Tats (30 page)

There’s only one thing that is really stopping me from killing myself. I don’t want to die. I didn’t go through everything I have to give it all up now. I haven’t even been out in the real world for two years yet.

Whatever happened to that feeling of invincibility, of a fresh start I had once? I think back and try to remember what it felt like.

I was sitting on a hard wooden chair in front of five people at a long table. They looked at me like I was a wild animal in the zoo. Baptists. They were all buttoned-down and slicked-back like Baptists. Four men and one woman. The woman kept looking at me, scared, like my tats were going to jump over the table and bite her on the ass.

Five people held my life in their hands. They could sign a paper and parole me or they could sign a different paper and keep me locked up.

“What was the question again?” I asked with a fake smile plastered to my face.

The man in the middle rephrased, “I asked, Ms. Hammond, why do
you
think we should grant your parole?”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.

“You don’t know,” he repeated after me. He shuffled his paperwork and said, “We have a statement from the warden. She states that you’re a model prisoner. You are well-liked by the general population here and even offer your services as a teacher. She goes on to state that at least twenty of the prisoners have received their G.E.D’s under your direct tutelage.”

I nodded. “They did it on their own. They just needed a little push.”

“She also states that you’ve saved this institution thousands of dollars by repairing...” He scrambled through some more papers, searching.

I filled in the blanks for him, “Dishwashers. Washers and dryers. Plumbing. You name it, I can pretty much fix it.”

He nodded at me.

“Might be a good reason to keep me here,” I joked.

The woman stifled a smile behind her polished nails. The men didn’t appear amused. This time the man at the end of the table spoke. “We have a letter from a Mr. Stan Baker offering you employment and a place to live upon your release.”

Chopper. Chopper sent a letter to the parole board?

“Is that an opportunity that you would accept?”

“Definitely. Most definitely, I’d accept.”

Middle Man leaned forward on his elbows and cocked his head at me. “Would you say,” he began slowly, “that you feel remorse for the act of murder that put you here?”

“Remorse?” I asked. I looked at my feet and tried to put my thoughts in order. “I did what I did. I never made any excuses for it. I know it was wrong. But it was all I knew. You know, you back an animal, any animal, even a docile one, into a corner, they’re going to fight to get away.”

Middle Man set his jaw and leaned back in his chair.

I continued, “Do I wish I hadn’t done it? Sure I do. I wish I’d known some other way. But all I can tell you is that since I pulled that trigger, that man hasn’t beaten another woman and he hasn’t raped another woman. And I’m glad for that.”

He stacked his papers together and said, “Okay, Ms. Hammond, I think I understand.” All five of them started making movements like they were dismissing me and ending the meeting.

“You asked me why I think I should be paroled,” I said.

They looked at me again and I continued, “You all have looked over my paperwork and thought about my case maybe for the past two days. But I’ve spent twelve years thinking about it. I don’t know how to put it into words exactly, but I have something inside me. I have something to offer. I’m more than a case file that’s only two inches thick. I have something to offer and maybe I’m not sure what it is yet, but there’s something out there...I just know that God would not have put me in this situation without giving me the ability to learn from it. I don’t think this is the end of anything. I think the day I do leave will be just the beginning.”

I stood up and smiled at each of them in turn. “Thank you for your time. And God bless.”

I turned and walked out the door before they could ask any more questions. I felt guilty for pulling the God trump card out of my sleeve like that, but who knows? Maybe it was the truth.

And, it worked. Two days later, I’m processed and dressed in some state-bought chinos and a white button-down shirt and loafers and staring through the gates of Mabel Bassett at the road in front of me.

I had every right to be scared. I’d never had a job, rented an apartment, shopped for groceries, had a checking account, owned a credit card, a cell phone or paid a single bill. I’d never owned a car. I’d never gone on a date. I’d never been in love. That was a pretty long to-do list and I was late getting started.

But I wasn’t scared.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and strolled through the gates of Mabel Bassett and kept on walking. I didn’t look behind me. That was my past life.

