Authors: Robin Hathaway
Satan's Pony (13 page)
As I tooled out of the hospital lot I caught sight of Chris Conner heading for the main entranceâa brightly wrapped package under one arm. I slowed and hailed him.
“Oh, hi. I'm going to see Bobby,” he said.
“You're too late. He just left.”
Chris looked crestfallen. “I bought him a catcher's mitt. Where does he live? I could take it to his house.”
“Why not give it to me. I'll see that he gets it.”
“Gee, thanks.” He handed me the package.
“How're things going?” I asked.
He brightened. “OK. The Shoemaker complaint was reduced to a misdemeanor. My license was suspended for six weeks and I have to attend a driver safety class.”
“That's great, Chris!”
I watched him head back to his car, where Ruth was waitingâin the driver's seat.
As I dressed for the funeral, i.e., exchanged a pantsuit for jeans and a tee, an unpleasant thought hit me.
What if all this was a setup? What if Peck suspected that Pi would show up and the law would be lying in wait for him? Holy Mackerel! What an ass I am.
I had to warn Pi. I punched his number on my room phone.
Damn
. Still no answer. He could be already on his way. In remote south Jersey there were dead pockets where cell phones often didn't work. My stomach contracted. Would Pi show up in disguise? What if I didn't recognize him? Grabbing my leather jacket and helmet, I took off.
What if all this was a setup? What if Peck suspected that Pi would show up and the law would be lying in wait for him? Holy Mackerel! What an ass I am.
I had to warn Pi. I punched his number on my room phone.
Damn
. Still no answer. He could be already on his way. In remote south Jersey there were dead pockets where cell phones often didn't work. My stomach contracted. Would Pi show up in disguise? What if I didn't recognize him? Grabbing my leather jacket and helmet, I took off.
Except for Pi's description of Freddy's funeral, I wasn't sure what to expect. Having glimpsed the funeral meats, I feared a repeat of the blast in the parking lot. This time I was determined not to drink or get involved. I was going for one reason. To act as eyes and ears for Pi, to be alert to anything that would help find Sunny's murderer, andâeven more importantâto keep an eye out for any law enforcers who might be looking for him.
As I neared the Potter place, I saw the bikes lined up along both sides of the road. There were more bikes than the dozen belonging to the Satan's Apostlesâthere must have been at least fifty. How had they gotten wind of this so quickly? Extrasensory perception? Cell phones, more likely. Before parking, I trundled between the two rows, searching for Pi's bike with its distinctive logoâa dark pony
nestled in a light circle. Not here. Had he disguised that, too? I turned and pulled in behind the last bike, leaving plenty of room in front, in case I had to make a quick exit. When I removed my helmet, the cacophony of sound burst on me from the woods. Judas Priest at top volume, mixed with the familiar yips and yodels of the boys. I wondered what the deer were thinking. Or had they already left for Alaska?
nestled in a light circle. Not here. Had he disguised that, too? I turned and pulled in behind the last bike, leaving plenty of room in front, in case I had to make a quick exit. When I removed my helmet, the cacophony of sound burst on me from the woods. Judas Priest at top volume, mixed with the familiar yips and yodels of the boys. I wondered what the deer were thinking. Or had they already left for Alaska?
I threaded my way through the trees toward the melee, snapping dead branches with my boots. I might have been tiptoeing barefoot across a freshly mowed lawn for all the noise I made. It was completely drowned out by the noise beyond. It was hard to imagine anyone lying quietly there. Even a corpse. Butâheyâwas this really any different from a Catholic wake? They partied around the deceased at those, too. Or an African-American funeral, where people rose one after the other, loudly venting their emotions. It wasn't uncommon to bury your grief in booze or indulge in a cathartic display before giving your friends or relatives to the ground. Only Episcopalians (and maybe Quakers) resisted these natural impulses.
Closure
was the current clinical term for such time-honored traditions. Bikers' way of dealing with death and loss was just a little more exuberant than others'. As I emerged into the clearing, I quickly scanned the faces for Pi. Not here. Maybe he'd wised up at the last minute and taken my advice to stay away. As I stood in the shadow of a big sycamore, Mickey spied me.
Closure
was the current clinical term for such time-honored traditions. Bikers' way of dealing with death and loss was just a little more exuberant than others'. As I emerged into the clearing, I quickly scanned the faces for Pi. Not here. Maybe he'd wised up at the last minute and taken my advice to stay away. As I stood in the shadow of a big sycamore, Mickey spied me.
