Vulnerable (Barons of Sodom) (10 page)

“I should go,” the girl said finally. “I don't know...yeah.
I should just go.” Tuck rose reluctantly, then turned like a gentleman so she
could find and resume her dress. Before he could come up with any kind of
thoughtful parting words Bridie had hustled off into the night, in the
direction of the garage. In a moment more, it was like the whole thing might
have been a dream. The only memory was the smell and feel of her left behind,
intermingled with a whiff of honeysuckle from the forest that he hadn't noticed
before.

“
Motherfucker
,” Tuck whispered to the dark. He locked
the ignition, then moved towards his own quarters. He started to let himself
smile, but just as he reached the yawning door to the upstairs rooms he caught
sight of lamplight in the big house. He squinted to see which room the light
came from, and saw only a figure in shadow for an instant. Then, the light
snapped out.

Bridie awoke the next morning to a towel in her face,
covered with motor oil. “Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” cried her new
caretaker in a flinty voice. “Got a lot of engines to put on blocks today. Barons
gotta ride, you know.”

Her head was spinning, the same way it had during those
mornings spent in the interrogation room—it took a moment to remember where she
was, even who she was. Aunt Caroline was dead. She was waking up, once more, in
the company of the Barons of Sodom. The towel was one of Athena Sark's.
Everything smelled like motor oil and gasoline because this was a garage.

It was early—she could tell from the flash of sunlight
creeping through the open wall—but hadn't it been early when she'd fallen asleep?
The heft of a hangover, that's what it was. She'd been drinking whiskey at a
dive bar off the highway. She'd been fooling around with a biker in the
moonlight. Oh, sweet Lord Jesus.

“Athena...” Bridie started, amazed at how much she already
sounded like one of the harlots in her aunt's beloved soap operas. “I didn't
mean to...I mean, I didn't mean to get in so late. You must have worried.”

“I don't worry, princess. You're the one who should be
worried.” There was the lip of a threat under this remark, but Bridie pretended
not to hear it. She had one friend in the universe. She wasn't going to fuck
this up.

“Tuck just drove me home late. That's all.”

“You don't have to explain anything to me.”

“There's nothing to explain!”

“Hey,” snapped Athena, moving swiftly toward her toolbox. “I
know
Tuck. I
don't
know you. All I have to say about the matter
is if you're here for your own protection, I'd be a little more careful how I
spend my evenings. Not that I give a damn either way.”

Bridie's stomach twisted at this. In the slimy morning light,
she felt foolish and alone. She felt the teenage half of eighteen.
I know
Tuck,
Athena'd said.
Meaning,
I know exactly how often Tuck likes
to take a wide-eyed teenager out on one his midnight bike rides.
Of course
he was a ladies man. Of course he fooled around with girls on the back of his
Harley. She ought to have known better, considering the company her own aunt
had liked to keep. Men were trouble, wasn't that the bottom line? They used
you, then they left you. Women couldn't keep power among men unless they were
tough like Athena, unless they outright refused to take shit.

Athena seemed to soften—very much in spite of herself—at
Bridie's furrowed brow. As hard as it was to beat away images of whatever might
have happened with Tuck and the PYT, she reminded herself of the stakes at
hand: this girl was young. She was in trouble. Young women in trouble rarely
knew better.

“Put on some coveralls or something,” Sark muttered gruffly.
“Today we're diving straight into Spivey's Evo. You'll want gloves.”

OFFICER WILKIE:
Is everyone comfortable? I can get
some more chairs.

DET. RAMIREZ:
That's fine, Seargent. Is everyone
fine? Are you fine, Ms. Calyer?

OLIVER MOSS:
My client invokes her right to the Fifth
Amendment.

DET. RAMIREZ:
So the record shows. You know it's
going to be an awfully long evening if you keep this up, Ms. Calyer. The record
already shows that neither you nor a Mr. Tucker LaRouche are currently
suspected of a crime.

OLIVER MOSS:
My client directs the officer's
attention to the statute of limitations on closed cases. My client also
requests that the police department consider the circumstantial nature of any
so-called evidence surrounding the alleged murder of Mr. Salvador Collins on
July 3
^rd
, 1971...

DET. RAMIREZ:
Bridie, are you really not gonna talk
to me? We just have a few more questions! Like I said, no one's on trial!

BRIDIE:
It's alright, Oliver. Well, what exactly do
you want to know, Detective?

DET. RAMIREZ:
I just want to know everything about
the Barons of Sodom MC that you can tell me. We don't want Tuck. We don't care
about Tuck. This kind of thing, it goes straight to the top.

BRIDIE:
You'll excuse me if I don't trust the police.

DET. RAMIREZ:
You're being hostile again. Cut tape—

BRIDIE:
Don't cut the tape, listen to my words:
I
don't trust the police.
Not just Cannon. Not just the interrogators.
And
you shouldn't either, Detective. Think bigger. Start there.

