Bike Week Blues (11 page)

“I doubt anyone here would know a Prada if
it fell on them.”

“Honey, Prada stands out in any crowd.
Besides, half of these people are pretenders like us. Remember
Jonathan McMillan with his fake tattoo?”

Jonathan was president of a Marietta bank.
We ran into him and his wife Marie on our last visit. Dressed in
leather and holey denim, they looked like average bikers at first
glance. Closer inspection revealed perfect manicures, movie star
teeth, and an amazing lack of wrinkles or spare baggage for people
our age—a clear testament to collagen, Botox, and a terrific
plastic surgeon.

“Keep your eyes open, I’ll bet you spot some
Prada and Gucci, maybe even a Manolo,” Penny Sue said.

“Manolo? That’s pushing it,” Ruthie
scoffed.

“You just see.”

We wormed our way through a throng of
beer-drinking bikers who swayed and danced to a hot country band on
a stage set up in the parking lot. A thick fog of steamed shrimp,
body heat and beer vapor hung in the air, so strong, I swear, I was
tipsy by the time we reached the front door.

Since most people were in the parking lot or
on the back deck where another band played, the dining room was
full but not crowded. And Penny Sue’s positive thinking must have
worked. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the darkened room, I spotted
a muscular arm waving at us from a six-topper booth at the far end
of the room. It was Bobby Barnes, the boat captain from the Marine
Center, and his Navy Seal buddy, Saul Hirsch. Both men were dressed
in jeans and tank tops that showed off their sculpted, bronzed
bodies. Bobby gave Penny Sue the up and down, conspicuously zeroing
in on the strapless bustier, then stood and motioned us into his
side of the booth. Eyes glued to his striated biceps, Penny Sue
shoved me into the booth first, ensuring she’d get to sit next to
her newest Adonis. Saul rose too and smiled appreciatively at
Ruthie. Catching the obvious flirtation, she slid into the booth,
color rising in her cheeks.

“Prada?” Saul said to Ruthie.

Her face went blood red. “What?”

“Your boots. Prada, aren’t they?”

“Yes ...”

Saul quaffed his beer. “My mother owns a
shoe boutique in Dallas. I just got back from a visit. She roped me
into helping her take inventory and she has those exact boots in
stock.”

I felt Penny Sue give Ruthie a
See!
kick under the table.

“Oh-h-h,” Ruthie wailed, rubbing her
shin.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Saul
apologized.

Ruthie shot Penny Sue a dirty look. “You
didn’t. Someone with big feet can’t control her Harley boots.”

Big feet
. I clamped my lips together.
Penny Sue’s eyes shot daggers.

Bobby came to our rescue. “Bobby Barnes.” He
tipped his bottle toward his chest and winked at Penny Sue. She
winked back. “And, this is my old Navy partner, Saul Hirsch. He
owns the scooter store downtown.”

“You own all those cute little motorbikes
with the Rent Me sign on the back?” Penny Sue chirped in her
Scarlett O’Hara voice.

Saul nodded.

“They look like fun. Do you have one
outside?”

Saul took a swallow of his beer. “Hardly,
I’d be laughed off the lot. I’m a 1947 Indian Chief.”

Penny Sue squinched her eyes doubtfully.
“Indian? Are you from the Timucuan tribe?”

Saul coughed into his napkin, while Bobby
guffawed.

Penny Sue frowned, her eyes shifting from
Bobby to Saul. “What did I say? What’s wrong?”

Saul wiped his mouth. “I guess I mumbled. My
tribe is from Israel, and my bike is an Indian Chief. It’s an old
brand, a classic. Be happy I’m not an Indian from these parts. The
ones down by Canaveral were cannibals.” Saul gnashed his teeth.

If there’s anything a Leo hates, it’s
looking silly, and Penny Sue was true to her astrology. She loved
poking fun at others, but had a hard time taking it herself. I
hoped she didn’t flip into one of her snippy personas. I had to
work with Bobby and didn’t want her to mess up our
relationship.

Clearly miffed, Penny Sue leaned back. “I
didn’t think you looked like an Indian, but one never knows. In
this day and age, all the races have become so intertwined, some
scientists think racial distinctions should be dropped all
together. Real blondes are supposed to become extinct in about two
centuries.”

Good recovery. I gave her a thumbs-up under
the table.

