"Better not. I said I wouldn't beat you up, but my baby is calling for revenge, and I might just run you down if I see you on the streets."
"I'll lie awake nights worrying about you."
CHAPTER 24
May 21, 1973, Georgetown, Washington, DC
Gas lines were new.
There didn't seem to be any real reason for their existence—no one could point to any real shortages—but Rick heard every possible cause as he listened to the radio while he waited two hours to get to a pump: tankers parked out in the Chesapeake Bay waiting for higher prices, the president's price controls, or the worsening Arab-Israeli tensions. All he knew was that he was glad he had the VW. At 50 miles an hour, it could go all day on a single tank of gas. A motorcycle should be even better.
Rick sighed. A motorcycle would be better for many reasons. It felt like an eternity since he'd danced. Of course, there had been the night road race through the Black Hills a couple of weeks before, but the effect of that had faded. So, when he finally put the allotted ten gallons in the bus, he decided not to drive back to Ingomar Street but to try and find the Dawn Riders instead.
Their old clubhouse on H Street looked abandoned, the faded sign "Motor Mouse Couriers" now off-kilter, swinging by a single chain. Of course, it had looked abandoned when it was in operation, so Rick parked the bus, pounded on the garage doors, and walked around back. The gang's mechanic and de facto leader, Hector Martinez, had died last year helping to save Eve's life and, without him, it looked like the old clubhouse was closed.
It wasn't very surprising since, as far as Rick could tell, Hector had been the only member with a real job.
Rick got back in the VW and thought for a few minutes. Then he headed to an area of strip clubs, bars, and tattoo parlors in Upper Georgetown. A part of Cleveland Park, it had always been the best place to find a large group of bikers, assuming that anyone in their right minds would want to find a large group of bikers.
If they weren't watching the girls dance in Act 4 or the Good Guys, they'd be listening to local rock bands in Clancy's or the Keg. In any case, they'd be drunk and ready to fight.
Of course, there weren't all that many times when they weren't either drunk or ready to fight so no point in putting things off.
It was dark by the time he parked outside The Keg, making sure he was well away from the pools of light cast by the few unbroken overhead lamps. Turning off the engine and killing the interior light, Rick reached down between the driver's seat and the door and pulled out the lug wrench that came with all VWs. An 18-inch steel rod with a socket at one end on a 90-degree angle, it wasn't terribly useful for getting tires on and off. Rick had replaced it with an X-shaped universal wrench after the first flat tire, but it tended to be a handy item to carry around.
He slipped it into the right-hand sleeve of his denim jacket so that the socket was hidden by the cuff, and the rod lay along the outside of his forearm. It was only a precaution but, in his experience, bars like this were the places where you took precautions.
Prepared, he got out and walked over to Clancy's. "The problem with strip bars," he thought, "was that they had to light the place enough to see the girls (which was bad enough) but that meant you could see the cheap and chipped nature of the place and the unsavory faces of the clientele. Dark bars were always better. You could at least pretend you were in the kind of sophisticated place you saw in magazine ads."
He bought a beer and walked through the crowd, pretending to ogle the two tired, depressed, naked women slowly swaying on the platforms but actually looking for Dawn Riders. He didn't see any, but there were still three bars to go.
As he strolled over to The Keg, he could hear the sound that always meant a fight was starting. A rising confusion of shouts, threats, foot scraping and—well, it was just the sound of a fight. Rick had been a bouncer during college, and the sound was a messenger of trouble. He reached into the jeans pocket and pulled out his Zippo, wrapping the fingers of his right hand around it. While he didn't intend to get in a fight, in his experience fights in bars often didn't give you a choice.
Even from a distance, he could tell they were all bikers, their "colors" proudly displayed. As he walked closer, he recognized one as the Dawn Rider he'd exchanged insults with outside the old clubhouse back in December. Now, a couple of Pagans, easily recognized by the flaming sign of the Norse Sun God on their colors, were about to kick the snot out of him.