“Yo, Doc!” All eyes turned on me. “Have a beer?” He pointed to the dripping keg invitingly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the dark hole the bikers had prepared for Sunny. On the picnic table (borrowed, along with two benches, from the motel) lay a pine box topped with a giant wreath. The flowersâblack and white tulips, the colors of the clubâwere arranged in the shape of their logo, a white skull in a black oval, with a red tulip projecting from the right eye socket to indicate that a brother had died. As I drew nearer I saw that under the wreath, the coffin was open. Despite my resolution, I accepted a paper cup full of beer from Mickey. No way was I getting through this sober.
“Nice of you to come, Doc,” Honey was saying.
“The service hasn't started yet,” Mickey assured me. “The minister's late.”
“Minister?”
“Wellâalmost a minister,” Mickey amended. “He went to seminary, but didn't take orders.”
“Who?”
“Jingles.”
My face must have been a picture, because all the boys nearby went, “Haw! Haw! Haw!”
I noticed a few other females among the crowd. Some were
old ladies,
the name given to wives or steady girlfriends of the bikers, who were untouchable according to the biker code. But one or two fell into another category called
mamas,
women who hung around the club and were used by the members any time they felt the urge.
old ladies,
the name given to wives or steady girlfriends of the bikers, who were untouchable according to the biker code. But one or two fell into another category called
mamas,
women who hung around the club and were used by the members any time they felt the urge.
As I gulped my beer I saw a tall figure emerging from the woods. Clad in black leather from head to foot, with his scrawny neck, stringy hair, and goatee, clutching a Bible, Jingles resembled one of those forbidding clerics from Puritan days, described so vividly by Hawthorneâor was it Melville? For the first time, I noticed the 1 percent patch on his sleeve. At a nod from the “minister” someone turned down the boom box a few decibels, the boys lowered their yips and yodels a few notches, and something like a semihush fell over the glade. For the moment, at least, Jingles was in charge.
I felt a rush of anger. I almost wished Pi
would
show up and get rid of this imposter.
would
show up and get rid of this imposter.
Jingles walked to the head of the grave. At a signal, six bikers went to the picnic table and raised the coffin slowly to their shoulders. With deliberate steps, they moved forward. Amid grunts and sighs, they lowered the box into the hole. Despite their muscle and girth, a corpse is a deadweight (no pun intended) and makes the already heavy box harder to lift, carry, and lower. Once the box had settled, Jingles gestured for the rest of us to come forward. Obediently we arranged ourselves around the edge of the grave. Someone
leaped in and reopened the coffin. I tried to avert my gaze, but it was drawn downward against my will. Sunny lay in full biker regalia, eyes closed, surrounded by memorabilia that his friends must have added before I arrived. Beer mugs decorated with nude females, girlie magazines, and calendarsâremembrances of Sunny's overactive sex life. Trinkets from his bikeâa red taillight, a photo of the bike, and his saddlebagâalso nestled there. The bike itself would go to the next “prospect” who couldn't afford one. Pi had told me that bikes were too valuable to be buried with their owners except in rare cases such as Freddy's.
leaped in and reopened the coffin. I tried to avert my gaze, but it was drawn downward against my will. Sunny lay in full biker regalia, eyes closed, surrounded by memorabilia that his friends must have added before I arrived. Beer mugs decorated with nude females, girlie magazines, and calendarsâremembrances of Sunny's overactive sex life. Trinkets from his bikeâa red taillight, a photo of the bike, and his saddlebagâalso nestled there. The bike itself would go to the next “prospect” who couldn't afford one. Pi had told me that bikes were too valuable to be buried with their owners except in rare cases such as Freddy's.
“Let's pray,” Jingles said.
One by one the bikers bowed their heads.
Jingles turned his face upward to the lofty new spring leaves and offered a strange prayer. I can only remember bits and pieces: “To our beloved brother ⦠we wish you joy on your last ride ⦠. May it be a dream run ⦠at top speed ⦠with a brisk wind at your back ⦠a clear sky overhead ⦠with no bumps or detours. Amen.”
“Amen,” the bikers echoed in unison.
For some reason, this last Amen, uttered by so many rumbling male voices, moved me. It sounded genuine.
