Satan's Pony

by Robin Hathaway

  I threaded my way through the trees toward the melee, snapping dead branches with my boots. I might have been tiptoeing barefoot across a freshly mowed lawn for all the noise I made. It was completely drowned out by the noise beyond. It was hard to imagine anyone lying quietly there. Even a corpse. But—hey—was this really any different from a Catholic wake? They partied around the deceased at those, too. Or an African-American funeral, where people rose one after the other, loudly venting their emotions. It wasn’t uncommon to bury your grief in booze or indulge in a cathartic display before giving your friends or relatives to the ground. Only Episcopalians (and maybe Quakers) resisted these natural impulses. Closure was the current clinical term for such time-honored traditions. Bikers’ way of dealing with death and loss was just a little more exuberant than others’. As I emerged into the clearing, I quickly scanned the faces for Pi. Not here. Maybe he’d wised up at the last minute and taken my advice to stay away. As I stood in the shadow of a big sycamore, Mickey spied me.

  “Yo, Doc!” All eyes turned on me. “Have a beer?” He pointed to the dripping keg invitingly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the dark hole the bikers had prepared for Sunny. On the picnic table (borrowed, along with two benches, from the motel) lay a pine box topped with a giant wreath. The flowers—black and white tulips, the colors of the club—were arranged in the shape of their logo, a white skull in a black oval, with a red tulip projecting from the right eye socket to indicate that a brother had died. As I drew nearer I saw that under the wreath, the coffin was open. Despite my resolution, I accepted a paper cup full of beer from Mickey. No way was I getting through this sober.

  “Nice of you to come, Doc,” Honey was saying.

  “The service hasn’t started yet,” Mickey assured me. “The minister’s late.”

  “Minister?”

  “Well—almost a minister,” Mickey amended. “He went to seminary, but didn’t take orders.”

  “Who?”

  “Jingles.”

  My face must have been a picture, because all the boys nearby went, “Haw! Haw! Haw!”

  I noticed a few other females among the crowd. Some were old ladies, the name given to wives or steady girlfriends of the bikers, who were untouchable according to the biker code. But one or two fell into another category called mamas, women who hung around the club and were used by the members any time they felt the urge.

  As I gulped my beer I saw a tall figure emerging from the woods. Clad in black leather from head to foot, with his scrawny neck, stringy hair, and goatee, clutching a Bible, Jingles resembled one of those forbidding clerics from Puritan days, described so vividly by Hawthorne—or was it Melville? For the first time, I noticed the 1 percent patch on his sleeve. At a nod from the “minister” someone turned down the boom box a few decibels, the boys lowered their yips and yodels a few notches, and something like a semihush fell over the glade. For the moment, at least, Jingles was in charge.

  I felt a rush of anger. I almost wished Pi would show up and get rid of this imposter.

  Jingles walked to the head of the grave. At a signal, six bikers went to the picnic table and raised the coffin slowly to their shoulders. With deliberate steps, they moved forward. Amid grunts and sighs, they lowered the box into the hole. Despite their muscle and girth, a corpse is a deadweight (no pun intended) and makes the already heavy box harder to lift, carry, and lower. Once the box had settled, Jingles gestured for the rest of us to come forward. Obediently we arranged ourselves around the edge of the grave. Someone leaped in and reopened the coffin. I tried to avert my gaze, but it was drawn downward against my will. Sunny lay in full biker regalia, eyes closed, surrounded by memorabilia that his friends must have added before I arrived. Beer mugs decorated with nude females, girlie magazines, and calendars—remembrances of Sunny’s overactive sex life. Trinkets from his bike—a red taillight, a photo of the bike, and his saddlebag—also nestled there. The bike itself would go to the next “prospect” who couldn’t afford one. Pi had told me that bikes were too valuable to be buried with their owners except in rare cases such as Freddy’s.

  “Let’s pray,” Jingles said.

  One by one the bikers bowed their heads.

  Jingles turned his face upward to the lofty new spring leaves and offered a strange prayer. I can only remember bits and pieces: “To our beloved brother … we wish you joy on your last ride … . May it be a dream run … at top speed … with a brisk wind at your back … a clear sky overhead … with no bumps or detours. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the bikers echoed in unison.