Pagans were one of the toughest gangs on the East Coast. Rick didn't buy the rumor that the "secret" knock on their clubhouse out in Prince George's County was to bang on the front door and then step aside before the .45 hollow point came through at chest height.
It wasn't that he doubted the Pagans would do something like that; he just didn't think they'd want to bother replacing the door all the time.
True or not, the Pagans were not people you wanted to mess with. On the other hand, Rick did need to get in touch with the Dawn Riders. As he watched, the confrontation made its inevitable progression from threats to insults, and the first fists were thrown. He knew the next step would be weapons and decided to see if he could even the playing field a little.
Walking up behind the Pagan on his left, an overweight guy with a Fu Manchu mustache and body odor that was almost a physical presence, Rick tapped him on the shoulder, and, as he turned, hit him with a classic rabbit punch, the Zippo-filled fist striking at the place where his jaw met his neck.
The Zippo kept his fingers from collapsing inward and put all the power of hours of weight lifting directly into the fat guy. First, his head snapped away from Rick, and then his massive body followed. He spun completely once and fell over the battered hedge that was desperately attempting to add a little class to the bar.
"Well, that's one who won't remember me," thought Rick. He turned to the other two just in time to see the Dawn Rider dropping to the ground without being touched. The Pagan looked a bit surprised as well.
Rick raised his arms, primarily to conceal his face—he really didn't want these guys to be able to identify him later—and advanced. His opponent was a tall guy in a dumb-looking leather cowboy hat. When he grinned in a manner Rick was sure he thought wolfish, he revealed about four remaining teeth. Clearly, the entrance of a new fighter had changed the rules because the biker reached into his back pocket and pulled out a large set of brass knuckles, which he quickly fitted on his left hand.
"Must be my lucky day," Rick thought.
He moved forward, careful not to trip on the Dawn Rider, and dropped his right fist a little. As he figured, the Pagan immediately launched a looping left at his face. Even without the brass knuckles, it could have done considerable damage. With them, it could shatter bones.
If it landed.
Rick snapped his right arm up and blocked hard at the man's forearm, leading with the tire iron in his sleeve. There was a snap as iron won the contest against bone. As the man's face clenched in pain, Rick jammed the leather cowboy hat down over the biker's eyes, spun him quickly, and launched him between two parked cars with a foot in the small of his back.
Neither Pagan was going to do much of anything in the immediate future, so Rick slid the tire iron up the pant leg of his jeans and let the sharp end drop into his boot. Then, he turned to the Dawn Rider.
To his disgust, the man had fallen into a puddle of his own vomit but, since he'd apparently passed out before the fight even started, didn't seem to be injured.
Stinking but not injured.
Rick rolled him over on his back, stepped on his toes to keep his feet braced, and pulled him upright. Then he stepped forward, flattened his shoulder into the man's gut, and carried him into the bar.
Inside were the usual dim lights, loud noises, and pungent aromas of a biker bar. Rick did notice that there were no stools or chairs, only large, tall tables that he suspected were firmly nailed into the floor. When he saw that the windows had all been replaced with glass brick, he knew that the management had ta
ken all the precautions they could against seeing their property destroyed in the nightly warfare. One of the bartenders glanced over at him and noted the body on his shoulder. He nodded but prudently stayed behind the battered-but-sturdy wooden bar.
Rick spotted other Dawn Riders across the room near the stage where a young band was pounding out some almost tuneless Metallica cover song.
He went over. "Anyone in charge here?"
An older man with a braided beard took a drink of beer, belched, wiped his mouth, and said, "That sort of depends on what you want."
Rick heaved the man off his shoulder and placed him on his feet. Amazingly, he managed to stay erect. "I believe this is one of yours," he said. "I found him outside with a couple of Pagans debating whether to take him apart or just stomp him flat."
The bearded man looked at the weaving figure with a total lack of concern, "Yeah, that's 'Brains.' As in 'Shit for.'"
Brains finally lost the battle with gravity and fell backward into the arms of a brother Dawn Rider who, as soon as he felt the vomit on his shirt, allowed him to complete his trajectory to the floor.
