by R. A. McGee
He left the Yukon running.
Jogging down the hill, Porter looked both ways before he crossed the quiet highway. The concrete divider was taller than him, but he climbed up and over it, landing in a crouch on the other side before jogging across the parking lot to the front door.
There was a small squeak as he stepped on the rickety staircase and he stopped a moment to look at the papers plastered to the front door.
There were notifications of meetings, a list of brothers who were delinquent on their dues, and a flyer for an upcoming charity ride. There were also donations being taken to help two Charlotte brothers replace their bikes, which had somehow been melted to slag.
Porter took a deep breath and swung open the door, stepping into the bar. He waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside.
“Dive bar” was a descriptor that wasn’t thorough enough. The floor was a patchwork of ratty carpet and linoleum. The brown ceiling tiles were saggy, and the couches were ripped and torn, obviously used as the sole place to extinguish cigarettes in the entire establishment. Strewn across the furniture was a variety of men, all reeking of booze. Porter didn’t have to get too close to recognize used condoms, tacked up on the wall behind the pool table. A man and woman were asleep on the frayed felt.
Behind the bar, a man was straightening vodka bottles.
“You own this place?” Porter said.
The man looked up into the cracked mirror that ran the length of the bar. “We’re closed to the public.” He looked back at his vodka bottles.
“Thank God for that,” Porter said, looking around.
“I said beat it. You can’t drink here.”
“Don’t worry about that, I’d prefer to pass on the hepatitis,” Porter said.
The bartender turned around and looked at Porter. There was a large, freshly purple bruise across the entire side of the man’s face.
“What are you, an idiot?”
“I’ve been called worse,” Porter said.
“How are you gonna come into my place and insult it?”
“I didn’t insult it, I just made an observation and a firm decision about my health.”
“Okay, dickhead, time to go.” The bartender hollered a couple of names and two men rose from the mass of humanity on the couches. They staggered to their feet, looking at Porter, then at the bartender.
“Who the hell is he?” the smaller one said.
“Nobody,” Porter said, turning back to the bartender. “I just want to ask you a couple questions, then I’ll get out of your hair.”
“You want him out, Al?”
Al the bartender looked at Porter for a couple seconds, then to his guys. “Yeah. Get him out.”
“Come on, Al, I’m just here to talk. You don’t have to get physical,” Porter said.
“Physical?” the smaller of the two men said. “I’m feeling pretty Olivia Newton-John right now.”
“What?” Al said.
“Come on, you seen her ass in that video?”
“We're just gonna pretend you never said any of that,” Al said, then gestured to Porter. “Go on, get him out of here.”
The two men made their way closer to Porter. He didn’t like turning his back on Al, but he needed to deal with the two heroes first.
The larger man made the mistake of grabbing Porter. “Al told you to—”
Porter backhanded the biker in the throat and he went down in a coughing fit. Mr. Physical wasted no time jumping into the fray, slamming Porter’s shoulder with a punch, not tall enough to hit much else.
Porter reached out and grabbed the man by the back of his head, clamping tightly on to his greasy hair, and slamming him face-first into the bar. Then, using the man’s denim jacket as a handle, he picked him up and threw him over the bar at Al, who ducked out of the way.
Mr. Physical smashed into the wooden shelf that Al had been arranging bottles on, taking them and a big stack of glasses with him. The ruckus echoed off the walls of the bar.
“Hey,” Al yelled when he reappeared. “What the hell’s your problem?”
“I just wanted to talk. You guys attacked me,” Porter said.
“And we ain’t done yet.” Al whistled sharply, and anyone not woken by the crashing of the glass behind the bar staggered to their feet. “Get up. Get this son of a bitch.”
Porter wasn’t sure if Al thought it was a fluke his guys got worked over, or if he was hopeful more numbers would even the odds. Either way, the three men who stood and stumbled toward him were in much better shape than the other guys.