Gil Cannon was prowling around the camp shortly after the
day had broken, fingers curled around a cigarette. He wore a flat cowboy hat,
an opaque pair of Aviator sunglasses, a crisp white shirt, and dark blue jeans
hitched high on his waist. He stuck out like a sore thumb in this crowd of
miscreants, that was for damn sure.

Tuck watched the officer from his window. The other Barons
were up and about already, attempting to douse their hangovers in spring water.
A small circle of men in lawn chairs had already cropped up in the clearing.
Tuck watched trails of their collective cigarette smoke move high and
intermingle with the trees.

Leaning back in his cot, he thought about New Orleans. He
missed it there. The elegant, Old World feeling of the streets. A certain magic
quality in the air—the whispers of old voodoo religion, of deep, significant
history. Unbidden, he found himself imagining Bridie there with him. She'd be
wearing a white dress, something lacy and thin. She'd trot among the
cobblestones in front of his bike, illuminated only by the beam of his
headlight. They'd go dancing on Frenchmen Street. He'd kiss her sweaty skin in
the dark corners of Creole restaurants. They'd wake up together, naked and
entwined and with nowhere to go, in one of those posh little hotels on
Bienville...

With a muscular effort, Tuck made himself snap out of it. He
went to the little sink and doused his face and hands with cool water. He was
getting fucking soft.

Returning to the window, Tuck watched Cannon remove a little
notebook and pencil from the back pocket of his jeans. He bent low in the
ground and started making markings in the dirt with the tip of his instrument.
Something fishy about
that
son of a bitch, another thing he knew FOR
DAMN SURE...Goodness. Apparently, this was going to be another confusing,
grating morning at Casa Barons.

There came the sounds of wheezing and creaking on the stairs
up to the annex. Spivey's shadow appeared in the doorway, his sweaty mug
already burnt in the morning sun.

“Tuck. Better come quick. God wants to talk to ya.”

The Lieutenant thought back to the lamp light in the big
house earlier that morning. The anonymous shadowy figure, who'd so likely seen
him with Bridie on the bike. Only a few Barons had access to those rooms—the
puzzle seemed to solve itself.

“Don't make me repeat myself, bitch. Get dressed.”

With uncharacteristic dread, Tuck tugged a pair of ratty
jeans over his bare ass. He plucked his MC vest off its resting place on the
lampshade and made sure to tug the lapels so his Barons crest was visible.

“I'm coming,” he said slowly. Spivey turned and led the way.

Elbow-deep in the cylinders of a dismantled Evo engine,
Bridie began to feel like her old self—if such a person could be said to exist.
The Texas sun grew hot and heavy, and soon the garage was rank with the smell
of oil and grease—but something about hard work made her feel peaceful. Perhaps
it was the fact that she'd been so idle all that time in the trailer. It was
nice, working side by side in silence with Athena. The mechanic was a sight to
behold, with her big bushy hair pulled back in a kerchief, her nimble hands working
quickly around the cogs and rods. Athena clearly loved her work, and that was
contagious.

“I like this one,” Bridie finally ventured after a long
silence. “It's more complicated than the Shovelhead, but easier on the eyes
than the Twin Cam.” Athena rolled her eyes, but puffed up with a bit of pride.
She clearly liked having a protégé as much as Bridie liked having a mentor.

“Is that the Sport, or the Big Twin?” called a voice from
the far side of the garage. Bridie shaded her eyes to the light and took in
Officer Cannon, looking like the Marlboro Man with his dangling cigarette and
pristine white hat. In spite of herself, the girl felt a quickening in her
heart. But then, her nerves still tingled with a raw sensuality after last
night—this morning—on the bike. The feel of a man's hands...the scratch of a
man's stubble. Bridie had fooled around with townie boys before (distinctly
boys,
of course) but always out of boredom, never out of true interest, or
passion. The Barons' camp had what her aunt would have called an “animal
magnetism” to it. Tucker LaRouche had an
animal magnetism.

“I wonder if Mr. Charles Reginald was any good with engines.
Bridie?” The officer had ventured into the garage all the way, much to Athena's
disgust. Yet she let the man stay, clearly curious.

“Charles. Reginald. You know who I mean.”

Bridie swallowed.

“Sure, officer. Of course, I only met him the one time.”

“Of course you did. Pretty girl like you. Tell me, Ms.
Calyer—how did you get yourself pocket money around the trailer park?”

“Hey!” called Athena, rallying at last. “This is
my
garage. And aren't you supposed to be here for the girl's protection? We're all
of us supposed to be protecting her, isn't that right?
Officer
?”

Something caught then in Cannon's gaze. He pulled his
Aviators down his straight nose, so he could peer over the tops of the lenses.

“I am protecting her. I just want to know what Ms. Calyer's
life was like before she became our little Rosie the Riveter. I want to know
everything
she
knows.”

“We didn't have any money, Officer Cannon. Aunt Caroline and
I were always broke.”