I haven’t been here since I was a teenager, but I have no problem finding the place. I steer my bike into the small gravel parking lot of Chopper’s bike shop and let the nostalgia wash over me. The building looks like shit. Gray, fading paint and blacked-out windows. A lopsided closed sign in the door. There’s a big For Sale sign hanging on a pole by the road. Judging by the curled edges and faded lettering, that sign has been there for quite some time. The place has definitely seen better days. Then again, so have I.

I put the bike in gear and follow the worn path around the building to the back of the shop. I kill the engine and kick her down. I walk up to the back door and jiggle the handle. It’s locked. I kick the lump of cement sitting near the door. There’s the key. Just like old times.

I let myself in but don’t turn on any lights. After my eyes adjust to the dark I see that the place is a time capsule. The girlie calendar on the wall has changed to the current year, but that’s the only clue that time has moved on.

I open the dilapidated old fridge. I can’t believe the damn thing is still running. I grab a can of Bud Lite and pop it open. I drink half of it in one swig and wipe the foam off my mouth with the back of my hand.

I kick the fridge closed and take a tour. Looks like he’s working on an old panhead Harley. It’s standing like a ghost in the center of the garage floor with its parts spread out neatly on a tarp by its side.

I edge into his office and feel around in the dark until I find the small desk lamp. I turn it on and settle myself down in his cracked leather swivel chair. I drink my beer and have a look-see. Just like always, the place is filthy but organized. There’s a couple of girlie rags on his desk, but other than that there’s only a stack of invoices marked Paid or Payable.

Then I see it hanging in a cheap frame over the file cabinet.

I get up and take it off the wall. It’s a yellowed newspaper article from the Tulsa paper. There’s a black-and-white grainy photo of a skinny girl, handcuffed and being led into a courthouse. The headline screams in bold type: SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD, TRIED AS ADULT, TO BE SENTENCED.

The caption under the photo says:
Lee Anne Hammond, convicted of murdering her stepfather, is to be sentenced today.

I don’t read the article. I already know what happened.

I can’t believe he cut this out of the paper and framed it. The oddest thing about it is that it’s clean. There’s dust and cobwebs and old grease marks everywhere. This is the only clean item in the whole joint.

I hang it back on the nail sticking out of the wall and drain the rest of the beer. I squish the can in my right hand and shoot it into the trash.

I mosey back out to the shop area, flip on the overhead, grab another beer and some choice tools off his shelf. I put a clean rag in my back pocket and settle down to the side of the panhead. I rub and clean all the parts he has scattered around.

It’s like a puzzle. A puzzle that I’m damn good at figuring out. I concentrate on working on the engine with one side of my brain and let the other side roam and wander for a bit. Keeping my hands busy takes the edge off and it isn’t long before—a steel-toed boot nudges me in the ribs and a gruff voice says, “’Bout time you showed up. What the hell took you so long?”

I look up and see Chopper. He’s a little more grizzled and gray, but I’ll be damned, I’d recognize him anywhere. He’s still got a head full of thick wavy hair and that same old mustache, but now he’s sporting a little goatee flavor-savor. The lines on his face are the good kind. Crinkles around his eyes and mouth from smiling. Or maybe they’re from squinting into the wind when he’s riding. Either way they’re good.

“Heyya, Chopper,” I say, lifting myself to my feet.

I was so busy with the bike I didn’t even realize the time. Sun is leaking in through the front window where the edges of the black paint have peeled off.

“Hope you don’t mind,” I say, grinning toward the bike. “I was just fooling around. Don’t think I did her any serious harm.”

“Don’t mind at all,” he says. He takes a couple of steps back and looks me up and down. “You got a little taller.”

“I was just thinking how much you shrunk.”

“Nice ink,” he adds, scanning my tats.

“Yours could do with a touch-up,” I reply.

He allows a small smile. “I like ’em worn and faded. Just like me.”

“You don’t look all that faded.”

“Grab us a beer,” he says, walking toward his office. “C’mon in and have a sit-down. We got some catching up to do.”

I notice that he’s flying some colors on the back of his leather vest. The rocker spells out B.A.C.A. He must’ve ganged up.

I grab two beers and follow him into the tiny office. He sits in his chair and motions to a metal folding chair for me. I hand him his beer and sit.

