“But … ?”
“He went to jail. And he claimed all that shit you’re talkin’ about. A new man. Washed clean. Born again, blah, blah, blah. Well, they locked him up for three years. I totally forgot about him. So did everybody else. Then, one day, down in Arkansas, I saw this poster: BORN AGAIN BIKE RALLY. With a date and a place. The place was a campground on the outskirts of town—and the name of the preacher, in two-foot-high letters, was PIGGY SYLVESTER! Well, I had to see this. I couldn’t leave town. I waited around the two extra days and barreled out to that place on one wheel, half-intending to kill the lyin’, cheatin’ bastard … .”
“But …”
“There was this sort of impromptu stage set up—with floodlights—and a tape playin’ some crazy mix of country and gospel. And, my god, there must have been a thousand bikers out there. I’d watched them coming into town, of course, during that two-day wait, but seeing them all together … was something else! I didn’t recognize any of them. But they looked the same as any other biker group: tattoos, piercings—”
“Did they smell the same?”
He ignored that. “They were sittin’ and lyin’ on the ground. There was only one difference. No smoke, no pot, and no booze. A real sober crowd. Just hangin’ out, bullshitting among themselves. All of a sudden there was dead silence. I looked up at the stage, and there was Piggy. He was standing there all decked out in a white robe, arms raised above his head. As I stared, with a flick of his hands he signaled for everyone to stand. And, would you believe, all those motherfuckers rose—as one—as if he had them tied to an invisible string.” Pi stared at his beer as if he could see Piggy reflected in the top of the can. “Then Piggy shouts in this unbelievable voice, ‘Praise the Lord!’ And those thousand bikers shouted back, ‘Praise the Lord!’ It scared the shit out of me.”
“What happened next?”
“Piggy signaled for them to all sit down. They sat. Then he went into his spiel.”
“What did you do?”
“I left. But … I gotta tell you …” Pi said, fixing his eyes on mine, “there was something about him. If I hadn’t gotten out of there … he would have had me. Even though I knew he was a snitch—a real scumbag.”
“Great. So what are you telling me? I should pay attention to Nick?” I was really fed up.
“Hell, I don’t know what you should do. I’m just telling you what happened to me.”
“Well, thanks.” I stood up.
“Hey, wait … .”
As I sought out my bike, I passed Sunny and Fran. They had just come back from their ride. Fran was cozily cuddled up to Sunny’s backside, her arms around his waist, and Sunny looked like the cat that swallowed the canary. Stan suddenly emerged between two parked cars. “Where’ve you been, Honey?” His tone was reproachful. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
She eyed him sleepily, as if she wasn’t sure who he was. “Oh, Sunny took me for a ride.” She lazily extricated herself. As she stood up, she noticed some grease spots on her shorts and her manner changed. “Look at that!” She stared accusingly at Sunny. “I paid an arm and a leg for these at Saks.”
Sunny adopted a hangdog expression.
“Easy, Honey,” Stan soothed.
Fran turned on him. “You have to buy me a new pair. These stains will never come out.”
Sunny wisely took this opportunity to disappear.
I mounted my bike and went for a long ride.
CHAPTER 12
It was a beautiful evening. But the sun setting behind a solitary farmhouse in a field, the pungent smell of the marshes, and the salty taste of the bay—nothing worked its magic on me that night. As I neared the motel, I felt just as rotten as when I’d left.
There was still plenty of light. Daylight savings had been reinstalled a month ago for the benefit of the farmers (although I’d never seen any farmer take advantage of this bonanza). After the stillness of the marshes and the bay, my ears were supersensitive to the slightest noises. As the motel loomed ahead, a strange mix of sounds came to me. Heavy metal music, the revving of bike motors, all punctuated by occasional shrill yips and yodels. As I drew closer, I saw bikes charging in and out of the parking lot, making pointless U-turns. The noise of Black Sabbath was earsplitting. The yips and yodels more frequent.
I slowed to a crawl, intending to cruise by unnoticed and evaluate the situation. But as I neared the entrance a bike cut me off, almost ramming me.
