Buried Biker (26 page)

The articles did let me know that the chop shop was out of operation, at least for the time being, but it didn’t supply many details. I refolded the paper and put it back on the pile.

With the most recent edition of the paper in my hand, yesterday’s was on top. I’d forgotten that my picture graced the front page of that one. There I was, looking dangerous and disreputable, but still recognizably me.

A woman who was sitting across the table put down her magazine and looked at the paper. Then she looked at me. And back at the paper. A look of alarm came over her face. She hurriedly gathered her things, got to her feet and headed toward the children’s section of the library.

Mandy was sorting books behind the counter when I went up. She turned and smiled as she filled in the information about the book I wanted. “You’ll get a phone call when it’s available,” she said.

“Did they ever find your car?” I asked her.

She grimaced. “Yes. But it wasn’t much help. They just called yesterday to tell me they found
pieces
of it. Looks like someone stole for parts and there’s not a whole lot left.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, thinking what a loss it must be, even if it was insured. The insurance
never
paid enough to replace a reliable car.

She shrugged. “I got a new one. A convertible! It’s a lot more fun than that stodgy old Mercedes. If I’d gotten that back, I’d probably just have gotten rid of it anyhow.”

It had been, what, two years old? Mandy lived in a different financial world than I did.

A few blocks away from the library, I heard the throaty roar of motorcycles before I saw them. Four bikes jumped the curb, surrounding me on the sidewalk. I stopped walking and backed up so a brick wall was at my back.

Funky Joe, a mean smirk on his face, got off his bike. The others straddled theirs.

“Going somewhere?” Funky Joe leered at me, baring his broken and rotten teeth. He made a fist with his right hand and slapped it into his left palm.

Don’t show fear.
I kept my eyes steady. “Home,” I said. “A few nights in jail is enough to make you appreciate it.”

The other two guys I could see nodded understandingly.

“Got somebody who wants to see you,” he said, taking a step toward me.

“Yeah? Anybody I know?”

“I think so. Old Buckles.”

“It’s not hard to find me. He can see me any time he wants to.”

“
Now
might be a good time.”

Didn’t look like I was going to have much choice in this, so I might as well maintain what dignity and control I could. “Now would suit me fine. Do you know where he is?”

“Yeah. In fact, we’ve come to take you to him.”

“Okay. Somebody giving me a ride or am I walking?”

Funky Joe reached into his pocket. “You’re coming with us.”

“That sounds like a plan,” I said.
What was he reaching for?

He pulled out a big knife and some rope. Then he turned to the others, who were still straddling their bikes. “You guys gonna give me a hand here?”

They didn’t move.

Funky Joe looked back at them, his eyes dark. “I said, you guys gonna give me a hand here?”

The biker on the left leaned back in his seat. “Don’t look to me like you need a whole lot of help,” he said. “Guy says he’s gonna come along. You don’t need to tie him up or nothing.”

“What kind of wusses are you?” Funky Joe practically shouted. “He’s just one guy. Come help me with this.”

No one moved.

Finally I said, “I’d rather one of you other guys told me where to find Old Buckles. Or gave me a ride. Don’t look to me like I want to be riding with Funky Joe.”

The same guy on the left nodded and inched forward in his seat. “Get up behind me,” he said.

Without taking my eyes off Funky Joe, I went over and swung my leg over the saddle on his bike, settling in behind him.

“You ride on a bike before?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said. Another of the many things experiences prison didn’t offer.

“Just hang onto me and lean the same way I do, and we’ll be fine.”

We roared away. The two-wheeler was nothing like the trike I’d been on with Old Buckles. I could feel the throbbing power of the engine between my thighs.

The midday traffic wasn’t heavy, but most of the drivers made way for us. We skimmed through stop signs and traffic lights, took corners leaning close to the pavement, and ignored speed limits.

This was heady stuff. I could understand why people would gravitate to a lifestyle like this. Especially if they had never been able to achieve respect in their lives for anything else.

We made our way through a long alley, emerging in a truck yard in front of a warehouse. It looked abandoned, with rusted, discarded parts piled randomly on the blacktop and trash blowing up against the chain-link fence.

One garage door stood partway open, and the bikes slid through it, skidding to a stop in the center of the floor. Several other bikes, including Old Buckles’ trike, were parked along a wall.

We dismounted and stood around. The bikers pulled out smokes. Funky Joe went through an office door and emerged a few minutes later. “Old Buckles wants to see you now,” he said, grabbing my arm.

I was accustomed to being escorted by police and correctional officers, but a biker? I shrugged my arm loose and said, “Let’s not tear the jacket, shall we? It may not be much, but it’s all I’ve got.”

The biker I’d been riding behind guffawed.

Funky Joe scowled and grabbed my arm again, more tightly this time. I yanked my arm free. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife.

Everyone else backed up and formed a circle around us.

I went into a crouch to provide a smaller target and edged away to the left.

Funky Joe followed me, the knife in his hand, the blade picking up the dim rays of light filtering through the high dusty windows.

What would happen if I managed to knock the knife out of Funky Joe’s hand? Would all the bikers join in and tackle me?

I’d just have to take that chance. I watched for an opening, holding my right hand forward and poised so he would think I was planning to make a grab for his wrist with it. I continued to move to the left, backing slowly away from him. Funky Joe kept step with me, his eyes staring into mine.

The circle of bikers moved with us.

Boot steps sounded on the concrete floor from behind me. I couldn’t afford to stop focusing on the knife to see what was going on, so I ignored them.

