King's Road

by Lane Hart

  “Is he quiet around everyone, or did I do something?” I ask Deacon.

  Deacon sighs, then finishes off the beer Lori had brought him earlier. “He’s always like that around new people. He’s a homebody and spends most of his time downstairs with his toys. He’s never what I’d call chatty, but he’ll open up a bit once he gets used to you.”

  “His toys?” I ask, as we both get up from the table and go over to the heavy sealed door guarded by the keypad.

  “Yeah, he’s got one hell of a computer rig set up down there. That boy can find out anything from the workshop he’s got in his room. It’s kinda frightening, really, when I think about it. I suppose that’s part of what brought him to us, when you get down to it. He’s curious about everything, and he’s got the skills to find answers. Answers to questions most people know better than to ask, and answers that can get you in trouble. I guess we’re all like that, in one way or another,” Deacon continues, after punching in the code and leading me down a well-lit set of stairs. “None of us Kings fit into polite society, each in our own peculiar way.”

  The stairway ends in a long hallway, with multiple doors on each side. Leading me all the way down the left-hand hall, he opens up a heavy wooden door inlaid with the Savage Kings’ skull logo. “This is the chapel, where we hold our club meetings,” Deacon says, waving an arm for me to go in and take a look around.

  It’s a long, narrow room dominated by a huge intricately carved oak table. Over a dozen chairs sit around haphazardly, as though the men who were in them got up and left in a hurry. The walls are hung with all sorts of plaques and banners depicting races and rallies the club has attended or hosted.

  After I take a moment to absorb the sight, Deacon touches my arm and leads me back down the hall. “As a prospect, you’ll only enter the chapel when you’re invited, understand? All of these other rooms will be off-limits without an invitation as well, except for this one.”

  Deacon stops at a door positioned almost directly across from the stairwell. “We keep two bedrooms set up for prospects. This one will be yours, whenever you need it. The sheets are clean and there’s a bathroom attached, so don’t hesitate to ever come here and crash. You’re not a full brother yet, but you are family, you understand?”

  “Thank you,” I say in a hoarse voice, wrapping my uncle up in a hug. “I know what a big deal it is for you to nominate me personally, being the president and all. I’m not going to let you down.”

  “Aw hell, boy, I watched you grow up. I know the kind of man you’ve become,” Deacon says, letting go of me and stepping back awkwardly. “Come on, let’s head back upstairs. We’ll ride over to the salvage yard and I’ll turn you over to Eddie and Turtle.”

  “All right,” I agree. “Turtle’s not a member of the club, is he?” I ask, once we’re back upstairs.

  “He’s not,” Deacon confirms. “But that’s only because he can’t ride a motorcycle. He’s a good friend, and I want you to obey him like a brother. Well, for the most part anyway. Turtle’s never abused his position with us, but he is kind of odd sometimes. Artillery shell went off close to him back in the war, and he’s got a plate in his head now. If he asks you to take a kitten home and foster it, just let a brother know and we’ll handle it for you. You don’t have to become part of his farm.”

  “Ha! Sounds like there is a story behind that. What happened?”

  “Oh, nothing serious,” Deacon replies. “Turtle got a wild hair up his ass while Reese was prospecting and gave the boy a box he swore were kittens. Wanted the boy to keep them for him, because Eddie wouldn’t let him keep them at the scrapyard. Prospects normally can’t say no to a request from a member or a friend of the club, so he just took the box without peeking in and loaded it up in the backseat of his car. He was on his way back to the bar when Eddie called us all worked up in a panic. Turned out the box was actually full of baby skunks, and Eddie had told Turtle to go set them loose back in the woods. We couldn’t get hold of Reese on the phone, so we went out looking for him. Found him out on Highway Nine, puking over a guardrail. One of the little devils had gotten excited and let loose a spray while he was driving. Reese never did get that smell out of his car.” Deacon chuckled.

  “Damn, I’ll keep that in mind then,” I laugh. “Don’t take any animals from Turtle. I’ll follow you over there, okay?”