A wiry biker, who I hadn't seen before, darted around the periphery of the grave handing out paper cups full of beer to anyone who didn't have one, including me. When everyone was supplied, Jingles quoted the traditional “ ⦠ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” While I waited for him to reach down for a handful of earth to throw on the coffin, the bikers began to whoop and holler and toss their beer into the grave. As I stood aghast, still holding my cup, a hand reached around me from behind, grabbed it, and tossed its contents into the hole. “When in Rome ⦔ a voice whispered in my ear.
I spun around to see a female biker who definitely fell into the Mama category. Her face was framed by silvery blond hair, her mouth was heavily made up, and her boobs were the size of cantaloupes.
Her eyes were hidden by the visor of her helmet. As I stared, she raised the visor and winked.
Her eyes were hidden by the visor of her helmet. As I stared, she raised the visor and winked.
Under ordinary circumstances I would have slugged him, but now was not the time or the place to call attention to Pi. I turned back to the grave, hoping the solemnity of the view would cure my fit of the giggles.
I found the coffin closed and Jingles in the midst of another prayer. Actually, it was a poem some biker had written about the joys of the biker life. I caught only the last two lines:
The pull of the horizon keeps us on the move,
There is no stronger love than the love of the open road â¦
There is no stronger love than the love of the open road â¦
Someone began to sing “O God Our Help in Ages Past,” but it quickly turned into Nine Inch Nails and suddenly the place was swinging. Once the deceased was disposed of, the real partying began. Music was turned up to full strength; food was broken outâalong with more booze, pot, and “crank” (methamphetamine). No cocaine or heroin, though. Pi had told me hard drugs were taboo in his club. Anyone caught injecting was thrown out. And I didn't see anybody shooting up. I went to look for Pi.
On closer inspection, I saw that Pi's silvery blond locks had been cleverly crafted from my old friendâphragmites. Those silvery tassels resembled the work of the most creative New York hairstylist. Someone's old lady had loaned him the makeup, he told me. And his boobs were a pair of rolled-up biker socks. “Wanna feel?” When I refused this offer, Pi melted into the crowd.
The party continued along the usual lines. It seemed to be a rerun of the parking lot galaâwith one addition: the boys swinging their shovels, filling in the grave. This time I was determined to go easy on the booze. I managed to swallow half a hoagie and a handful of peanuts without the aid of liquid refreshment. For whatever reason, the boys didn't hassle me. Maybe after Sunny died they considered me bad news or bad luck. Anyway, I was left pretty much to myself, and while they caroused around me I used the time to observe them, looking for anything suspicious that might give me a clue to the big question: who killed Sunny.
At one point a bunch of the boys formed a tableau, draped around the picnic table, stuffing their faces. Pi was in the center. For a brief moment, with their long hair and beards, I was reminded of Leonardo's
Last Supper.
But the image faded quickly when Jingles leaped onto the table and began dancingâa combination of Irish jig and Elvis gyrations. Jingles certainly was the star of the show today.
The other boys clapped and hollered, egging him on until he toppled off the table to the ground.
Last Supper.
But the image faded quickly when Jingles leaped onto the table and began dancingâa combination of Irish jig and Elvis gyrations. Jingles certainly was the star of the show today.
The other boys clapped and hollered, egging him on until he toppled off the table to the ground.
I also kept a careful watch on the woods for any sign of the law. Now and then I even walked back to the road to check things out. Once a farmer rumbled by on his tractor, cast a quizzical look at the woods, and shook his head. Another time a bunch of rednecks in a pickup slowed, eyeballed the string of bikes hungrily, and moved on.
By five oâclock the sun was low, the grave had been transformed from a cavity to a mound, and everyone was drunkâexcept me. Apparently Peck had been true to his word and kept the cops away. I glanced over at Pi. With a jolt, I recognized him easily. His silver wig was askew, his lipstick had worn away, and his boobs had slipped to his waist. I was about to warn him when a ray from the dying sun glinted on something bright among the trees behind Pi. A metal badge attached to a gray uniform. I sprinted forward, but Jingles jostled me out of the way. He was jigging and singing, still making a damn fool of himself, as he headed toward Pi. When he reached Pi, he clasped him in one of those brotherly bear hugs and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips. I felt a wave of nausea and rushed over to Pi. But when I told him about the trooper, he just smiled. “After three days in that fuckin' marsh, state prison would look good,” he said. “At least there ain't no mosquitoes!”