“You an outlaw now?” I ask point-blank.

“Nah,” he says, sipping on the Bud.

“Your cut says different.”

“B.A.C.A.’s a gang, all right. But we’re not outlaws. Kinda the opposite, in fact.”

“You riding for Jesus?”

He laughs like I said something truly funny. “It’s a nationwide organization. I’m the P of the Tulsa chapter. I started it myself some years back.”

I ask the obvious. “What’s B.A.C.A. stand for?”

He takes a slow drink before saying, “Bikers Against Child Abuse.” He wipes the foam off his mustache with the back of his hand.

I sip on my beer. My eyes dart over to the framed news clipping on his wall.

“I knew a little kid once,” he begins. “Had a wild streak in her a mile wide. Ornery as hell, but a good kid. I was even married to her mother for a while. I took the kid under my wing for a little. I ignored it when she stole my magazines. She even snuck in here and lived for a spell. I started stocking the fridge with bologna and bread and pop for her. I liked this kid, see...” He leans forward in chair and rests his elbows on his knees, talking toward me like it’s the most important thing he’s ever said. “...but I let her slip through my fingers. Her home life is none too good. And some asshole gets hold of her and she being who she is, the fighter type if you know what I mean, she takes the law into her own hands. She ends up having to pay for this asshole’s...” he searches for the right word, “...depravity.”

“Sounds familiar,” I whisper.

“She does her time. But the whole time she’s inside, I’m feeling guilty.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“That’s just it,” he sighs. “I didn’t do anything. If I’d paid attention, I’d have known. Maybe I could’ve done something. Maybe not. But I’ll never know... So, I brought B.A.C.A to T-town.” He leans back in his chair and puts one big boot across his knee. “There’s maybe twenty of us. Mostly men, a few of their old ladies. And we do what we can.”

“What is that?” I ask. “What’s ‘doing what you can?’”

“Our crew looks pretty rough. We’ve got the bikes and the cuts and the tats. Some of the gang’s done some time. We have sources out on the street. A couple of our guys are even cops. We hear about any child abuse happening...We stop it.”

“How do you stop it?”

“You’d be surprised what little really has to be done. A gang of twenty bikers surround your house at three a.m. and knock on your door... Usually, we only have to talk to the son-of-a-bitch. Sometimes, we have to pack his bags for him.”

“What if he doesn’t leave?”

“I don’t know,” he laughs. “That’s never happened.”

I swallow all my beer and crush the can. “I like the sound of it.”

He smiles at me. “I thought you would.”

He gets up and walks out of the office. I hear his boots trudge across the shop. The fridge door opens and closes. When he comes back in he hands me an opened beer. “You got woman trouble?”

“How’d you know?”

He laughs. “I recognize the look.”

“I’ll get over it,” I say. “Or not. But it’s a done deal. Nothing I can do about it.”

“You love her,” he says. He doesn’t ask, he just states it.

“Yeah. Against my better judgment.”

“Does she know it?”

“I told her, but I don’t think she believes it.”

“Then tell her again so she’ll believe it.”

“Chopper...I don’t know where she is. I think maybe she’s got mixed up with an asshole. She’s probably back with him. I just hope he hasn’t killed her.”

He perks up. “An asshole, huh? Them I know how to deal with. This asshole got a name?”

So I tell him everything I know. Everything. And I don’t leave anything out.

Two beers and a slew of phone calls later to his cop friends, he tells me what I need to hear. “Crowne Plaza. Presidential Suite. He’s got a pretty redhead with him.”

“What do I do now?” I ask.

“Go get her.”

Okay. I will.

Butch and Sundance, by God.

Five minutes later, I’m out the door and back on my bike. Chopper gave me a cell phone with a bunch of numbers plugged into it and I’ve tucked it safely into my bra.

“Remember,” he said. “There’s a whole gang of us. Nobody’s more than ten minutes from wherever you are. Speed dial one if you need help. Even if you get scared, back out and let us handle it.”

I rolled my eyes at him and lied through my teeth. “I won’t be scared.”

My heart’s considerably lighter than it was last night. Sometimes God just reaches down and slaps you in the soul.