  It doesn’t take long for us to ride over to the scrapyard. Deacon parks his truck in the gravel lot and I take a moment to back my bike into a space beside him. There are two trucks in front of a huge four-bay garage, while the rest of the front lot is filled with vehicles that have been towed or repossessed, awaiting their owners. The scrapyard begins behind the garage and stretches off a couple of acres into the distance. After I get off my bike and stow my helmet, I see Turtle inside the first bay, bending down to mess with something on the ground. A moment later, a small furry object shoots out of the garage. A tiny white and brown bulldog puppy runs up to me, its entire rear-end shaking in joy.

  I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face as I bend down and pick him up, letting him lick my chin. Turtle comes out to meet us, leaning heavily on the cane in his right hand. “Hey boys!” he calls to us. “I see my little buddy has taken a liking to you, that’s a good sign! Always good to get a little love from someone before you set off on a repo job. You ain’t gonna get any while we work.”

  “Turtle’s got one more repo to do today,” Deacon says. “He’ll show you the ins and outs of this part of the business over the next couple of weeks.”

  “You want me to come out here after school every afternoon?” I ask.

  “Nah, not every day. Eddie or Reese will text you and let you know when to show up out here,” Deacon clarifies. “Let me hold that puppy so you two can hit the road. What’s his name?” he asks Turtle as he takes the dog from me.

  “Ain’t got no name yet,” Turtle replies, spitting a line of tobacco juice into the parking lot. “He ain’t done nothing yet except wag and lick, and I already got two dogs named that. He’ll let me know his name eventually.”

  “Right.” Deacon snorts. “Well, I’m going to go find Eddie. You two have fun out there. Reese is going to be here when you get back, Chase. You guys can figure out your schedule this week later on.”

  Still wrestling with the squirmy puppy, Deacon disappears into the garage. Turtle slaps me on the arm, then points to the truck nearest to us. “Go on around and get in. I’ll crank her up and take us into town. We’re picking up a Lincoln Navigator. Info I got says that it’s out at the courthouse, owner has a divorce hearing today. We’ll round it up while he’s inside and be gone before anyone’s the wiser.”

  I’m able to climb up into the truck easily, but Turtle takes a minute to get himself into the cab. While he’s struggling to get his bum leg into position, the denim jacket he’s wearing flaps open and I see the handle of a pistol sticking out from under his left arm.

  “You expecting any trouble?” I ask him once he’s settled, nodding to the gun.

  “Always expecting it,” he agrees. “Don’t matter if you’re a boy scout or a biker, ‘be prepared’ is a good motto to live by. We should be in town in fifteen minutes or so. You got any questions about this before we get there?”

  “Not yet,” I reply. “I’ve used a tow rope to pull cars out of ditches before, but I’ll need you to show me how we get a truck up on the hook without damaging it, how the controls work, just simple stuff.”

  “Hell boy, it’s easy. If I can do it, I know you’ll pick it right up,” Turtle says, picking up a Styrofoam cup from the console holder to spit out more tobacco juice.

  “I guess I do have one question,” I blurt out after a moment. “What’s your name? All these years I’ve known you, and I’ve only ever heard you called Turtle-Head, or Turtle.”

  Glancing over at me and grinning, he says, “My Christian name is Eugene, or just Gene. No one’s called me that since my momma died though, and even she thought Turtle-He
ad was a better name for me.”

  “How did you get that name? Deacon said you had a plate in your head or something.”

  “Yup. I was a sniper in Vietnam. Don’t know if you’ve heard much about it, but the short of it is that we had orders to overrun a base out in the jungle. Weren’t any good open areas, so I ended up having to shoot from tree cover. Trees are bad business for sniping.”

  I thought this over for a moment while Turtle spit again, then asked, “How so? I mean, you were a sniper. Seems like you would need the cover.”

  “Naw, hell no, boy,” Turtle scoffs. “After my first shot, them boys knew which general direction I was shooting from, and they started lobbing mortars into the area. If you’re out in the open, hiding in a field or some such, you only got to worry about a mortar landing right on you. If you’re in the trees, every damn mortar that lands blows splinters and limbs every which-a-way. I didn’t technically get hit by artillery fire, I got injured when a big ass tree blew up and fell on me. Knocked a hole in my damn skull and my leg. Heh, took a crew of engineers to get me out from under that thing.”

