Warrior (Freelancer Book 2) (18 page)

Rick spent much of the day just cruising DC, checking to see what had changed and who was still around.

Down at Connecticut and H, where the Metro dig took a hard right and headed north, they'd finished the tunnel, and trucks were lined up, dumping ton after ton of dirt into the vast gulf. After each layer of dirt came a small army of miniature bulldozers, steamrollers, and the strange little machines known as "jumping jacks." The operators hung on grimly to the engine on top and an enormous footplate rammed endlessly into the earth. Rick wondered how their forearms felt after a day of this.

The homeless woman who sang to the passersby was at her usual position down from the Mayflower Hotel, and the guy with no legs was stationed on his roller board near the department stores on F Street. Rick had heard that Eddie the Monkey Man—apparently he used to have a monkey help drag quarters out of people's pockets—was in reality quite well off and spent winters in Florida. It seemed to be a tough way to make a living.

He spotted Ronald, the semi-mythical scam artist near the Union Trust Bank. He'd taken Rick for 75 dollars a year or so ago with a long and involved story about needing his car repaired and a bit of brilliant "cold reading" that convinced Rick he was a neighbor Rick had seen but never spoken to.

Later, he read in the Post that he was far from alone; the guy had cashed in on everyone from congressmen to DC judges, often working right outside DC Police Headquarters on C Street. Rick shook his head, thinking you had to admire real skill regardless of the use it was put to.

On Capitol Hill, a new group had moved into their old house on North Carolina and C Street. A battered Yamaha two-stroke sat in the back yard, and a bushy-haired guy was tearing down the carburetor of a red VW bug at the curb, carefully placing each tiny part on a sheet of newspaper. Rick couldn't see much improvement in having the NIS as tenants.

He still had time to kill before he expected the Dawn Riders at their clubhouse, so he drove up the 8th Street strip, looking at the flashing neon of the drag clubs and the restrained elegance of the more refined clubs. The lesbian bar was still closed up like a fist, green paint covering the shuttered windows and the heavy wooden door as if to say, "Hey move along. Nothing to see here." Then the door opened as two women left, and he caught a flash of the bright lights and the pool tables in back, so he knew it was still in operation.

As he swung west to Pennsylvania Avenue, the sun was backlighting the Capitol Dome in a deep gold, and Rick knew it was time to head over to the Pier Nine. The nightclub was really a large warehouse like so many others in the almost abandoned triangle of Southeast Washington trapped between I-395, South Capitol Street, and the Anacostia River. The Washington Star newspaper was still operating down there, as was the Washington Navy Yard behind 15-foot walls. The rest was decaying public housing developments, vacant lots, and some of the hottest gay clubs in the city.

Pier Nine had been around for years and was one of the few places that would tolerate straights. One night Rick had raced another bike off the light on Calvert just before the guaranteed police-free zone of the bridge over Rock Creek Park. When his engine hiccupped and died, he realized that he'd forgotten to turn the little gas cock under the tank from Park to Run.

The other rider and his girlfriend were waiting for him in front of the Windsor Park Hotel. When the guy stopped laughing, he told Rick that he was an off-duty DC cop and invited him along for "a little

clubbing." They'd wound their way through DC To his chagrin, Rick was beaten consistently even when he had fuel—the BMW had never been a speedster—and wound up at Pier Nine.

The bar was two stories with straights allowed on the first floor; the second floor was "gays only." Rick sat at a table, watched the crowd, and listened to the music—Love Unlimited, The O'Jays, The Chi-lites. The pounding beat drove a frenetic mix of men seeking men, young girls seeking excitement, drag queens in full regalia, and straight couples looking around to make sure they had the steps right. Rick had to refuse a couple offers to dance and one to go upstairs, but mostly he was left alone to nurse a beer and enjoy the scene.

The sun had just gone down as the VW sputtered into the parking lot, ringed by battered chain link fencing. Pulling around to the back, Rick saw an old townhouse, the sole remaining structure from what had obviously been a whole street of homes. Now, it stood alone in a dusty froth of newspapers and vines. The backyard was packed earth and held a dozen Harleys and an opening cut through the fence to allow easy access to the club.