  For some reason, this last Amen, uttered by so many rumbling male voices, moved me. It sounded genuine.

  A wiry biker, who I hadn’t seen before, darted around the periphery of the grave handing out paper cups full of beer to anyone who didn’t have one, including me. When everyone was supplied, Jingles quoted the traditional “ … ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” While I waited for him to reach down for a handful of earth to throw on the coffin, the bikers began to whoop and holler and toss their beer into the grave. As I stood aghast, still holding my cup, a hand reached around me from behind, grabbed it, and tossed its contents into the hole. “When in Rome …” a voice whispered in my ear.

  I spun around to see a female biker who definitely fell into the Mama category. Her face was framed by silvery blond hair, her mouth was heavily made up, and her boobs were the size of cantaloupes. Her eyes were hidden by the visor of her helmet. As I stared, she raised the visor and winked.

  Under ordinary circumstances I would have slugged him, but now was not the time or the place to call attention to Pi. I turned back to the grave, hoping the solemnity of the view would cure my fit of the giggles.

  I found the coffin closed and Jingles in the midst of another prayer. Actually, it was a poem some biker had written about the joys of the biker life. I caught only the last two lines:

  The pull of the horizon keeps us on the move,

  There is no stronger love than the love of the open road …

  Someone began to sing “O God Our Help in Ages Past,” but it quickly turned into Nine Inch Nails and suddenly the place was swinging. Once the deceased was disposed of, the real partying began. Music was turned up to full strength; food was broken out—along with more booze, pot, and “crank” (methamphetamine). No cocaine or heroin, though. Pi had told me hard drugs were taboo in his club. Anyone caught injecting was thrown out. And I didn’t see anybody shooting up. I went to look for Pi.

  CHAPTER 29

  On closer inspection, I saw that Pi’s silvery blond locks had been cleverly crafted from my old friend—phragmites. Those silvery tassels resembled the work of the most creative New York hairstylist. Someone’s old lady had loaned him the makeup, he told me. And his boobs were a pair of rolled-up biker socks. “Wanna feel?” When I refused this offer, Pi melted into the crowd.

  The party continued along the usual lines. It seemed to be a rerun of the parking lot gala—with one addition: the boys swinging their shovels, filling in the grave. This time I was determined to go easy on the booze. I managed to swallow half a hoagie and a handful of peanuts without the aid of liquid refreshment. For whatever reason, the boys didn’t hassle me. Maybe after Sunny died they considered me bad news or bad luck. Anyway, I was left pretty much to myself, and while they caroused around me I used the time to observe them, looking for anything suspicious that might give me a clue to the big question: who killed Sunny.

  At one point a bunch of the boys formed a tableau, draped around the picnic table, stuffing their faces. Pi was in the center. For a brief moment, with their long hair and beards, I was reminded of Leonardo’s Last Supper. But the image faded quickly when Jingles leaped onto the table and began dancing—a combination of Irish jig and Elvis gyrations. Jingles certainly was the star of the show today. The other boys clapped and hollered, egging him on until he toppled off the table to the ground.

  I also kept a careful watch on the wo
ods for any sign of the law. Now and then I even walked back to the road to check things out. Once a farmer rumbled by on his tractor, cast a quizzical look at the woods, and shook his head. Another time a bunch of rednecks in a pickup slowed, eyeballed the string of bikes hungrily, and moved on.

  By five o‘clock the sun was low, the grave had been transformed from a cavity to a mound, and everyone was drunk—except me. Apparently Peck had been true to his word and kept the cops away. I glanced over at Pi. With a jolt, I recognized him easily. His silver wig was askew, his lipstick had worn away, and his boobs had slipped to his waist. I was about to warn him when a ray from the dying sun glinted on something bright among the trees behind Pi. A metal badge attached to a gray uniform. I sprinted forward, but Jingles jostled me out of the way. He was jigging and singing, still making a damn fool of himself, as he headed toward Pi. When he reached Pi, he clasped him in one of those brotherly bear hugs and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips. I felt a wave of nausea and rushed over to Pi. But when I told him about the trooper, he just smiled. “After three days in that fuckin’ marsh, state prison would look good,” he said. “At least there ain’t no mosquitoes!”