“Shut up, Pi. You're drunk,” I whispered urgently. “I don't think he's seen you yet. Take my bike.” I pushed my bike keys into his hand.
He stared at the keys as if they were contaminated. “That sissyâLinus?”
“It's parked three from the end on the left. Give me
your
keys and I'll meet you back at the shack.” As I talked I was pushing him out of the clearingâthrough the trees, toward the road.
your
keys and I'll meet you back at the shack.” As I talked I was pushing him out of the clearingâthrough the trees, toward the road.
“You jush wanna ride my hog ⦠.” He looked at me accusingly
“Your keys!”
I hissed.
I hissed.
He reached in his pocket and tossed them at me.
In a final burst of genius, I tore off my helmet and jacket and shoved them at him. “Now give me yours!”
“Jesus, you want my clothes, too?” Reluctantly he handed me his vest.
I flipped off his helmet and placed it on my head. It was a little loose. I adjusted the strap. “And you'd better fix your boobs,” I hissed after him.
As I watched him stumble drunkenly toward the road, I had a terrible thoughtâ
What if he kills himself? Or somebody else?
Too late to worry about that. I started for his bike and suddenly realized he hadn't told me where it was. Shit. I'd have to hunt for it. I glanced over my shoulder and saw not one but two gray uniforms. I was relieved to see they were converging on
me,
not Pi. I ran down the row of bikes glancing from side to side at the logos. Thank god, Pi's was the most distinctive and I spotted it easily. Behind me, I recognized the sound of my motor starting up. A moment later, Pi rumbled past me into the setting sun. I glanced back at the troopers. They had changed course, heading away from me, toward their car. They had parked it off the road in some bushesâa halfhearted attempt to hide it. I kick-started the Harley (it almost took my leg off!) and headed east, the opposite direction from Pi. They couldn't chase both of us! I was banking on their recognizing Pi's tag number and choosing me. Right away I felt the surge of power under me. I had only a few seconds' head start, but I intended to make the most of them. I twisted the throttle up to the max.
What if he kills himself? Or somebody else?
Too late to worry about that. I started for his bike and suddenly realized he hadn't told me where it was. Shit. I'd have to hunt for it. I glanced over my shoulder and saw not one but two gray uniforms. I was relieved to see they were converging on
me,
not Pi. I ran down the row of bikes glancing from side to side at the logos. Thank god, Pi's was the most distinctive and I spotted it easily. Behind me, I recognized the sound of my motor starting up. A moment later, Pi rumbled past me into the setting sun. I glanced back at the troopers. They had changed course, heading away from me, toward their car. They had parked it off the road in some bushesâa halfhearted attempt to hide it. I kick-started the Harley (it almost took my leg off!) and headed east, the opposite direction from Pi. They couldn't chase both of us! I was banking on their recognizing Pi's tag number and choosing me. Right away I felt the surge of power under me. I had only a few seconds' head start, but I intended to make the most of them. I twisted the throttle up to the max.
I heard the troopers make a screeching U-turn and sighed with relief. They were coming after me. The hog was much bigger and heavier than my own bike and took some getting used to. Despite the circumstances, I thrilled to my first ride on a Harleyâthe speed, the power, the sound. In seconds, I was out of their sight. I skimmed past a tractor-trailer that was humming along, minding its own business. The driver's curses were lost on the wind.
I led the law a merry chase, bumping over country roads, diving through rows of new green corn, twisting around the ragged shores of Stow Creek. At Stow Creek Landing, I came to a dead stop and waited for them to catch up. While I waited, I inhaled slowly and deeply, willing myself to relax. By the time I heard the troopers draw
up behind me, I was ready for them. They leaped out of the car, guns drawn. Although I was facing the creek, I could see them in my side mirrors. Their expressions, under their broad-brimmed hats, were smug. They had cornered their prey.
up behind me, I was ready for them. They leaped out of the car, guns drawn. Although I was facing the creek, I could see them in my side mirrors. Their expressions, under their broad-brimmed hats, were smug. They had cornered their prey.
I turned and slowly lifted my visor.
“What the fuck?” squawked the lead officer. The other stood gaping.
“Careful,” I said with a smile. “Ladies present.”
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