Taking in the room, he decided the motorcycles were definitely not local, cause their owners were in the corner playing pool and the jean jacket vests they were wearing was proof they were out of town bikers. The patch on the back of their jackets was a zombie skull that looked like it had come right off the wardrobe rack of a George Romero movie, all red eyes and melting flesh. Above the zombie's rotting skull was the name: Dead Bikers and to the left of the monsters grinning teeth were the letters: MC. The biker who had his back to Frank turned around, forcing Frank to no longer see the ghoulish patch and instead look at the man wearing it.
The biker gave him a look that wasn't much better than the zombie on his back. It was at that point Frank noticed they were all looking at him in the same way. He gave them a quick nod of his head and then made his way to the bar.
"Welcome home Frank," Mike the bartender said, putting a draft beer in front of him. He knew Frank from his dad, who had been one of his best customers back when he was alive. "This one's on the house, soldier, you earned it, that's for sure."
"Thanks Mike," Frank said, taking a long drink from the frosted mug. "Looks like you're serving a different kind of thirsty in here," he tipped his head back towards the bikers in the corner.
"Not by choice," Mike replied, laying his beefy arm on the bar. The bartender stood about six feet tall and weighed north of three hundred pounds, so he wasn't easily intimidated, but Frank could see the concern in the big man's eyes. "They came roaring in here about three hours ago." Mike pointed a thumb over at two guys who were sitting a couple of stools down from Frank. "That's why Bob and John are still here. They normally come in for a couple of beers and are gone by nine, but since the criminal element is here, they are going to wait until the cabinet crowd gets here before they leave."
The cabinet crowd were the factory workers from the cabinet building plant just down the street. Second shift got off at eleven and would be here by ten after. It always varied by how many came in, but the normal number for a Thursday night would be about half a dozen.
The Chevy plant was further down the road but much larger, so by eleven thirty ten to twenty more thirsty, worn out assembly line workers would walk through the door as well.
Both crowds were extremely loyal to their watering hole, so they would make sure that there were plenty around at closing, in case the bikers wanted to keep partying when it was time to leave.
Frank glanced at Bob and John, tipping his beer to them. They replied in the same fashion. They were both average in size and weight and well into their fifties. Neither had the look of a dangerous man, but some could hide that quite well. Either way, until the factory workers got here, the bikers had the advantage in numbers, and as Frank looked back at the group and got a better look at them he noticed that wasn't the only advantage they had.
The closest one to him was chalking his pool stick, getting ready to shoot. He was a skinny, little guy. Barely over five feet tall but the tattoo on his arm is what caught Frank's eye. He was too far away to make out the writing but the image below the letters told him plenty. It was a drawing of a rat, standing on two legs. A short barreled revolver was in one of its hands and a bottle of booze was in the other. The evil grin on its face would have made the devil proud. Frank knew what that rat meant, he had seen it once on a sign above the place that was the home of the tunnel rats, the crazy guys that crawled into the tunnels looking for the Cong over in Vietnam. Frank only knew two things about the rats from the 1st Engineering Battalion: they weren't right in the head, and you never crossed one unless you were ready to die, because they sure were.
All the bikers had military tattoos either on their biceps or forearms. Two of them, both standing right around six feet tall had the airborne insignia of the parachute with the wings to either side. They were the bad asses that jumped out of planes, helicopters, or whatever else that put them right in the middle of the shit-storm. The airborne guys were balls to the wall and some were as crazy as the tunnel rats.
Then there was the monster leaning up against the wall, watching the game. He stood at least six foot six but he had this crazy, out of control curly hair that made him look an easy two inches taller. His arms were as thick as tree trunks and on one of them had a tat of the head of a bulldog with the letters USMC above it. He was a marine, same as Frank.
The big marine should have been the most physically intimidating of the group but for some reason he wasn't. For when the last of the group stood up from his seat and stepped into the light, Frank somehow knew this was the one in charge, the one that was the most dangerous.