  “Shut up, Pi. You’re drunk,” I whispered urgently. “I don’t think he’s seen you yet. Take my bike.” I pushed my bike keys into his hand.

  He stared at the keys as if they were contaminated. “That sissy—Linus?”

  “It’s parked three from the end on the left. Give me your keys and I’ll meet you back at the shack.” As I talked I was pushing him out of the clearing—through the trees, toward the road.

  “You jush wanna ride my hog … .” He looked at me accusingly

  “Your keys!” I hissed.

  He reached in his pocket and tossed them at me.

  In a final burst of genius, I tore off my helmet and jacket and shoved them at him. “Now give me yours!”

  “Jesus, you want my clothes, too?” Reluctantly he handed me his vest.

  I flipped off his helmet and placed it on my head. It was a little loose. I adjusted the strap. “And you’d better fix your boobs,” I hissed after him.

  As I watched him stumble drunkenly toward the road, I had a terrible thought—What if he kills himself? Or somebody else? Too late to worry about that. I started for his bike and suddenly realized he hadn’t told me where it was. Shit. I’d have to hunt for it. I glanced over my shoulder and saw not one but two gray uniforms. I was relieved to see they were converging on me, not Pi. I ran down the row of bikes glancing from side to side at the logos. Thank god, Pi’s was the most distinctive and I spotted it easily. Behind me, I recognized the sound of my motor starting up. A moment later, Pi rumbled past me into the setting sun. I glanced back at the troopers. They had changed course, heading away from me, toward their car. They had parked it off the road in some bushes—a halfhearted attempt to hide it. I kick-started the Harley (it almost took my leg off!) and headed east, the opposite direction from Pi. They couldn’t chase both of us! I was banking on their recognizing Pi’s tag number and choosing me. Right away I felt the surge of power under me. I had only a few seconds’ head start, but I intended to make the most of them. I twisted the throttle up to the max.

  I heard the troopers make a screeching U-turn and sighed with relief. They were coming after me. The hog was much bigger and heavier than my own bike and took some getting used to. Despite the circumstances, I thrilled to my first ride on a Harley—the speed, the power, the sound. In seconds, I was out of their sight. I skimmed past a tractor-trailer that was humming along, minding its own business. The driver’s curses were lost on the wind.

  I led the law a merry chase, bumping over country roads, diving through rows of new green corn, twisting around the ragged shores of Stow Creek. At Stow Creek Landing, I came to a dead stop and waited for them to catch up. While I waited, I inhaled slowly and deeply, willing myself to relax. By the time I heard the troopers draw up behind me, I was ready for them. They leaped out of the car, guns drawn. Although I was facing the creek, I could see them in my side mirrors. Their expressions, under their broad-brimmed hats, were smug. They had cornered their prey.

  I turned and slowly lifted my visor.

  “What the fuck?” squawked the lead officer. The other stood gaping.

  “Careful,” I said with a smile. “Ladies present.”

  CHAPTER 30

  My triumph was short-lived. They were on me in a split second. They didn’t touch me. I’ll give them that. But they were in my face, their anger tangible, like hot flashes. They had not enjoyed the ride over ruts and gullies, fields and ditches, at ninety miles an hour, rattling around in their car like a pair of dice in a cup. Patrol cars are not bikes. They demanded to know what I was doing riding Pi’s bike. Why I was wearing his helmet and colors. Where he was. And … that I take them to him.

  I sat, as if soldered to the bike seat, facing the creek.

  “We can arrest you for bike theft,” Trooper #1 said.

  “And for aiding and abetting a murder suspect,” said Trooper #2.

  That did it. I gave a horselaugh. “On what evidence?”

  “Leaving the scene of a crime,” said #1.

  “Bullshit. He never knew there was a crime!” I cried.

  Their expressions were a mix of pity and incredulity Trooper #2 said, “Come on, Doc; you’re a bright girl. You know better than that.”