But three barely awake, hungover guys weren’t a concern. Porter moved toward them, stepping over the biker that was still coughing and clutching at his neck, and grabbed the man closest to him. Before Porter could disconnect him from consciousness, the man in the middle reached into his waistband and produced a small revolver, pointing it at Porter’s face.
Getting shot was a concern. He thought briefly about going for his own pistol, then discounted that, since he’d never be fast enough. He’d do it the hard way. As he tensed, ready to lash out and disarm the man, Al spoke up.
“Not in here, idiot. We had enough cops in here already today. Take him outside first.”
“Yeah, not in here, idiot. Take me outside first,” Porter said.
“You call me an idiot?” the man with the revolver said. “I’ll show you idiot.”
He stepped closer, touching the muzzle to Porter’s forehead. “Move.”
So Porter moved.
Forty-One
There was no doubt it wasn’t the movement the man expected. Porter wasn’t cowed by the revolver; instead, he snapped his head to the right as he pushed the pistol away from his face. He grabbed the gun in a vise grip, tearing it from its owner’s hands.
The man had his finger sunk deep into the trigger guard, and as Porter torqued the revolver free, there was an audible crack and the man’s finger snapped. He dropped to his knees, howling in pain and holding his bad hand with his good one. The revolver skittered free across the floor.
After one step to close the distance, Porter smashed several knees into the wailing man’s face, leaving him sprawled out on the floor.
The man on the left wasted no time swinging a pool cue at Porter, who took it square on the back, leaving no damage. What was damaging, however, was the punch the other man leveled to the side of Porter’s head, leaving his ears ringing. It was much harder than it should have been for a hungover older man.
He stole a quick glance to the right and saw the glint of brass knuckles in the man’s hand.
“You asshole…” Porter growled, and took a big step toward Brass Knuckles. He tried to swing them again, but Porter was too close, and was much taller than the man.
He hooked him around the neck and brought an elbow crashing onto the top of the man’s head. The man went slack in his arms, and Porter slammed him with another elbow for good measure and let him slump to the ground.
Pool Cue was still swinging away, some strikes missing Porter and some hitting him. Now that Porter was done with Brass Knuckles, the man with the stick had his full attention.
The cue had snapped at some point and the man stood there, awkwardly waving the shard at Porter. He tried a couple of fake swings, but Porter didn’t fall for them. Instead, he walked toward the man, backing him up until the man was flat against the wall closest to the bar.
“Come on,” Porter said, “swing it. Put me out of my misery.”
As if on cue, Pool Cue swung the shard at Porter, who reached out and grabbed it as it hurtled toward his head. He ripped it free and swung it back at its owner, sinking it deep into the man’s shoulder. Then he pushed the man’s head down and wrapped him in a front headlock, lifting him off the ground.
He turned and faced Al while he choked the struggling, screaming man unconscious. “This is your fault,” he said as he let the man collapse into a heap, pool cue sticking out of his shoulder.
Al’s eyes we
re wide as he stammered, “But, but, but—”
Porter stepped over to the revolver on the floor and picked it up, pointing it at Al. “When I want you to talk, you won't, and now you won't shut up.” He touched the side of his head where the knuckles had impacted, glad to find he wasn’t bleeding.
Porter stuffed the revolver into his back pocket, then reached over the bar and grabbed Al by the shirt collar, dragging him across the bar. With the bartender fully in his grasp, Porter picked up the photos he’d brought with him and dragged Al outside into the cool, bright light of day.
“Hey man, I’m sorry, I had no idea—”
“What? That I would stomp a mudhole in you backwoods assholes?”
Porter pushed Al against one of the rusty pickup trucks, then smashed the photos of Dusty and Seth into his face. “You know these guys?” Porter rubbed the pictures along Al’s face as he spoke. “Huh? Speak up.”
Al’s words were muffled as the paper crushed into his face. Eventually, Porter pulled the photos off. “Well, hell, at least let me have a look. Damn.”