Rick parked the bus, locked the doors, and walked toward the clubhouse.

"Hey, look who’s here."

The voice came from behind. Rick didn't turn around or hesitate; hopefully, the caller was talking about someone else.

As three burly men in grimy leather vests with the Pagan's MC colors on the back stepped from the shadows, Rick knew that wish wasn't going to come true.

He stopped and backed so that he was braced against a Chevy station wagon, watching as five bikers formed a semi-circle around him. The man in the center was easily six-and-a-half-feet tall and looked strong and fit without the beer belly that seemed to be required for outlaw bikers.

"Thought we might find you here since you were hanging out with these chickenshits at the bar," he said. "Bronc and Slider said they'd have loved to be here, but Slider's arm got itself broken and Bronc's not making a lot of sense since you rabbit-punched his ass."

"He never did make much sense." That was from a small but stocky biker on the giant's left.

"Yeah, but now even his nonsense don't make sense," said a blond biker with an American flag bandanna on his head and barbed wire tattoos circling both biceps. Rick noticed that it took a fair number of barbs to cover the distance—unquestionably a weight lifter.

The back door of the townhouse banged open and a couple of Dawn Riders came down the stairs and crossed the yard. Rick recognized Brains—the one he'd rescued from a beating—and Preacher, the club president.

OK, it would be three against five. That's not bad, he thought.

"Hey guys." Brains said. "Don't knock over any of our bikes while you're dancing with this fool, OK?"

"Yeah," Preacher agreed. "If any of the paint on my custom is scratched, I'm coming out to Waldorf and collect, understand?"

The two walked around behind the Pagans—Brains waved sardonically to Rick—and kept walking around the corner of the nightclub, heading for the front door.

Rick called after them, "Appreciate the help."

"No problem," Preacher said as he disappeared.

Rick pulled his pack of Winstons from the breast pocket of his jacket and dug the Zippo out of his jeans. Lighting up, he looked around. "Anyone else want a smoke?"

All five of the men in front of him shook their heads. The big guy in the center grunted a laugh. "Nah, those things are bad for your health. Haven't you heard?" As he spoke, he pulled a set of brass knuckles out of his back pocket and began to fit them on his right hand. The others followed suit, the blond guy putting on gloves with suspiciously thick padding over the knuckles, another unwrapping a motorcycle drive chain from around his waist. The stocky guy just tilted his head to loosen up his shoulders, but a thin guy with a Fu Manchu mustache to Rick's far right started doing a flashy whirl with a butterfly balisong knife. Rick added up his options and decided he was going to get stomped—there wasn't much to do about it.

Didn't mean he had to go quietly.

He asked the man playing with the knife, "How long did it take before you stopped cutting your hand with those mutant scissors?" The gods must have been smiling on him because at that moment the knife bit into Fu Manchu's hand and went flying away. One of the other bikers had to duck to avoid it as it flew past his head.

"Shit!" the thin biker exclaimed and sucked a finger as he went to retrieve his knife. The biker who ducked roared, "Will you stop that stupid Bruce Lee crap? You almost stuck me."

The skinny guy started to respond, but the tall guy in the center said, "All of you just shut the hell up."

Turning to Rick, he adjusted the brass rings over his fingers. "We're here to fuck this bastard up. Now, why don't we get down to business?"

As the bikers closed the semi-circle around him, Rick slipped the Zippo into his right fist, and resigned himself to the pain he could see coming. It's not as if it was going to be worse than in the MASH unit in Vietnam or even during rehab in Japan, he thought.

What happened next was almost surreal. The biker to his far left suddenly whirled, stumbling off into the parking lot.

Blondy was stepping toward Rick, fist cocked. Then his fist went down and up behind his back. Rick could hear a snap that almost certainly meant a dislocated shoulder. The blond guy knelt down, cradling his arm.

The leader was a bit more alert than his companions. He half-turned to his right and swung at a figure standing there.

