Take Me, Outlaw(50)
I knew plenty of outlaws who talked a good game about “freedom” and liked to consider themselves hardcore and badass, and they certainly looked and acted the part—right up until they found themselves stuck on the phone for hours with real estate management companies and internet service providers, fumbling for their account numbers. Not me, man, I'd privately vowed to myself a hundred times over. I used burner cell phones, instead of setting up an account with a major provider. All I'll ever really need to connect me with the world is the cut on my back, the gun at my hip, the cash in my pocket, and of course, my sweet darling Lola.
The rows of motorcycles gleamed in front of the Nest, all resting on their kickstands at a uniform angle like a platoon of soldiers standing in formation, waiting for orders. Most of them were Harleys, with the occasional Indian thrown in for good measure. American-made bikes were a firm rule, one of the club's original bylaws, with one massive exception—the sleek, predatory 1954 Series D Vincent Black Shadow owned by Bard.
Over the years, there had been dozens of fights, heists, and chases during which Bard had pushed the machine—as had his father before him, the previous president of the Reapers—and he'd survived every time without a scratch. The Vincent had almost become a sort of religious idol, a token of superstitious good fortune to the rest of the club. Whenever it wasn't running smoothly, the mood in the Nest become strained and morose, with the members discussing the bike in hushed tones like it was a deathly-ill relative until the repairs had been completed.
A few bikes down from the Vincent was my beloved Lola. She was a fiercely-customized, late-model Harley Softail Panhead, candy-apple red with black highlights. She'd outrun the cops and carried me to safety more times than I could possibly count. I owed her my life, and most of the cash I was able to scrape together from scores went toward keeping her happy.
As I ran my hand over the bike's handles lovingly, I heard a strange clanging, and realized that someone was ringing a bell nearby. I looked up, and saw a disheveled old man in a threadbare Santa suit standing close to the front door of the Nest, clanging the bell and hoarsely croaking “Merry Christmas.” A battered red bucket with “Donations” scrawled on it in black marker stood between his scuffed black galoshes.
Shit. It is Christmas. Between chasing away nightmares of dissolving bodies and looking over my shoulder for Giovanni's guys, I completely forgot.
I walked up to the Nest's main entrance, trying to avoid eye contact with the doddering Santa in the hope that he'd leave me alone. Instead, he laid a withered hand on my arm, blinking at me with cloudy, yellowed eyes. “Spare somethin' for the needy, son?”
I pulled my arm away from him. “I don't do charity, dude. And I'm not your son.”
He held up a quivering palm. “I didn't mean no offense, young fella! Only, it's Christmas, y'know? Plenty of folks doin' poorly these days, an' even just a buck or two could help 'em outta the hole they've found themselves in. You look like you've got a good heart, eh?”
He was suddenly seized with a coughing fit and doubled over, the Santa hat falling off his head to reveal wisps of white hair growing haphazardly from his liver-spotted scalp. He composed himself, wheezing, and continued. “Just a couple quarters, even...koff...could really...hhhhenh...help out someone in need, hnnnnfff...”
“Get it straight, man,” I replied. “You don't know a goddamn thing about my heart, except that it's got four chambers and it's in my fuckin' chest. No one ever did a thing to help my ass when I was 'in need.' Everything I ever got in life, I got with two hard fists and a harder fucking head, get me? So no, I ain't gonna put any quarters in your bucket. Instead, I'm gonna go inside and put those two fuckin' quarters in the goddamn jukebox, 'cause I worked like a bastard to earn 'em.”
Santa looked deeply wounded, and for a moment, I was worried that I'd been too hard on him. He was just a harmless old guy trying to make a buck or two, even if he was getting on my nerves. “So that's it, then, young fella? Y'got nothin' else for me, 'cept a bunch of sass?”
“Nope, I've got some free advice for you—go find somewhere else to ring your bell, fast. The guys inside ain't big on any kind of Christmas bullshit. If they hear you out here, they aren’t gonna be happy about it, and they won’t be afraid to let you know it. You oughta bounce.”
Santa squinted up at the front of the Nest, scratching his head as he tried (and failed) to read the faded sign above the door. Finally, he gave up, turning back to me. “Jewish folks, then, are they? Some kinda Hanukkah party, is it?”
I smirked. “Not hardly. War Reapers.”