Porter let go of the man and handed him the pictures. Al took one brief look and nodded. “Of course I know them. They was the ones that did this to my face.”
“When?”
“Last night. They was here last night,” Al said.
“They the ones who killed your boy, too?”
Al didn’t answer, instead looking down at the gravel of the parking lot.
“Why didn’t you tell the cops?” Porter said.
“Please. Would you? Hell no you wouldn’t, not seeing the way you are. It’s up to us to take care of our own. We have our own rules. You ain’t any different.”
“Fair enough,” Porter said. “What were they here for? What did they want?”
“Why the hell you think, man?”
“Al, I’m getting tired of the guessing games,” Porter said, pulling the little revolver from his back pocket and pressing it to the bartender’s chest. “Start making sense.”
“It was drugs, what else would it be?”
“You sold them drugs? You bought drugs from them? Which was it?” Porter said.
“It was neither.”
Porter pulled back the hammer on the revolver. “I told you I’m done guessing.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Al said, hands raised in front of his face. “Now, just wait a damn minute.”
“A minute? Okay, that’s all you got. Talk.”
Al looked around, as if there might be someone to hear him spill the beans. “Heard talk that those Rollins boys got some big-time hookup with the Mexicans. They supposed to be supplying a big amount and now they’re short.”
Porter thought about the trash he’d destroyed.
“Yeah, they real short, so they thought they’d sneak in here and get our stuff. That way, they don’t all wind up with their head in a bag,” Al said with a smile.
“These guys are idiots,” Porter said. “How’d they get hooked up with a cartel?”
“Hell if I know; none of my business. I’d never sell to beaners anyway—not my business model.”
“Better to poison your own people, right?”
Al scrunched his face up like he was confused.
“Never mind,” Porter said. “Any clue where Rollins and his ogre are right now?”
“Hell no. If I did, we’d be there getting our shit back instead of hanging around here so you can put a boot in our ass.”
“You sure?” Porter smashed the photos against Al’s face again. “No clue where they are?”
Al mumbled faster until Porter took the photos off of his face again. “I don’t know where they are, that’s the God’s honest truth. You see the news? Everybody’s looking for them. Besides…”
“Even if you knew you wouldn’t tell me?” Porter said.
“You blame me for wanting my own payback? They killed my boy. Their ass is toast.”
“I guess we’ll have to see who finds them first.”
Al kept his hands raised, a gesture of compliance. “Look, you’re pretty good at this stuff, but I have a whole club full of hard-nosed assholes who are going to want those two. I like my chances.”
“Once they wake up.”
Al shrugged.
Porter smiled. “Then I guess I’ll need a head start.” He looked down at the large Bowie knife hanging in a sheath at Al’s side. It wasn’t uncommon for bikers to carry them. The large blades drew less attention from people, and weren’t the same headache with the cops. “Pull that knife out for me.”
Hands raised, Al looked at his hip, then back at Porter. “You ain’t trying to trick me, right? Like you won’t kill an unarmed man, so I pull my knife and you smoke me?”
“Just get the knife.”
Al pulled it out, holding it with two fingers like it was radioactive.
Porter motioned with his head. “Stick it in that tire.”
Al looked at Porter and then down at the tire, then stuck the knife in the tire, leaving it in the sidewall as the air hissed out.
“Keep it; you’re gonna need it.” Porter pointed again.
Once Al understood what Porter wanted, it didn’t take long. He made Al slash every tire in the parking lot. All the trucks, all the bikes, all the spares, everything.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? I should take your phones, so you guys can’t call a ride, but I don't want to wait around this dump any longer than I need to.”
“The boys won’t be too happy when they wake up.”
“Good point. I don’t need a dozen angry rednecks following me around for the next few days.” He pulled the borrowed revolver from his waistband. “I could go back in there and make sure none of them ever wake up again.”
Al shook his head. “Nah, I think they’ll get the point. I’ll smooth things out.”