The first man pulled on one of the little braids coming down from his beard. "Pagans? So you're saying we've got a beef with them, now?" He dug a booted toe into the side of the man on the floor. "All because of Brains having 15 or 20 too many beers?"
Rick laughed, "I don't think so. 'Street fighter' here passed out before he ever threw a punch."
"Why are you being so helpful?" The leader peered at Rick's face in the dim light. "Oh yeah, Hector's friend. The Army buddy who got his ass killed."
He held up a hand as Rick began to say something. "Don't say anything about it. Hector never did a damn thing he didn't want to do, and I sincerely do not want to know what exactly happened on 14th Street.
"I'm 'Preacher,' and I guess I'm about as much of a leader as this sorry-ass chapter has. I think Hector called you 'Zippo' so why don't we leave it at that, because I don't want to know any more about you. For one thing, people with guns come around looking for you, and, for another, I just don't give a shit."
"Fine with me." Neither man offered a hand to shake, but, when a muscular waitress who looked like she could go several rounds with Muhammad Ali brought a new round of beers to the table, Rick was given a bottle. He assumed it was originally for the biker on the floor.
Preacher looked down at Brains, now wrapped around the base of the table and snoring loudly. "So, I'm assuming you didn't just show up to save this poor idiot from having his skull broke. My guess is you want your bike back."
"Yep."
Preacher took a long drink of beer, belched, and finally said, "Well, I would be happy to get that piece of shit rice-grinder out of my sight. Of course, you realize there is rent due?"
"Why don't we consider Brains here as a down payment?"
"Why not? Because he ain't worth shit." Preacher sighed, "But I guess that's the burden of being chapter prez. I've got to worry about the worthless ones."
Another Dawn Rider raised his beer in a mock toast, "Because, we sure as shit don't."
The rest of the bikers laughed as Preacher just shook his head.
Rick asked, "Where can I pick up the bike? I stopped by Motor Mouse, and you've clearly moved on."
"Well, when your club president, who also happens to be the guy who paid the rent and held the lease, gets his ass killed…well, yeah, we figured it was time to wander."
"I had the same feeling," Rick said.
"We noticed." The biker said dryly, "It took a while but we found a new place. It's down in Southeast, right behind Pier Nine."
Rick was surprised. "The gay dance club?"
"Yeah, we're trading a bit of security for the use of a row house in the back. As it happened, two of our members were working as dancers in the upstairs lounge anyway."
Preacher shrugged. "Apparently, black leather works as well on the dance floor as it does on the road. As the Buddha said, 'whatever floats your boat.'"
"I'll drink to that." Rick raised his bottle. As he drank, he looked around the crowded bar. The two men he'd left in the parking lot were being helped through the front door. They didn't look like they had clear memories, or any memories at all, but it was probably time to leave.
"I'm out of here." He put his mostly full beer on the table. "When can I pick up the bike?"
Preacher wiped the foam off his mustache with a hairy forearm. "Well, let's see. What day is today?" He looked around at the other Dawn Riders but got only blank looks.
"It's Monday." The voice came from the floor at their feet.
Preacher looked down at the recumbent Brains, "That's what we keep him around for. Stupid as he is, he usually knows things like that." His attention turned back to Rick. "Tuesday is a big club night so we'll be around. In the meantime, we'll try and remember where we stuck that Japanese piece of shit."
"Sounds like a plan." Rick stuck out his hand.
Preacher just stared at it.
"Jeez, it's clean and everything, too." Rick held up his hand and examined both the front and back. "Forgot how friendly you guys are."
"You're lucky we don't kick the crap out of you." Rick turned and said over his shoulder as he left,
"Nah, you're lucky you didn't try."
CHAPTER 25
May 22, 1973, Ingomar Street NW, Washington, DC
"Not another 'twisty little passage'!"
"I'm afraid so. What shall we do?"
"Rub the lamp?"