“Asshole!” I yelled. Shaken, I ground to a halt, dismounted, and rolled my bike by hand into the lot. The place was in chaos. The asphalt was littered with empty beer cans and bottles. Bikes were parked every which way. The bikers seemed to have tripled like mushrooms (toadstools, more like it). Guffawing, yelling, pummeling one another, they had taken over the lot. And something new had been added. Women. Where had they come from? They looked just like the men with their piercings, tattoos, and leather, with one exception. Boobs—and they did everything to show them off.
I decided I couldn’t leave my bike in its usual spot, unprotected. I would have to stash it somewhere else. But where? Mike’s Garage? That would mean a long walk back. Damn. I needed this like a hole in the head. I was still suffering from a sleep deficit and had planned to hit the sack early. I was standing against the wall, holding on to my bike, when Pi approached with a beer in each hand. “You look thirsty.” He handed one to me.
It took me only a split second to decide he was right. I drank deeply. Maybe that was my trouble. I was too sober.
“That’s better!” he shouted over the din. “Drink up! It’s party time.”
“This is a party?” I screamed back. “I thought it was a riot!”
“You’ve obviously never been to a riot,”
“Where did the women come from?”
Before he could answer, Red Beard, alias Jingles, sidled up. He stood out among the other bikers because he was tall and had a long neck. Most of these bikers were stocky and had no necks, like football players. And where the others had muscles that bulged like rocks, Jingles’s were smooth and sinewy, like ropes. Ignoring me, he eyed Pi reproachfully and said, “You’re not mingling.”
The look Pi gave him would have discouraged Osama bin Laden.
“Why ain’t you dancing?” Jingles persisted.
“How much is this blowout costing?” Pi’s eyelids drooped—a sign, I had come to recognize, of his displeasure.
Jingles shrugged.
“Seriously.”
“Not to worry.” Jingles grinned and turned to me. “Wanna dance?”
I shook my head.
“Aw, come on.” He grabbed my arm.
“Fuck off.” Although Pi’s voice was barely audible over the racket, it made me jump.
Jingles didn’t budge.
I tried to edge away. Pi caught my other arm, his gaze never leaving Jingles. For a minute I felt like that baby in the King Solomon story. Abruptly Jingles let go of me and moved off.
“We picked up the girls in Wildwood,” Pi said, answering the question I’d asked light-years ago. He took my empty beer can and squashed it. “Want another?”
Did I? The first one had relaxed me, despite the chaos and the clamor. Maybe a party was what I needed. Maybe that was my trouble. Maybe I was too uptight. Oh, what the hell. “Sure.”
He disappeared. I sank back against my bike to enjoy the scene.
CHAPTER 13
Pi was gone a long time. I’d finished my beer and was more than ready for a second. I scanned the melee but didn’t see any sign of him. Someone threw a bottle. It shattered on the asphalt. Others followed. Trash cans were kicked and hurled around the lot. Hammerhead shuffled by with a bunch of balloons. He offered me one. I took a pink one. He stood staring at me, as if waiting for something. Was I supposed to pay? I reached into my jeans.
“No, man.” He detached a blue balloon from his bouquet, carefully untied the string, and pressed the opening to his mouth. As he inhaled deeply, a beatific smile sprea
d across his face. “See,” he said, in a high squeaky voice, completely unlike his own. Light dawned. He was offering me a helium high. The biker’s idea of an hors d’oeuvre?
“No, thanks.” I tried to give the balloon back.
He shook his head, the remains of the peaceful smile still decorating his face. “Keep it for later!” he squeaked, and moved on.
The noise was escalating, if that was possible. Two bikers were facing off. One held the jagged neck of a broken bottle. The tenor of the party had changed, from a good-natured brawl to something more sinister.
Jack-the-night-clerk stepped out of the motel, stood gaping for a minute, and darted back inside.