  I felt my own anger thudding in my ears. I refused to speak again.

  “You’d better come back with us to headquarters,” #1 said. “You lead, we’ll follow—unless you want to take us to Pi, that is.”

  I remained mute.

  “To headquarters, then. And keep that speedometer under fifty,” he warned.

  There were two of them and they were armed. I pressed the kick-start, turned the bike around, and paused a few yards ahead of the patrol car. When they were inside, they beeped their horn. I set off at thirty-five miles an hour, deciding to have a little more fun with them. They beeped angrily at my pace. I slowed to twenty-five. Trooper #1 leaned on the horn. I went back to thirty-five. Finally, tired of playing games, I sped up to fifty.

  Dusk had settled; blue shadows had gathered; the air had cooled. Phragmites rose on either side giving the illusion that we were traveling down a corridor between two solid walls. But I knew they weren’t solid; phrags were light, hollow reeds—easily bendable. Breakable. I spied a spot where they had been bent and broken by some farm vehicle in the recent past. On impulse, I accelerated and made a sharp right turn. I tore through the wall of stalks as if it were tissue paper and raced across a field toward a grove of trees. Decelerating, I wriggled the hog between the trees and came out on the other side, ending up on Snakeskin Road, a road I knew well. A glance over my shoulder revealed an empty landscape. Home free. I made another right and headed for the fisherman’s shack and the state of Delaware.

  When I ground to a halt in front of the shack, it was almost dark. I could barely make out Pi’s bulk draped over a wicker chair on the porch. The red tip of a cigarette glowed in one hand and I was sure he was cradling a beer in the other.

  “You look comfy,” I said, fuming.

  “I patched the screens,” he said proudly. Bug-protected and supplied with beer—he was serene.

  “They’re coming for you, Pi. They followed me. I gave them the slip, but it won’t be long before they pick up my trail.”

  “Shit, man, I thought you said this was a safe house,” he said, but he still seemed unperturbed.

  “It is. But we have to explain that to them.”

  “You explain it. I’m just an innocent bystander.”

  I dismounted and glanced around. “Where’s Linus?”

  “Back of the house.”

  I pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the porch.

  “Shut the fuckin’ door! You’re lettin’ the mosquitoes in!”

  “Sorree!” It was the first real sign of alarm he’d shown all day. I shut the door and hooked it.

>   “Wanna beer?”

  “Sure.” I slumped into a wicker rocker. All my bones ached. The Harley is a fast ride, but not always a smooth one. He handed me a cold can. “How come it’s still cold?”

  “I dunked it in the bay,” he said, as if he’d thought of it.

  “Will wonders never cease? When did you fix the screens?”

  “This morning, before the funeral.”

  He puffed and I rocked in companionable silence—a brother and sister team, taking a break together.

  I sat up.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Hush.” I heard the throb of a car approaching. “Get inside!” I ordered.

  He had barely disappeared inside the house when headlight beams illuminated the porch and me, as if I were on stage. I resisted the urge to go into my song and dance routine.

  The car stopped and two officers leaped out, guns drawn. Déjà vu. Assheads. But they scared me. I went and stood at the screen door.

  “You’re under arrest!” Officer #1 shouted.

  “You can’t arrest me,” I said, carefully enunciating every syllable. “I’m out of your jurisdiction.”

  Their faces, lit from below by the headlights they had left on, resembled Halloween masks. “And I’m The Jolly Green Giant,” Officer #1 sneered.

  “Check your map, Officer. You’re no longer in Jersey. This is Delaware.” I held my ground.

  He turned to his buddy for support, but Officer #2 looked disconcerted.

  “If you don’t have a map, I can give you one,” I offered. Then remembered that it was tucked in my saddlebag. As they continued to hesitate, I gained confidence and added, “Or maybe you should call headquarters and check my information out.”

  Officer #1 started toward me.

  I glanced at the pathetic hook that held the screen door shut and swallowed. Forcing a tone of authority, I let them have my final shot: “You’d better check this out before you make fools of yourselves with your superior officers.”