Again, Santa squinted, confused. He cupped an arthritic hand over his ear, leaning in closer. “Sorry, sonny, you'll have to speak up...my hearin' ain't what it was, y'know. 'Floor Sweepers,' was it? Some sort of union hall?”
I bit back a laugh and turned my back to him, jerking a thumb at the patches on the back of my cut and enunciating. “War. Reapers.”
His eyes bulged. By the time I'd turned back to face him, he was halfway down the street, running with incredible speed for a man his age. I laughed out loud then, my first real laugh since seeing Kong's dead body. When I saw that Santa had left his hat and bucket on the ground, I laughed even harder. Still chuckling, I picked up the hat and bucket and pushed open the door of the Nest.
The old place was the same as it always had been, except that now it sported a few dozen extra bullet holes in the walls and a couple more blood stains settling sullenly into the wooden floorboards. We'd scrubbed and scrubbed on the night of the firefight, but blood stains are stubborn bastards. Past a certain point, you know that even with all the soap and water in the world, in the end, you're just grinding the horrid stuff deeper and deeper into the cheap wood of the floor.
There were about two dozen fully-patched members there that night, plus another half-dozen prospects and a handful of girls who ran with the Reapers. The jukebox roared out death metal, and the club members were drinking, dancing, and arm-wrestling. Badly-dubbed kung fu flicks from the '70s were being shown on the small, grainy television above the bar.
Growler tended bar. He was a huge and rough-hewn monster of a man with so many burns, stitch-scars, and skin grafts from fights and collisions that he looked like he'd staggered out of Frankenstein's lab. He'd originally been called Growler because he enjoyed craft beer, and favored the giant brown growler jugs it often came in. However, the name took on a more sinister meaning a few years later when his vocal cords were slashed during a fight with the Black Bayonets MC. Ever since then, he could only speak in a ragged growl—the voice sandpaper would have if it could talk. He always wore a distinctive piercing in his ear, crafted to resemble a hanging length of barbed wire.
Bard sat in his usual chair in the corner. He was a mild-looking man in his early forties with horn-rimmed glasses and a receding hairline, reading the newspaper as he placidly sipped a rum and cola. If it weren't for his cut and the Reaper tattoos on his muscular arms, it would be easy to mistake him for a banker or accountant. Many other outlaws had made such a mistake and challenged him, seeing him as easy prey, but few of them had lived long enough to regret it.
The first time I ever saw Bard in action, I'd been fully-patched for less than a week. He was making a pick-up from three roughneck brothers—the Graws—who ran a marijuana farm out on the back roads of Indiana, and I'd been brought along, presumably as his back-up. It was our first time dealing with them.
Once we rolled up, the brothers sized up the bespectacled man on his pristine vintage bike and the fresh-faced kid at his side, and decided we were begging to be fucked with. They spit tobacco on our boots. They made NAMBLA jokes and guffawed. They demanded almost twice what they'd previously asked for, and presented us with loose bags of brown, seedy, stem-filled ditch weed instead of what they'd promised.
When Bard politely pointed this out and asked them to honor their original agreement, they brandished baseball bats and hammers and demanded that we hand over all the money we'd brought and get the hell out of their sight.
Before I could even think of stepping in to protect Bard, two of the Graws were on the ground with splintered wrists and shattered kneecaps, and Bard was already pummeling the third brother's jaw into gravel, all with his bare hands. In that moment, I realized that I wasn't there to protect Bard. He was there to protect me, and to show me how the Reapers handled their business.
Most of all, that day, Bard taught me the most important lesson I ever learned. Looking tough, acting tough, dressing tough—none of that mattered. All that mattered was being tough. The rest would take care of itself.
I've been willing to follow him through the gates of Hell ever since.
Growler looked up, saw the Santa hat I was carrying, and pointed an angry finger like a gun. “Hey! Hey! Get that dumb-lookin' fuckin' thing outta here, right the fuck now!”
I made a show of examining the hat thoughtfully, as though I couldn't understand his rage. “But gee, Growler! Surely, people have said that about you lots of times, and you're still here!”
Several of the other club members laughed, long since familiar with this routine. Growler and I gave each other shit all the time, but we both knew it was all in fun. I'd call him a moron and a caveman, and he'd call me a kid and a wiseass.