Satisfied with herself, she rattled on. “Of
course, a good Buckhead hairdresser,” she ran her fingers through
her streaked hair, “can overcome genetics any day.”

“Amen,” a platinum blond waitress said, her
pen poised for action.

Announcing, “When in Rome—” Penny Sue passed
up her usual Chardonnay for a long neck beer and hot wings. I
followed her lead, but Ruthie, whose heart—in spite of Saul—was not
into Bike Week or finding Rich, ordered a cola and a plain
hamburger. The guys went for another round of brew.

Through our meal, we stuck to
non-controversial topics. Who’d been raised where, been where when,
married to whom where and when, finally ending with Saul’s visiting
Bobby in New Smyrna, falling in love with the beach, and opening
the moped store.

“How fast can those little boogers go,
anyway?” Penny Sue asked.

“Depends on whether you’re talking about the
gas or electric models. I have both. The new electric models can
almost hit forty miles an hour. Since they’re virtually silent,
they’re perfect for tourists who want a leisurely ride with
occasional conversation.”

“That explains it,” I said. “I took a walk a
couple of weeks ago and a scooter passed me from behind before I
knew what happened. It scared the fool out of me, I never heard it
coming. It must have been one of your electric models.”

“Probably. Older folks, especially the ones
with hearing problems, prefer them. No buzz to interfere with their
hearing aids.”

“They do look like fun,” Ruthie finally said
something. “That’s one bike I think I could enjoy.”

Saul smiled. “Come by any time and I’ll set
you up. Escort you myself. Riverside is a beautiful drive. The
speed limit is only about thirty, so there are no impatient drivers
riding on your bumper.”

Ruthie blushed and studied her fingernails.
“I will. I’d really like that.”

Saul handed her his card. “Call. I’m
available any time.”

Penny Sue poked my thigh. Ruthie agreed to a
date! That made two firsts in one day. First, she wore a sexy,
biker tee shirt. Second, she’d all but agreed to a date. Would
wonders never cease? The planets must be in a special alignment, I
thought with a faint smile. Who knew what else was in store?

Saying they were scheduled to meet some old
service buddies on Main Street in Daytona, Bobby called for the
check. I’d been biding my time, looking for a chance to ask him
about Vulture. One thing I was certain of, Bobby could be
trusted.

I took a deep breath and dove in. I told him
about Rich, Penny Sue, and the murder. Penny Sue jumped in with
Woody’s decidedly weasel characteristics, his desire to get even
with her, and his attempt to frame Rich.

The check came. Instead of whipping out a
credit card, the men ordered another beer. The drinks arrived as I
breathlessly added the tidbit about the P being shot out on Penny
Sue’s vanity plate.

Bobby and Saul gaped at each other, took a
big swig of brew, then looked us over like we’d dropped in from
Mars. “Boy, Leigh, you saved the best for last. We’ve worked
together for four months, and you’ve never talked about anything
other than facts and figures. Now, I could believe this story
coming from Frannie May, but from you—a total shock.”

“Frannie May was with us when we found the
body.”

Bobby took another swallow of ale.
“Figures.”

Fingers steepled in front of his chest, Saul
glanced at Ruthie. “One thing’s for sure, steer clear of Vulture.
He’s twisted. Rumor has it he’s a former Special Ops who flipped
out in Vietnam or something. Dishonorable discharge for beating the
crap out of his commanding officer. Definitely not nice. Definitely
not someone you want to meet, much less mess with.”

Bobby fixed his gaze on Penny Sue. It was
hard to tell if he was looking at her cleavage or chin. “I know you
consider Rich a friend, but if he’s mixed up with Vulture and his
crew—none of whom are in the running for the Good Housekeeping Seal
of Approval—I don’t think you really know or need Rich. Vulture and
his friends are nuts.” Bobby put his elbow on the table and tilted
the beer bottle into his mouth. His biceps popped out like a large
melon. “I’d think twice before I’d provoke Vulture. I damn sure
know you women shouldn’t trifle with him. He’s got a weird band of
followers who treat him like a god. Almost a cult thing. Stay away.
Rich is a big boy—let him take care of himself.”

Penny Sue set her jaw, and her face twisted
into the defiant, Annie Oakley expression. She hated being told
what to do, even if it was a muscular hunk doing the telling. Crap,
I thought. All of this advice was going in one ear and out the
other. She was going to pursue the original plan, come hell or high
water. Annie, here, was going to drag Ruthie and me along with
her—I could see it coming. Damn. And, the set of her jaw said there
was no way to convince her otherwise.