Funky Joe glanced up.

As soon as he’d broken eye contact, I aimed a kick at his lower arm. The wrist and the knife were too small a target, too easy to miss. I was wearing the only footwear I owned, the steel-toed work boots. They were clumsy, but they made an effective weapon.

As my boot hit, he cried out and grabbed at his arm. The knife flew across the garage, clattering as it hit the floor.

Tucking my head down, I launched myself at him, butting him in the gut and knocking him to the floor. I collapsed on top of him, wrapping my arms around his chest and trying to keep his hands tucked between us and my weight to keep him down.

I hoped no one else would join in. If it was just the two of us, I stood a good chance, but no way could I hold my own against the entire group.

Someone grabbed me by the neck of the jacket and yanked me upward. Somebody else grabbed my arms and pulled them back behind me, holding me with my elbows immobile behind me. With my legs trailing behind me, I couldn’t get my feet under me and if they’d let go, I would have fallen to the floor.

All I could hear was my own labored breathing. I ducked my head and closed my eyes, bracing myself against the first blow.

When a few seconds went by and it didn’t come, I chanced a glance around.

Across the open space, a few other bikers had Funky Joe in the same position. He was struggling with them. “Ouch!” he cried. “Let go! He broke my arm! And you’re making it worse!”

I got my feet under me and stood on my own, letting the bikers continue to hold my elbows. Their grip relaxed, but not enough for me to try to pull away.

One of the guys bent down and picked up the knife from the floor, pocketing it. Funky Joe continued to whine about his arm being broken.

From somewhere behind me, Old Buckles stepped up between us. He gestured at me. “Take him into my office.”

The bikers looked puzzled. Old Buckles grinned. “I’ve always wanted to be able to say that,” he said. “Ever since I got in trouble with the principal for fighting in school. That’s what he used to say. But take him into that back room anyhow.”

“I can walk on my own, thanks,” I said, shaking loose from the hands that were holding me. I straightened my jacket and followed Old Buckles through the doorway.

“I’m still trying to puzzle this whole thing out.” Old Buckles perched his massive rear end on a dusty table. “And where you fit into it.”

I just shook my head.

“Before I was even released from prison, Kelly was talking about you. A lot. She seemed to really like you. Did you know that?”

“Well, I really like her. And she was awful nice to me.”

“I told her you’d been locked up for a long time. Ever since you were a kid. So she should be careful—who could tell how being out on the street was going to hit you? Maybe after a little while the novelty would wear off, and you’d revert to the kind of behavior that got you locked up to begin with.”

“Like you say, I was a just kid then. Never really got a chance to get too involved in much before I got locked up.”

He nodded. “So I told her you were an unknown.”

“That was fair enough.”

“I did tell her you weren’t one of them braggarts or somebody who was involved in all kinds of shit in prison. Worked your job in the laundry, kept your nose clean, went along with the official agenda.”

“Just trying to make my time as easy as possible.”

“When I found out she was seeing you, I asked around some. Found out you weren’t one of them that goes in for sex with whatever’s available. Pretty much kept to yourself.”

He was right, but not much to say to that.

“So I didn’t expect it when Black Rose started talking about the deal you and Razorback made. Didn’t make sense to me.”

“That’s ’cause there never was a deal.”

“I get that now. But why would Black Rose make all that up?”

“Maybe to cover for Razorback? I figured if she spread that story, a lot of people would think it was an agreement gone wrong, not Razorback attacking Kelly for no reason other than that he wanted to screw her. Kind of puts a different perspective on the whole thing.”

“Yeah. I finally decided that might be it. Razorback wasn’t used to women who’d try to fight him off. I mean, even if a woman said no, she’d be likely to give in when he overpowered her. Happens all the time with the guys. The women who hang around know that. Otherwise they should stay away.”

“Don’t work like that with Kelly. Especially in her own house.”

Old Buckles smiled. “You’re right on that. My little girl don’t take kindly to nobody messing with her.” He shifted his weight. “And it don’t take into account that Razorback had to know damn well a registered sex offender wasn’t going to get away with it.”

I considered. “Maybe he figured Kelly would never report it to the cops. Just keep it in the club.”

“Yeah, maybe. But she was hurt too bad to not go to the emergency room. Stupid of him. But then, you don’t get to be a registered sex offender by showing a whole lot of restraint.”

“True, that.”

Old Buckles fingered his beard. “I feel a bit responsible. I mean, she let me use her address for a home plan. Fine. But then I let some of the Predators hang around. That wasn’t part of the deal. She didn’t like it.”

“Were you on home detention, with an ankle monitor and all?”

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Nah. Nothing like that.”

“Then why were you at her place so much? Especially with other people?”

“Did you know what was going on up at the clubhouse?”

I closed my eyes and pictured the scene. “You mean the chop shop? Or the meth lab?”

He laughed. “You knew about all that, huh? Not as dumb as some of the guys think you are. But it was mostly the chop shop. I knew my PO was going to be checking up on me. And while this time I was locked up for fighting, I got a few car theft convictions in the past. Wouldn’t want have that brought up again.”

“So you just tried to stay away?”

“Yeah. Figured I’d be released from supervision in a few months. Then I could go where I pleased. Until then, I could be careful.”

“Even if it meant causing problems for Kelly.”

“Well, I didn’t know it was gonna cause all
those
problems. I mean, I was planning to pay some rent and maybe get to know my grandkids a bit.”