He stood a couple of inches taller than the airborne guys but was still nowhere near the size of the marine. He was as skinny as the tunnel rat, but his arms and legs were long and gangly, like an out of control ivy vine, growing off a tree.
Leaning down into the light that hung above the pool table, he looked back at Frank. There wasn't any malice in the biker's eyes as they stared at one another, but Frank could sense the menace that lurked behind the leaders irises, like a young storm cloud building into a deadly tempest.
The lead biker tilted his head slightly, raising his eyebrows as he kept looking at Frank. The reaction could be interrupted as an invitation to come over, or as a question of what the hell did he think he was looking at.
Frank thought about it for about half a second and then grabbed his beer and started making his way towards the bikers.
"Frank?" Mike whispered as he walked away from the bar, which Frank ignored. Time seemed to slow as his steps thudded across the wooden floor. The tunnel rat and airborne that were playing pool stopped, sitting the bottom of their pool sticks on the floor, looking like soldiers holding spears. They were all looking at him now, open dislike and borderline hostility on all their faces except the leader, who still held the same unknown look.
He reached the pool table, about to greet them when the tunnel rat stepped forward, cutting him off.
"What the fuck you looking for, man?" spittle flew from the rat's mouth as he spoke. "A quick death?"
"Take it easy, Beans," the lead biker commanded from behind. "This here man is a fellow vet, so let's give him the benefit of the doubt."
Beans looked Frank up and down, looking for verification.
Frank turned the inside of his right arm out, showing the marine image of the world with the anchor behind it and the eagle on top. The words 19th Battalion was written below it.
Beans gave a slight nod and then went back to shooting pool, like Frank wasn't even there.
"Why don't you come on back and have a seat," the lead biker said, sitting back down at the table in the dark corner of the room.
Frank took the offer, sitting down across from the biker.
"So?" the biker said.
"So," Frank mimicked. "How's it going?"
The biker chuckled lightly. "Not bad, so far," he answered, looking around the near empty bar. "We're having a good enough time, at least until the barkeep pulls that shotgun out from behind the bar he's been fingering ever since we got here."
Frank looked back at the bar. "Mike's a good guy, you guys are just kind of intimidating, so he's a little on edge. He's a vet too, from WW2."
"Good for him," the biker replied. "But that's not our war, now is it?" He kept looking at Frank, his eyes hadn't left Frank since he had sat down.
"No," Frank agreed. "Sure as hell ain't."
"So, why did you come over here, Semper Fi?"
"I don't know," Frank replied. "When you looked over at me, it just seemed like the thing to do."
The biker tipped his beer at him. "Good answer," he took a long drink.
"So, what's your plans for the rest of the night?" Frank asked.
The biker finished his drink. "We've been using the word 'so' entirely too much since we sat down, we need to cut that shit out."
Frank chuckled this time. "Okay, so anyway..."
They looked at one another in silence for a moment and then both let
out some genuine laughter.
The biker pulled a wad of cash out of his front pocket. "We're gonna finish up our drinks and then head out of here, you should come with."
"Sounds good," Frank replied, finishing off his beer with a large swig.
"Gather round brothers," the lead biker called out to the others. "Come meet our new buddy."
The other four shambled up to the table, surrounding them like the living dead in some cheap ass horror flick.
The leader pointed to the tunnel rat. "This here is Beans, our ambassador of kindness and polite etiquette."
Everyone got a laugh out of that, including Beans.
"Our two airborne are Paint," the leader pointed to the one that had a perfectly trimmed devil's go-tee. "He gets the name from being so damn good at doing the artwork for the colors on our jackets and one of these days he's going to paint our bikes. He's a god damn artist."
Paint gave a nod to Frank, which he returned.
"The other one is Pogo," the leader pointed to the other airborne, whose beard and hair were almost as wild as the big marine's. "He gets his name from the fact that he is hung so low he could ride his cock like a pogo stick."