“Good answer.” Porter smacked Al with the revolver, right on top of the bruise he’d gotten during the previous night’s robbery. The bartender collapsed in a heap, his leg awkwardly underneath him. Porter opened the cylinder of the revolver and ejected the rounds into his hand, and dropped them onto Al’s chest. Then he wiped the gun with his shirt and tossed it down the hill behind the bar.
The highway was deserted, so Porter moved across the divider and back to his truck, which was still running. He hopped in and gunned it down the hill, followed the highway until there was a break that was supposed to be for police use only, flipped a U-turn, and punched the gas.
As he passed by the bar again, he saw Al outside, still asleep on the gravel parking lot. Porter liked to think the bartender was dreaming of large men punching him in the face.
Forty-Two
“Sit still and quit whining,” Laura Bell said. “You did the thing to yourself, you don’t have nobody to blame.”
She looked down at her brother’s arm—a bloody mess—and changed the dressing for the third time in as many hours.
“Why can't you get it to stop bleeding?” Seth said, writhing on the chair.
“Because there's a bullet in there. You need to get to a hospital, Seth, I don’t think I can plug this up.”
“Hell no. I’m staying right here until we rip the cartel. Then I’ll go when we run. Maybe I’ll go to a doctor in Mexico. How funny would that be, huh?”
Laura Bell frowned. She knew the arm was worse off than Seth was willing to accept, but as of late, he wouldn’t listen to anything she said.
“This is why I told you not to go to the bar. Those bikers weren’t going to let you take their shit without a fight. Now look at you.”
“So? You should see the other guy,” Seth said with a laugh, standing and letting his arm hang by his side.
Laura Bell glanced at Pima, quiet as ever, sitting on the couch, making herself as small as possible. “Good for you, you killed a guy. That make you feel better? We already had enough heat on us, now you do this? My Facebook is all blown up with pictures of me. The bikers know it was us and everybody’s talking. What are we supp
osed to do?”
“You know exactly what we do. We meet the Mexicans somewhere. We take all their stuff, then we run.”
Laura Bell shook her head. “You just killed that Peaks guy for no good reason. All you did was bring more heat down on us, and you got a shot-to-shit arm on top of it all.”
“That’s pretty rich coming from a gal who just killed a cop,” Seth said, squinting his eyes as he looked at his sister.
“That’s not even the same and you know it,” Laura Bell said. “Let’s just go. You got a little money from the bar, we can run. Right now, no waiting.”
“Fuck that,” Seth said, stepping over to the kitchen counter and fumbling with his pipe.
“Will you leave that shit alone for a minute? Use your head. We aren’t going to make it out of this.”
Seth took a big hit and blew the smoke across the counter toward the seated Laura Bell. “Trust me, Sis.”
“But Seth, I—”
“I said trust me.” Seth set the pipe down and picked up his phone. “I’m going to set it up.” With that, Seth pulled open the trailer door and was gone.
Laura Bell stood and walked in front of Dusty. “Are you with him on this? You gonna march in there and get killed?”
Dusty looked down, trying to avoid eye contact.
She put her bloody hands on the side of his face and raised it until the two were eye to eye, then stared at him. “You aren’t as dumb as everybody says, Dusty. You went to college, you can think for yourself. Don’t let Seth go and don’t you go with him.”
Dusty smiled awkwardly and forced his head down again.
“Dusty, are you ready to die? Because my brother seems like he is.”
Dusty smiled again and then stood, Laura Bell’s hands falling from his face. “I’m gonna find Seth.”
The trailer door slammed behind him.
Laura Bell fell into the couch, holding her blood-soaked hands between her knees.
“This is how it happens,” she said.
Pima didn’t reply.
“When Daddy went away a few years ago, it was just like this. Things just kept going wrong until everything was bad. Daddy’s way smarter than Seth and even he couldn’t see the writing on the wall.”