t be negative,” Penny Sue chided. “You’ll jinx us. You said yourself that we create our own reality. Think positively. See a booth open up the minute we walk into the restaurant.”

  Bikes—three abreast—rumbled by, forcing Ruthie off the pavement. She teetered in her high-heeled boots, and I had to grab her arm to keep her from falling flat on her face. “Hmph. Hard to be positive when I’m about to break my neck,” Ruthie complained. “Why I let you talk me into wearing these Prada boots, I’ll never know.”

  “You look fantastic,” Penny Sue, in the lead as usual, said over her shoulder.

  “I doubt anyone here would know a Prada if it fell on them.”

  “Honey, Prada stands out in any crowd. Besides, half of these people are pretenders like us. Remember Jonathan McMillan with his fake tattoo?”

  Jonathan was president of a Marietta bank. We ran into him and his wife Marie on our last visit. Dressed in leather and holey denim, they looked like average bikers at first glance. Closer inspection revealed perfect manicures, movie star teeth, and an amazing lack of wrinkles or spare baggage for people our age—a clear testament to collagen, Botox, and a terrific plastic surgeon.

  “Keep your eyes open, I’ll bet you spot some Prada and Gucci, maybe even a Manolo,” Penny Sue said.

  “Manolo? That’s pushing it,” Ruthie scoffed.

  “You just see.”

  We wormed our way through a throng of beer-drinking bikers who swayed and danced to a hot country band on a stage set up in the parking lot. A thick fog of steamed shrimp, body heat and beer vapor hung in the air, so strong, I swear, I was tipsy by the time we reached the front door.

  Since most people were in the parking lot or on the back deck where another band played, the dining room was full but not crowded. And Penny Sue’s positive thinking must have worked. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the darkened room, I spotted a muscular arm waving at us from a six-topper booth at the far end of the room. It was Bobby Barnes, the boat captain from the Marine Center, and his Navy Seal buddy, Saul Hirsch. Both men were dressed in jeans and tank tops that showed off their sculpted, bronzed bodies. Bobby gave Penny Sue the up and down, conspicuously zeroing in on the strapless bustier, then stood and motioned us into his side of the booth. Eyes glued to his striated biceps, Penny Sue shoved me into the booth first, ensuring she’d get to sit next to her newest Adonis. Saul rose too and smiled appreciatively at Ruthie. Catching the obvious flirtation, she slid into the booth, color rising in her cheeks.

  “Prada?” Saul said to Ruthie.

  Her face went blood red. “What?”

  “Your boots. Prada, aren’t they?”

  “Yes ...”

  Saul quaffed his beer. “My mother owns a shoe boutique in Dallas. I just got back from a visit. She roped me into helping her take inventory and she has those exact boots in stock.”

  I felt Penny Sue give Ruthie a See! kick under the table.

  “Oh-h-h,” Ruthie wailed, rubbing her shin.

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Saul apologized.

  Ruthie shot Penny Sue a dirty look. “You didn’t. Someone with big feet can’t control her Harley boots.”

  Big feet. I clamped my lips together. Penny Sue’s eyes shot daggers.

  Bobby came to our rescue. “Bobby Barnes.” He tipped his bottle toward his chest and winked at Penny Sue. She winked back. “And, this is my old Navy partner, Saul Hirsch. He owns the scooter store downtown.”

  “You own all those cute little motorbikes with the Rent Me sign on the back?” Penny Sue chirped in her Scarlett O’Hara voice.

  Saul nodded.

  “They look like fun. Do you have one outside?”

  Saul took a swallow of his beer. “Hardly, I’d be laughed off the lot. I’m a 1947 Indian Chief.”

  Penny Sue squinched her eyes doubtfully. “Indian? Are you from the Timucuan tribe?”

  Saul coughed into his napkin, while Bobby guffawed.

  Penny Sue frowned, her eyes shifting from Bobby to Saul. “What did I say? What’s wrong?”

  Saul wiped his mouth. “I guess I mumbled. My tribe is from Israel, and my bike is an Indian Chief. It’s an old brand, a classic. Be happy I’m not an Indian from these parts. The ones down by Canaveral were cannibals.” Saul gnashed his teeth.