  “Man, it’s a miracle you survived all that. Is that why you can’t ride a motorcycle, your leg that bad?”

  “Yeah, but honestly, I never had much interest in them anyhow. Or at least, since I’ll never be able to ride, that’s what I tell myself.”

  We drive in silence for a short time, before my curiosity gets the better of me again and I continue questioning him. “So, when did the whole ‘Turtle’ thing start, while you were recovering after getting a plate put in your skull?”

  “Well, that was part of it. It started when I was in therapy. You might have noticed, I’m a bit slow now. I don’t get around as well as I did before that tree went through my leg. When you’re slow, stubborn, and got more metal than bone in your head, well…the name Turtle suits me just fine. We’re almost to the courthouse, help me look for a gold Lincoln Navigator.”

  We cruise slowly through the crowded courthouse parking lot until we spot what looks like our target close to the front, in a handicapped parking space. “Well, that’s inconvenient,” Turtle mumbles as he pulls the tow truck around, then backs it towards the Lincoln. The back-up alarm beepers get the attention of everyone outside, causing me to feel an unusual nervous tremor all throughout my body.

  “Hop on out, boy. We’re going to confirm this is the right one, then hook her up,” Turtle orders.

  “How do we confirm it’s the right one?” I ask as I climb down from the truck.

  “Because the lienholder gave us a copy of the key from the dealer,” Turtle explains as he goes to the driver’s side door of the Navigator and unlocks it. “Then we check the VIN number in here to make sure it matches our paperwork, which you can see here it does, and we’re on our way!”

  “Don’t we have to inform the owner that we’re taking it?” I ask, as Turtle leads us back to the winch and begins unspooling the tow cable.

  “We already did, two weeks ago. He’s been hiding it ever since, pretty much dared us to come get it. That boy Reese is good at finding stuff though, so here we are,” Turtle says, as he brings the hook over to the car, taking a moment to show me how to attach it underneath the frame to avoid causing any damage. “All right, now. You go drop her into neutral while I jack her up and pull her a bit closer, then we’ll head on out of here. Easiest thing in the world, see?”

  I nod in agreement then jump into the truck, following his instructions. I feel a twinge of guilt as I look at the handicapped placard hanging from the rearview mirror, but I quickly remind myself of what Turtle said. This guy has been on notice and had a chance to deal with this situation. Repossession is always a last resort.

  Once the rear of the vehicle is in the air and it’s been pulled partially out of the parking space, Turtle waves for me to come join him. I hop out of the Lincoln and close the door, then turn and almost run headlong into a man in a gray suit.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he roars at me, spittle flying across my face.

  I recoil, surprised and disgusted, then look over the man as I wipe a hand across my face. He’s as tall as I am, well over six feet, and looks to be in his late thirties or early forties. His thick chest and shoulders are straining against the fabric of his suit as he breathes, and his face is red with rage. Despite his demeanor, the thing that really sticks to me about him is that he appears so…healthy.

  “You don’t look handicapped,” I accuse him.

  “What? You son-of-a-bitch! Put my truck down right now!” he screams.

  “No,” I tell him in a calm voice, trying not to escalate the situation. “We have a repossession order, and…”

  Before I can get any further, the man surprises me again, throwing a short punch that hits me right in my eye. He follows up by bull-rushing me and knocking me to the ground, his greater weight easily knocking me off-balance. I scuttle backwards on the pavement, trying to get my feet under me to fight back, when the man suddenly grabs for the back of his head, standing up straight and turning as though he was hit from behind.

  Sure enough, as he turns away from me I can see Turtle standing there, holding his cane, which he just used to bonk this guy on top of the head. Turtle is at least a head shorter than the truck’s owner, and as old and out of shape as he looks, I know I’m about to see a massacre. I scramble to my feet just as the man yells again, and takes a wild swing, trying to knock Turtle’s head off.