* * *

No one knows
exactly what to call the
shopping center opposite the Pub. The sign reads NSB Regional
Center, but store addresses and ads label it everything from the
Wal-Mart Center to the New Smyrna Mall. It took me a couple of
months to realize that all the names referred to the same place—the
L-shaped shopping center across the street from the Frozen Gold,
New Smyrna Harley-Davidson and the Pub. The road it skirted was
just as bad. In the course of ten miles the highway changed names
six times—from Turtle Mound Road to S. Atlantic to Third Avenue to
the South Causeway to Lytle Avenue, finally ending up as Rt. 44.
I’d encountered only one street crazier in my lifetime, and that
was in Charlotte, NC. There’s a street in Myers Park that doesn’t
have a simple succession of appellations, the name changes in one
block, reverts to the original in the next, and then changes to
something completely different a little while later.

Whatever one called New Smyrna’s largest
shopping center, all the spaces close to the highway were taken,
forcing us to park between a big pick-up truck and a custom-painted
van in front of Publix Supermarket. A long line of denim and
leather streamed from the store pushing carts filled with beer,
snacks, hoagies, and an occasional head of lettuce. Sushi might
have been buried at the bottom of some carts, but it wasn’t
something a true biker would advertise. As Joe, a visitor from
Montana, informed us at J.B.’s, real bikers don’t eat sissy food
like sushi and quiche.

Saul had asked him if he’s ever tried
wasabi. “No,” Joe said.

“Eat a big tablespoon of that, straight.
It’s the test of a true man.”

“Yeah? What is it?” Joe’d asked.

“A sushi condiment. Sort of like spicy
guacamole.”

Joe hadn’t been convinced, but his buddies
were anxious to take the challenge. They’d left immediately for
Publix to buy wabasi.

Penny Sue popped the trunk as she got out of
the car. “I’m leaving my purse, don’t want to look like a rookie.”
Ruthie and I stuffed cash and a tube of lipstick into our jeans and
dropped our pocketbooks into the trunk. Penny Sue paused to examine
the hole in her license plate, then hunched into the trunk, working
intently at something.

“What in the world are you doing?” I asked,
peeking over her should. I caught her as she slipped a holstered
.38 into a black pouch belt.

“You’re not taking that, are you? Come on,
Penny Sue, guns have a way of getting you in trouble.”

“Just a little insurance. After all, Daddy
may have locked up a biker over there who’d like to get even.
That’s why I carry it.”

I knew we’d been through all of that before.
Still, I didn’t like the idea of her packing a weapon. It had been
nothing but trouble. “Why don’t you carry mace?”

“Doesn’t make the same impression,” she
said, slamming the truck and frowning at the license plate again.
“I guess I should call my insurance agent tomorrow.” She twisted
her belt so the pouch was hidden under her coat. “Come on, sooner
we find Rich, the sooner we can relax and have fun.”

“Wait,” Ruthie said weakly.

“Don’t tell me,” Penny Sue said. “You need
to shake the dew off the lily?”

“Shake the dew off the lily?” I
repeated.

“The bathroom. That’s what my great Aunt Eve
used to call it. She grew up in Richmond. Well, if ya gotta, ya
gotta. Let’s go in Publix. They have nice restrooms and I need some
mint breath strips. You go to the girls’ room, and I’ll get the
strips.”

Dodging carts of beer and chips, we wiggled
our way into the store. Ruthie went her way and I went with Penny
Sue. As I stood in the checkout line, I studied the portrait of
George Jenkins, Publix’ founder. The clerks at the beachside store
claimed George kept his eyes on everything and that his gaze
followed you no matter where you went. I glanced sidelong at
George, his eyes did seem fixed on me. I walked down the aisle to
the right. The eyes followed. I met Ruthie and Penny Sue at the
front door; George was still watching.

“Let’s go,” I said, a stupid comment since
Penny Sue was already well ahead of us.

Ruthie and I hurried to catch Penny Sue, who
stomped—no matter what she said about Southern belles, she was
stomping, not sauntering, walking or gliding—toward the Pub. It was
all Ruthie and I could do to keep up. Saul and Bobby’s warnings
had, indeed, gone in one ear and out the other. Ms. Leo knew best,
as usual. They were too timid, she’d said.