"Hey," Pogo said, lighting up a cigarette. Frank responded in kind.
"The big man here is known as Fizz, you can probably guess why."
"Semper Fi," Frank said with a nod.
"Back at ya," the big man replied.
The leader held out his hand "This is my crew, and my name is Spider."
"Frank," he replied, grabbing Spider's hand, thinking how well the name fit him, cause his arms and legs were long and skinny, just like a spider's.
"Good to meet ya, Franky."
"Likewise."
Spider pulled two twenties out of the wad of cash, throwing them down in front of Frank. "How about you do us a favor?"
Something was quickly binding Frank to Spider, as if they were long lost brothers. "Name it."
"Take this cash up to you buddy, the barkeep, and tell him we need three cases of his best selling beer, and he can keep the change."
Frank looked down at the cash, knowing full well that in 1970, twenty bucks would more than pay for three cases of beer and that another twenty would be one hell of a tip.
"Are you sure you gave me the right bills---" Frank started to say.
Spider winked at Frank. "We take care of the barkeep that treats us fair, you just make sure you pass that on."
"Okay," Frank sputtered in reply.
"We'll meet you outside," Spider said standing up but then stopping. "If I remember right, I heard you pull up on a bike right?"
"Yeah."
"A real bike, not some fifty cc Honda puss bike, right?
"Hell no, it's an Indian 841 from World War Two."
"An Indian?" Beans asked.
Spider's eyes shot toward Beans like a bullet. "An Indian is just as good as a Harley, you got it?"
Beans shrugged in response. "Whatever you say, boss."
Spider slapped Frank on the shoulder. "See you out in the parking lot, friend."
"You got it," Frank replied as the bikers moved off in a group towards the door.
Mike watched them leave, then turned to Frank. "How did you manage that?"
Frank threw down the two twenty dollar bills. "They want three cases of beer and said you could keep the change."
Mike looked down at the money and then at Frank. "Do you know what you are getting into, son?"
"What do you care?" Frank asked back. "I'm getting them out of your bar, aren't I?"
Mike nodded his head, looking at the cash as he took it. "What brand do they want?"
"Whatever you sell the most of."
Mike wandered off into the back, never making eye contact with him again.
Bob and John were still sitting at the bar, but neither would look his way either.
"Is this the way the outcast feels?" Frank asked himself. "Or is this the way the outlaw feels?" He blinked several times, letting things sink in. "It isn't disgust that makes them act this way, it's fear. They fear the bikers, and because I'm now with them, they fear me." It was a powerful thing that surged through Frank's veins, as he watched the two men before him, refusing to look his way, almost cowering before him.
Mike brought out the three cases of beer and set them down on the bar, quickly moving away from him. Frank picked up the beer and walked out without another word, already drunk, even though he had only had one beer. Power was what was intoxicating him at the moment.
Frank walked up to the bikers, who already had their hogs running.
"Fizz," Spider called out over the roaring motorcycles. "Help Franky break up the beers into sixers and put them in our saddle bags.
Fizz walked over to Frank, taking two of the cases, breaking them up and stuffing them in his saddle bags as well as the others.
"Bring that one over here, Franky." Spider said, motioning him forward.
Franky did as he was told, holding the beer as Spider stuffed them into his bags. Spider kept one beer for himself and then handed a six pack back to Frank.
"I'm guessing you're from around here, since you were buddies with the bartender," Spider yelled over the bikes. "So you know all the back roads and such."
"No," Frank yelled back, not sure why he was lying. It just seemed better the less Spider knew about his roots, the better. "I've been here for a couple of weeks, but I'm just passing through."
"Good," Spider replied. "That works even better, cause here's the deal, Franky" Spider said with a smile. "We're going out into the middle of nowhere, about four miles from here. If you can keep up with us and finish off your six pack by the time we get there, you are one of us, how's that sound?"