  My jaw drops open when Turtle simply leans back slightly, the angry truck owner’s fist narrowly missing his nose. Shifting his position slightly, Turtle brings his cane up between the man’s legs, smashing his balls with so much force the man immediately drops to his knees, his breath wheezing out of him in a long squeal of pain. Turtle takes one limping step backward, then brings the cane around once more in a golf swing, sending the big man sprawling with a crushing blow to his jaw.

  I’m still staring in awe when two of the police officers who man the courthouse entryway come running over to us, their tasers already drawn. Turtle is leaning on his cane again, looking for all the world like an old, overweight invalid.

  “Everyone, stay where you are,” the first officer orders all of us, as the second bends down to assess the man lying on the ground. “We saw part of what happened here, are you all right sir?” he asks Turtle.

  “Yeah, I reckon I’m fine,” Turtle drawls. “Got a repossession order for this SUV, and while my assistant was finishing up, this asshole came over and punched him.”

  The asshole in question was being propped up into a sitting position by the other officer. As soon as he hears Turtle speaking, his cheeks blossom into a red rage once again. “You saw that man beat me with a cane! Put him in handcuffs, arrest him, do something!”

  “Sir, calm down,” the second officer orders. “We saw him strike you in the back of the head with the cane before you tried to punch him. Were you defending yourself?”

  “You’re damn right I was,” he roars.

  “Now, boy,” Turtle starts. “You, me, and Jesus all know that’s a lie. You had already attacked my trainee over there, who’s just a young’un, only sixteen years old. I had to defend the boy from a fight you started. If anyone should be under arrest, I reckon it’s you.”

  “Is that true?” the first officer asks me.

  I wasn’t sure if Turtle actually knew how old I was, but I could see that part didn’t really matter. “Yeah, we were just getting ready to leave with the truck, when this fellow blindsided me and knocked me upside the head.” I touched the sensitive area just under my left eye, where I could already feel the bruised knot forming. “I’m going to have a hell of a black eye, feels like.”

  “So, you assaulted a minor who was working on repossessing your vehicle, and had to be subdued,” the first officer summarizes. “Seems like we’ve got a pretty clear picture of what happened. I’m going to need to get your names and contact information, then we can let you two get on with your
business. Go ahead and restrain him,” he orders the other officer, nodding to the man still sitting on the ground.

  “What? A minor, no, I…” the man begins to argue before the second officer interrupts him.

  “You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…” he says as he pulls out his handcuffs.

  Turtle was already scribbling down his contact information on a piece of paper as I approached him and the officer.

  “I appreciate all your help here, sir, I truly do,” Turtle says as he hands the paper over. “I’d appreciate it though, if you’d put the word in that we don’t really want to press any charges. This sort of thing is just par for the course in our line of work, you understand. Wouldn’t do to be missing a bunch of days dealing with legal proceedings and what-not.”

  “We’ll hold onto him and let him cool off for a while, then we’ll decide once we see how he acts,” the officer replies. Then, to my surprise, he winks at Turtle! “We probably will cut him loose in a bit, though. It would be hard to make an assault on a minor charge stick, wouldn’t it?”

  “I reckon that if anyone looked real close, they might find the two of us are both a bit older than we appear,” Turtle agrees as he reached over and clasps my shoulder. “Go ahead and hop on in the truck, boy, and let’s get on out of here. Thanks again, officer.”

  I keep my mouth shut until we’re pulling out of the courthouse parking lot, then I glance over at Turtle. “You do know I’m eighteen, right?”

  “Heh,” he snickers. “’Course I know that. Couldn’t prospect if you weren’t, that’s just how the club works. That fool that hit you didn’t know that, though, and if he thinks he’ll get in trouble for smacking a kid, he’ll cause less trouble.”

  “You seem pretty spry for an old fat man with a cane,” I observe.

  Turtle lets out a real belly laugh at that, then turns to look at me. “It’s an easy mistake for most folks to make. They don’t know I’m an old soldier, and they don’t expect I might have more than a little fight left in me. People tend to underestimate you biker boys, too, you know. Always thinking you’re just some dumb old racist boys. Gives folks a hell of a shock when they realize how sophisticated the club really is. It’s like that everywhere you go, I suppose. People are so full of themselves, always thinking they’re smarter or better than anyone else in the room. You can take advantage of that, when you need to.”