The soothing effects of my first beer had worn off. I decided I’d better put an end to this ruckus before they wrecked the motel—my home—or someone got hurt. As I pulled out my cell phone to call 911, someone shoved me, knocking the phone to the ground. Arms like steel girders gripped me from behind, lifted me up, and tossed me over a shoulder made of granite. My bearer lunged through the crowd. The bikers, and their girls, grinned, guffawed, and applauded as I sailed past, ass end in the air.
“Yo, Sunny! Way to go!”
“Find yourself a piece?”
“Gonna share?”
Kicking and screaming, I pounded my fists against my kidnapper’s back. It was like hitting a tank with toothpicks. From my awkward position the karate techniques I’d learned to thwart Manhattan muggers were totally useless. Visions of gang rape filled my head. Desperately I searched the crowd for the only one who might come to my aid. Pi was nowhere in sight.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a pickup truck rolling into the parking lot. The driver jumped out and pulled something from the back.
Tom stood poised, his bow and arrow aimed directly at me. “Drop her or I’ll take your goddamned earring off!”
For a split second nobody moved. Then everyone began to whoop and holler. I was the only one who took him seriously. Oh, my god, what if he missed?
Zing!
“Ow! He nicked me!” Sunny slapped the side of his head, letting me slide to the ground.
When I looked up I saw blood gushing from his right ear. I leaped up and searched for a pressure point. Finding one, I leaned on it with all my strength.
“You’re helping that creep?” Tom was at my side.
“Call nine-one-one!” I ordered.
“What’s happening?” Pi appeared out of nowhere.
“Look on the ground for his earlobe,” I barked. “It should be easy to find; it has a gold earring in it.”
Obediently Tom called 911 on his cell and Pi began searching the lot for the earlobe. The other bikers and their women gawked from a healthy distance.
Pi spotted the earring on a bike seat—glinting in a last ray of sun. Attached to it was a small piece of ragged flesh. Holding it at arm’s length, he brought it to me. Funny what a scrap of ear could do to a tough biker. His face, normally ruddy, was the color of vanilla pudding.
“Hang on to it,” I said maliciously, “until the ambulance comes.” The moans of my patient were getting on my nerves, his garlicky breath was asphyxiating me (I wondered what he’d had for dinner), plus my arms were tiring from applying pressure to keep him from bleeding to death. “What did the nine-one-one operator say?” I asked Tom, who was still hovering at my side.
“Said they’d be out right away.”
At first the other bikers had been too drunk and too preoccupied to assimilate what had happened. Slowly they began to catch on. One of their brothers had been dissed, and revenge was the accepted Apostle Code. As they huddled at the other end of the parking lot, their mutual gaze fixed on Tom.
“Get out of here!” I urged him.
“What?”
I nodded at the knot of bikers moving toward him. Some brandished broken bottles; a couple were swinging chains.
“Meet me at Harry’s. We have to talk.” Tom dashed for his pickup. And none too soon. As he started up, some bikers were scrambling up the back of the truck trying to jump inside. Others mounted their bikes and were revving their motors preparing for pursuit. I prayed he would have the sense to head for the marshes and the secret winding roads that only a native Bayfielder knew.
“It hurts,” Sunny moaned. My attention was dragged back to my patient.
“Good,” I said. The wail of a siren. “Thank god,” I whispered.
Sunny heard it, too, and instantly grew more anxious. “Can they fix it? Will it hurt? Are you coming with me?” he asked.
“Yes. Probably. And no,” I answered his questions in order.
“Take it easy,” Pi soothed Sunny in a fatherly tone. “They’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
As the ambulance pulled into the lot, the bikers scattered to make a path for it. Two medics jumped out. One threw open the back doors while the other rushed to relieve me. Expertly he took over, bundling Sunny into the emergency vehicle.
“Give him the lobe!” I urged Pi.
Pi hurried after the medic.
Moments later, they were gone. The parking lot had miraculously emptied. No one was left but me, and … Pi.
Once he was relieved of the earlobe, and assured that Sunny was in good hands, Pi’s natural color had returned, along with his forceful personality. “What happened?” he demanded. He must have been occupied elsewhere during the incident. Inside, getting me a beer, I guessed.