"Sounds like fun," Frank replied, popping open one of the beers. "You didn't say anything about when I got to start drinking.
"Smart boy, Franky," Spider yelled out to him as he made his way back to his bike. "Now try not to lose sight of us," and with that they roared out of the parking lot, all except for Beans.
Franky jogged the rest of the way to his Indian, letting the last of the beer in the can flow down his throat and chin to his shirt. Dropping the empty can, he primed his bike and started kicking her. "If she doesn't start soon---" he was thinking to himself when she turned over after the fifth kick.
"Hot damn!" he said, putting her into gear, squeezing the five pack between his legs as he weaved onto the road and revved her up, switching her into second gear. He could see them up ahead, about a half a mile, making a turn left. He saw Beans behind him, knowing he would be checking the beers, making sure they were empty cans on the road and not half full ones he chucked, trying to cheat.
"Got to get a beer down before that turn," he thought to himself, pulling a can free with his left hand and pulling the tab open with his teeth. Foam flowed across his face as he started chugging the beer, shifting into third gear, then almost immediately downshifting as he got close to the turn. Needing his left hand to make the turn, he clamped his teeth down on the outside of the can, hoping it stayed in place while he made the curve.
His jaw started to ache, as he pressed down on the outside of the can during the turn. The can was still half full, so beer splashed into his mouth, nearly making him choke, as well as outside of his mouth and onto the pavement.
"Too dark for Beans to notice that," Frank thought to himself as the road straightened out, allowing him to take the can out of his mouth, which was followed by a coughing fit from the unprepared beer that had flowed down his mouth.
Slowing down the bike, he forced the coughing to stop, seeing that they had already made another turn and were getting dangerously close to being impossible to follow if he didn't get closer. Speeding the bike back up, he finished off the second beer right as he hit the next turn. Locking the brakes up, he let the empty can fly, grabbing the handlebars with both hands and skidding her to a stop. Putting her back in first gear, he pointed to the road and gunned it, grabbing the third be
er and tearing it open with his teeth as he went into second gear.
Chugging on the third beer and well into third gear he shot past the road that he needed to turn on. He released the throttle grip as he finished up the beer. Once it was empty, he clamped onto the rim of the can with his teeth and locked up the brakes. Sliding to a stop, he quickly turned back to the right path. He held the empty till he got back on the right trail before dropping it from his mouth for Beans to see.
Opening the fourth beer, Frank felt pretty good, thinking he was catching up, until he noticed he was now driving parallel to the biker gang. He had taken the wrong turn on that old dark country road. He had caught up with them, he just wasn't on the right road.
"Shit!" he thought to himself. "I've got to get on that road!" He wrapped his teeth around the outside of the can and went off the road and right into the ditch, ramping it into the field and then shooting through the empty dirt like he was on a dirt bike. "Thank God the corn isn't growing yet," he thought to himself. It would be hard enough to ride his bike through the dirt with the damn beer.
He had learned from choking on the last can to not let the beer flow down his throat, so he slammed his tongue to the top of his mouth, forcing the beer to bounce back from his mouth and into the sky, where it hit the black dirt of the Illinoisan field as well as his shirt. As soon as his wheels came down on the dirt, the jolt nearly made him lose his weak grip on the can.
"Damn!" He cursed, clamping down harder on the can, making his teeth feel like they were about to break as beer splashed on his face and into one eye. "This would be the stupidest fucking death." He imaged hitting something in the field, flying off the bike and landing face first into the soil. The cops wouldn't find his body until the next day, with a beer can somehow stuck halfway down his throat. He was sure that would be a real head scratcher for the local police. He flew past a gnarled crabapple tree to his right and the lights came on at a nearby house as his loud bike roared through the field. "If the farmer could see me from his window, even his grumpy ass would laugh," he thought to himself as his beer can slipped a little more out of the grip of his teeth.
The Damned Summer (The Ruin Trilogy) Page 10