  If there’s anything a Leo hates, it’s looking silly, and Penny Sue was true to her astrology. She loved poking fun at others, but had a hard time taking it herself. I hoped she didn’t flip into one of her snippy personas. I had to work with Bobby and didn’t want her to mess up our relationship.

  Clearly miffed, Penny Sue leaned back. “I didn’t think you looked like an Indian, but one never knows. In this day and age, all the races have become so intertwined, some scientists think racial distinctions should be dropped all together. Real blondes are supposed to become extinct in about two centuries.”

  Good recovery. I gave her a thumbs-up under the table.

  Satisfied with herself, she rattled on. “Of course, a good Buckhead hairdresser,” she ran her fingers through her streaked hair, “can overcome genetics any day.”

  “Amen,” a platinum blond waitress said, her pen poised for action.

  Announcing, “When in Rome—” Penny Sue passed up her usual Chardonnay for a long neck beer and hot wings. I followed her lead, but Ruthie, whose heart—in spite of Saul—was not into Bike Week or finding Rich, ordered a cola and a plain hamburger. The guys went for another round of brew.

  Through our meal, we stuck to non-controversial topics. Who’d been raised where, been where when, married to whom where and when, finally ending with Saul’s visiting Bobby in New Smyrna, falling in love with the beach, and opening the moped store.

  “How fast can those little boogers go, anyway?” Penny Sue asked.

  “Depends on whether you’re talking about the gas or electric models. I have both. The new electric models can almost hit forty miles an hour. Since they’re virtually silent, they’re perfect for tourists who want a leisurely ride with occasional conversation.”

  “That explains it,” I said. “I took a walk a couple of weeks ago and a scooter passed me from behind before I knew what happened.
It scared the fool out of me, I never heard it coming. It must have been one of your electric models.”

  “Probably. Older folks, especially the ones with hearing problems, prefer them. No buzz to interfere with their hearing aids.”

  “They do look like fun,” Ruthie finally said something. “That’s one bike I think I could enjoy.”

  Saul smiled. “Come by any time and I’ll set you up. Escort you myself. Riverside is a beautiful drive. The speed limit is only about thirty, so there are no impatient drivers riding on your bumper.”

  Ruthie blushed and studied her fingernails. “I will. I’d really like that.”

  Saul handed her his card. “Call. I’m available any time.”

  Penny Sue poked my thigh. Ruthie agreed to a date! That made two firsts in one day. First, she wore a sexy, biker tee shirt. Second, she’d all but agreed to a date. Would wonders never cease? The planets must be in a special alignment, I thought with a faint smile. Who knew what else was in store?

  Saying they were scheduled to meet some old service buddies on Main Street in Daytona, Bobby called for the check. I’d been biding my time, looking for a chance to ask him about Vulture. One thing I was certain of, Bobby could be trusted.

  I took a deep breath and dove in. I told him about Rich, Penny Sue, and the murder. Penny Sue jumped in with Woody’s decidedly weasel characteristics, his desire to get even with her, and his attempt to frame Rich.

  The check came. Instead of whipping out a credit card, the men ordered another beer. The drinks arrived as I breathlessly added the tidbit about the P being shot out on Penny Sue’s vanity plate.

  Bobby and Saul gaped at each other, took a big swig of brew, then looked us over like we’d dropped in from Mars. “Boy, Leigh, you saved the best for last. We’ve worked together for four months, and you’ve never talked about anything other than facts and figures. Now, I could believe this story coming from Frannie May, but from you—a total shock.”

  “Frannie May was with us when we found the body.”

  Bobby took another swallow of ale. “Figures.”

  Fingers steepled in front of his chest, Saul glanced at Ruthie. “One thing’s for sure, steer clear of Vulture. He’s twisted. Rumor has it he’s a former Special Ops who flipped out in Vietnam or something. Dishonorable discharge for beating the crap out of his commanding officer. Definitely not nice. Definitely not someone you want to meet, much less mess with.”