“Oh, nothing much,” I snapped. “Just a little attempted rape by one of your buddies.”
Pi scanned me from head to foot. Satisfied that I was still intact, he demanded, “Who shot Sunny’s ear off?”
“Earring,” I corrected.
“Your boyfriend, right?”
I didn’t answer.
Torn by divided loyalties, he seemed unsure how to react—with outrage or humor. Humor won out. His laugh rolled across the parking lot. Still laughing, he leaped on his bike. Before he roared off, he shouted, “I better get to the hospital and make sure those docs don’t murder my boy!”
CHAPTER 14
Left to myself, I noted for the first time that the blood from Sunny’s wound had soaked the front of my T-shirt and splattered my jeans and boots. Time to get cleaned up.
Back in my room, I washed my white tee in cold water and Clorox and scrubbed my jeans where the red stains were rapidly turning brown. My boots would have to wait until morning, when I could hose them down in the parking lot. All these efforts were probably in vain. I’d probably have to throw out everything but the boots.
While I was performing these domestic chores, I was trying to keep my fear for Tom under control. What if they’d caught up with him? What if … I hurriedly pulled on clean clothes.
The bar was dark. As I peered through the murky gloom, anxiety ballooned inside me. I didn’t see him. Nothing to do but wait. I slipped into an empty booth, taking the seat facing the door, and ordered a beer. My mind filled with unwelcome images. Tom being dragged from behind the steering wheel, Tom being beaten with chains, Tom … slid into the seat across from me. He hadn’t come through the door. He had come from behind.
“Where were you?” My relief burst out in irritation.
“The men’s.”
“What happened?”
“A couple of them followed me, but I lost them in the swamp. I think one of them got stuck in a ditch.” Normally he would have laughed, but not tonight.
“Do you think you’re safe here?” I scanned the room.
He didn’t answer.
“You’d better stay away from the motel until they’re gone.”
The waitress came to take our order. I asked for another beer.
With growing irritation, I watched him methodically tear matches from a matchbook, making a little pile on the table.
Harry’s was a retro kind of place. It still allowed smoking throughout. Tom didn’t smoke, but he always carried matches. A throwback to his Boy Scout days, I thought snidely. What’s wrong with you? I g
ave my head a shake. “Thanks for coming to my aid,” I said. “I was a little worried at first, but you’re a good shot.”
He glanced up from the match mess he had made. “I’ve been a bowman for twenty years.”
Our beers came. He swept the ruined matches aside. We each took a long draft. I knew he was waiting for an explanation. And deserved one. I took a deep breath.
“It happened so fast,” I began. “I drove up on my bike and there was this party going on in the parking lot. At first it looked like sort of fun. You know, totally off the wall. Somebody handed me a beer. I guess I had two. But then something changed. They started breaking bottles and hurling trash cans, and … I thought of the Nelsons. Neither of them was there. Jack was on duty. He came out of the motel. I think he intended to tell them to stop. But when he saw what was going on, he darted back inside. That’s when I decided to call nine-one-one. But Sunny grabbed me—and I dropped my phone.”
Tom’s hand tightened around his mug.
“If you hadn’t come—”
“You would have been fine,” he said evenly. “As soon as he put you down, you would have beaten him to a pulp. That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?” I asked innocently.
“Who was that guy who picked up the earlobe?”
“Pi?” I said, too quickly.
Retrieving the matches, Tom returned to their mutilation.
I traced a design in the frost on my mug. The silence lengthened. I had to say something. “At first I thought all those guys were alike. Grotesques from some horror show—with two brain cells. But …”
He waited.
“I was wrong. I mean, there’s more to them than you think. You can’t stereotype them. Some are manual workers and day laborers. But one’s an artist; another’s an actor. Pi’s a mathematician. But they have this one thing in common—that binds them together … .”
He frowned. “What’s that?”
“The bike. Not just the physical Harley, but what it stands for. It’s a symbol for … risk, power, brotherhood—freedom!”
Satan's Pony Page 6