"OK. Hmm. It says, 'Rubbing the electric lamp is not particularly rewarding. Anyway nothing exciting happens.'"
"Rats."
Across the living room, Sage and Scotty were hunched over the tiny green screen of the Data-Comp, Sage giving commands and Scotty patiently typing them in. When he had come in, Rick had asked what they were doing. He still wasn't quite sure, but they were playing a game on Scotty's mainframe computer.
Rick had settled into one of the battered recliners, shut his eyes, and pretended to take a nap.
"Scotty! I got it." Sage seemed to have an intuitive grasp of the game and was more often right than wrong. "The 'twisties' aren't the same. Look, Go North."
"OK." Rick could hear the click of the keyboard.
Sage squealed, "See! These are 'little twisting passages' not 'twisting little passages'! Let's make a chart."
"OK. Where's the graph paper?"
His roommates had been watching the little girl for only a day, but Rick could tell that a bond was forming, particularly between Sage, Eps, and Scotty. Rick mused that it was probably because, in so many ways, the guys were more like brilliant children than adults. Steve was in slightly better contact with the "real world"; but, basically, they all saw life as a series of opportunities to play with toys, and the fact they were frighteningly smart let them get away with it.
Rick closed his eyes and listened as Sage excitedly celebrated their escape from the maze.
Yes, sir. I'm here.
I'll tell your wife you loved her.
Captain, just hang on, the medics will be here any second, and we'll get you out.
Fuck. I can't see shit. That fucking elephant grass has got to be six feet high.
Where are they, sir? Well, they're everywhere.
Up in the trees, hiding behind those damn anthills.
Hiding in the grass.
Shit! That one went right by my head.
Oh, Captain, your foot. Shit. Shit. I'm going to take off my shirt and bandage it.
I'll wrap it and the medics will be here any second now.
Yes, sir. Mabel. That's your wife's name. Mabel. No sir, I won't forget.
What's that? Say again, sir. You want me to do what?
No sir, I won't do it.
No, we don't have any more morphine. FUCK!
Ah, Christ. Maybe my shirt will stop the blood. No, using the shirt already.
Yes, sir. You took another wound. It's in your gut. Sir, I'm not fucking going to kill you.
Someone will be here soon, and you'll be OK. No sir, I don't really believe that either.
OK, Come on. Loosen your fingers. Got it.
Shit. It's all covered in blood. Well, it's an M-1911 so it'll still work.
Are you sure, sir?
Fuck! Two shots in his chest.
How the hell is he still screaming?
Sir, it will be all right. I'll tell Mabel you loved her. Just close your eyes. I can see the medic coming.
Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! There's fucking blood and brains everywhere!
It was a direct order.
Fuck! Where did that one hit?
Ah, shit. My fucking arm. Damn, that hurts!
Hide.
I'll just slide under the Captain. He won't mind.
When Rick opened his eyes, all he could see were Sage's eyes, big, wide, and scared. She was staring at him from the other side of Scotty who was slowly leaning his wide frame in an attempt to block off her view. As he leaned, Sage bent so that her eyes never left Rick.
Without looking at Rick, Scotty kept up a quiet, continuous, if one-sided, conversation. "OK, Sage, we're almost to the Giant's Cave. What should we do about the bear? No ideas? Well, let's try killing it. OK, it says, 'your bare hands against his bear hands.' Get it? A bear has 'bear' hands."
Slowly, Scotty's chatter got the little girl's attention, and they went back to the game.
"He's pretty good at that."
Rick turned his head and saw Kristee standing next to him watching her daughter. "I just walked in at the end of that. Sounded pretty horrible."
Rick rubbed his face with both hands. "Well, it's a lot less horrible now than it was when it was happening. I'm sorry if I upset Sage."
Kristee thought for a minute. "Eve told me about what you keep going through, and I explained it to her." She laughed, a short exhalation of breath, really. "Well, as much as you can explain to an 8-year old kid. I said you'd had some hard times and when you were dreaming, you went right back into them."
Warrior (Freelancer Book 2) Page 16