"Rick. Move left, please." The command came in a calm and familiar voice. Rick stepped left and the leader smashed headfirst into the side of the Chevy where he'd been standing. The man was strong; he managed to stay on his feet until Rick gave him a gentle push backward, and he toppled to the pavement.

Rick crossed his arms and relaxed against the car, content to enjoy the show as Corey Gravelin, another of his housemates at the Capitol Hill house, demonstrated his considerable skill at
aikido
on the remaining Pagans.

The weightlifter spun in a front flip, smashed to the pavement on his back, and lay gasping for breath. The knife fighter advanced, slashing and stabbing. Corey just stood there, slipping the blows with soft, sweeping arm blocks until his opponent lost control of the knife again, and it flew off into the darkness.

For a second, the Pagan hesitated, confused as to how this had gone so quickly from five-to-one to one-to-two.

Corey inspected an invisible speck on the sleeve of his silk shirt and said, "Do you really want to have your ass kicked by a skinny little fag like me?" Rick could see that Corey's smile was turning evil, "Because I will personally make sure that it becomes public knowledge in every clubhouse, biker bar, and Harley dealership in Prince George's County."

The Pagan thought this over for a second, then spun around, and dashed off between the cars. A minute later, Rick could hear the sound of a heavy Harley V-Twin being kicked over to the accompaniment of pleas and curses. After five tries, the engine caught, the big machine pulled out, and rumbled away.

The guy who'd been sent spinning into the parking lot came back, stopped to assess the scene, and put his hand up in a peace sign. "Peace out, dude. I'm just going to help my brothers here get on their rides; we are out of here. Cool?"

Corey nodded and the four Pagans staggered off to their bikes. The leader had to be supported by two of his gang, and the rumble of the engines soon announced their departure as well.

Rick started to shake hands with his friend, but Corey pulled him into a strong embrace. "You know, despite the fact that I have to rescue you at an inordinate rate, it's damn good to see you," Corey said. "Why didn't you let me know you were back in town?"

"Hello. No one knows where you live these days," said Rick.

"And you think that's an excuse?" Corey began to dust off his immaculate trousers. "Are you up in Northwest with Tom Swift and his Electric Housemates?"

"'I think they are my hosts, Tom guessed.'" Rick joked.

Corey groaned, then asked, "What are you doing down here? Got sick of Eve and decided to switch sides?"

"No, Eve is still very much in the picture. I came down here to collect something I left with the Dawn Riders." Rick motioned with his chin to the clubhouse. "Not that they're much use."

Corey laughed. "Yeah, they are one of the wussier gangs, but they look impressive; and, a lot of the time, it's better to look like you can fight than actually fight. Anyway, Preach told me you were 'playing with some Pagans' when he came in for a drink just now."

"Don't tell me that," Rick protested. "I really don't think I could bear to thank him. It's just too much to ask."

They began to walk toward the awning that marked the front door of the club. "How is it going with the President's personal bank account?" Rick asked.

"Much better than I thought," Corey answered. "The pressure on Nixon is building; we're concentrating on the Republicans now, and Dina's idea about using the documents as protection was a good one. The White House had its fingers burned badly the last time they went after one of us ‘lads’ on the Hill. Anyway, with what we've got on Wilbur Mills and Wayne Hays, the House leadership isn't about to make a lot of noise about anyone's sexual peccadilloes."

"Wait a second." Rick put a hand on his friend's arm. "Let me ask you about something before we go into the Land of Hearing Loss. What can you tell me about some guy named Stephen Cloyes? He runs a strange outfit called The Children's Crusade."

"Outfit? That's a full-out cult." Corey shook his head. "We've been watching Cloyes for several years, but he keeps switching sides—he was a communist, then an anti-drug crusader, and now he's trying to present himself as a devotedly conservative mainstream religious figure. Maybe the Congressmen and Senators believe him—who knows—but whatever he believes at any particular moment, all of those kids selling candles and begging for spare change are supplying a lot of money, enough to have friends all over the Hill.