“Pretty funny then that you were hosting a well-known drug
lord on the night your aunt died. Seems to be that those types often go in
search of a bit more than a home-cooked meal.” Cannon lit a match. He held the
open flame precariously close to a gas can for a split second, before bringing
the fire to the end of his smoke. Then he smiled, a little cruelly, and ambled
back toward the light of day.

Bridie struggled to fight back angry tears, but Athena
steadied her arm.

“He's just trying to get a rise out of you, sweet pea,” the
mechanic said. Her grip was gentle. “Don't give him the satisfaction. You want
to know how to be tough? This is how.”

Gulping, Bridie rose. She spoke to Cannon's retreating back.
“I don't know what the hell you're talking about,” she said. “And I don't have
answers for you. All I know is my aunt died and a man named Mr. Reginald died
with her. You talk to the police if you want anything else from me.”

The officer—who now seemed so slimy, so dangerous in his
bright white plainclothes—cracked another sinister grin as he whirled on his
heels. “I am the police, little darling. Just don't you forget.”

Then he turned on his spurs and strode fully back into the
sunshine.

“That's it!” yelled Athena to his disappearing footsteps,
tossing her wrench down onto the concrete with a clang. “This is too fucking
weird. They keep leaving clues...”

“Who?”

“Everyone! The newspapers, this creepy Cannon
nonsense...it's too fucking weird. Something's not right.” Emphatically, Athena
ran to her bedroom corner and started shuffling a few old papers on her vanity.
She returned to the garage with an armload of print.

“Just who was your aunt, Bridie? Would there be any reason
for the police to suspect her of a crime?”

“You mean, something other than doing crystal three times a
day?”

“Something bigger than that. Was she pushing meth? Do you
know anything about this so-called drug lord? What about that man who died last
night at Dixie's? Why did he have her picture in his wallet?”

Bridie was puzzled. It was too many questions. Lord knew
what her addled Aunt had done before she fell down the rabbit hole, but life
with her in the aftermath had been like living with a ghost. Caroline had done
little but lose a job, make terrible dinners, and entertain the occasional
guest. Or the gentlemen callers, as she called them.

“She had a lot of men,” Bridie said finally. “I mean—they'd
come to the house. Different ones all the time. She'd ask me to go out and play
when they came through.”

“And did they stay
the night, these men? Did you ever hear them—going at it?”
“Oh,
yuck
.”

“I'm being serious!”

Bridie thought. “No. Not once. No one stayed the night.”

Athena began to lay the newspapers out along the floor. Each
was dated from sometime in the past week—from
Trailer Park Massacre
to
FBI
Suspects Local Police.

“It's a real pity no one reads the paper in these parts,”
Athena said slowly. “Look at this.” She pointed to the bottom of yesterday's
article, where Bridie was mentioned by name. “
The young girl is currently
reported missing, having escaped police interrogation. Any information
regarding Bridie Calyer's whereabouts will result in a reward
.”

The garage felt utterly silent now. Even the dull thrum of
the fans seemed muted.

“I'm guessing you never spoke with the FBI. Or possibly even
the real police.”

“Couldn't it be a coincidence? They want to cover for me,
right? They want to put me in hiding—what better way than to say I'm missing?”

“That doesn't make sense, babe. If the whole state of Texas
is out looking for you, there's nowhere you can hide—right? I mean, besides the
one place the law isn't supposed to touch.
Right. Here
.”

“But what does it mean? What do you think all those men were
doing with my aunt?”

“I'm guessing not canoodling. She was probably a waystation.
Someone who held or moved drugs from one party to another. Did she have a real
job?”

“She got fired.” The truth had a nasty way of showing itself
suddenly, awfully—becoming a fact one couldn't ignore.
Of course,
Bridie
realized. Of course Aunt Caroline had been involved in Waco's drug scene. Why
else would there have been so many dealers? Why else would there have been so
many evenings unaccounted for?

“And your Mr. Reginald. Perhaps he was some kind of inroad
into a big hunk of the black market.” Athena looked like a cartoon character
with her brow furrowed. She studied the papers for a long few moments, before
walking back to sit on an upturned bucket.

“So what does this mean...do you think...for me? Now?”

Athena sighed. “I think it means, don't trust anyone. They—whoever
they
are—have got some reason for holding you here. All I can think is
you're a suspect. Or you
really
saw something you shouldn't have seen.”

With the timing of a bomb, both women heard the flop of the
morning paper against the garage wall. Athena stood slowly and then made for
the noise. Bridie felt the very walls of the space constrict around her—like
that scene in
Star Wars,
which she'd watched with her aunt on their
grubby couch in their grubby trailer...

“Bingo,” Athena whispered. She slid the paper's front page
toward Bridie so the cover story faced up. A picture of the chalk outline from
last night's murder was the center photo. The headline read:
OFF-DUTY POLICE
OFFICER SHOT AND KILLED IN BAR BRAWL.

Bridie looked at the broken engine on the ground. It seemed
an apt metaphor for this epic mess.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” the girl managed.
Athena cut her eyes.

“Get. Tough,” she said. “And we'll go from there.”