CHAPTER 10
Poor Service
Helmet Head paused in the door and looked around. The door frame cut off the top of his helmet. He stooped as he stepped inside and the door wheezed shut behind him. Water trickled off his leathers and helmet and fell from the helmet bag to the floor. He walked to the bar passing within three feet of Fagan but taking no notice. He set the helmet bag on the bar with a ponderous thump. Pinkish water leaked from the bag onto the bar top.
Fred backed himself up until he was leaning against the whiskey, eyes wide open, mouth stretched into a Dodge grill. The shotgun resided under the bar where the visitor couldn’t see it. Helmet Head leaned on the bar with his hands and stared at Fred.
Fagan thought about shooting the black rider in the head but he’d already tried that and look where it got him. Nor was he certain the Road Dogs wouldn’t turn on him afterward and testify against him. And then he saw the black leather sheath affixed to the rider’s back. A long, gently curving black scabbard. Fagan’s eyes returned to the helmet bag like a mesmerized deer.
Helmet Head extended one black-leathered hand toward the bar pointing at the bottle of Jack.
“We’re closed,” Fred croaked.
The featureless shield stared at him like an X-ray machine. Helmet Head straightened up and slowly took in the assembled starting with Wild Bill on his left, gaze pausing on each, serially and separately. His gaze particularly lingered on Macy who shrank back against a cabinet. Helmet Head spread both hands in an Italian gesture.
Whaaaa—?
“We’re closed,” Fred choked again. “These boys were just leaving.” He sounded like air escaping from a child’s balloon.
Helmet Head placed his right hand on the helmet bag and waggled his fingers as if pondering something. He jerked the helmet bag off the bar and headed toward the door. Just before he reached it he turned, pointing a finger at each of them in turn like counting passengers for a tour bus.
He left the bar as a curtain of rain washed over them, lashing the windows and playing a discordant tune on the shutters. The outside world blinked white followed by the crash of thunder. Wild Bill and Fagan returned to the front window and watched as Helmet Head attached the helmet bag to the back of his bike.
Macy ran out from behind the bar into Wild Bill’s arms. “Oh my God,” she sobbed.
“It’s all right, Mace,” the biker assured her. “Just a lotta show.”
“You see those punctures in his jacket?” Chainsaw said. “The pig speaketh truth.”
In back, Doc picked up another card.
“Oh yeah?” Fred said, grabbing his shotgun. “OH YEAH?!”
The little man hobbled out from behind the bar and stumped toward the front door.
“Fred, wait a minute,” Fagan said but the bartender was on a mission from God. He ran out the front door, down the steps, toward the black rider. Helmet Head turned to face him, hands at sides palms open.
Whaaaa—?
Fred went down on one knee. “Remember me, motherfucker? Remember me?!”
Two blasts struck Helmet Head in the chest further shredding his expensive black jacket. The black biker staggered back but stopped himself from falling when his butt hit the bike.
Fred got to his feet dazed as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just done. Helmet Head strode toward him drawing the katana from over one shoulder, passing it through Fred’s neck and returning it to his back in one perfect parabola.
For three long seconds Fred stood quivering. His head slid one way and his body the other. Helmet Head stooped, picked up Fred’s head with both hands like a basketball and Michael Jordaned it toward the roadhouse.
Fred’s head smacked through the window like a seven pound cannonball, striking the back wall and falling to the floor spewing blood. Glass flew.
Macy screamed.
“Motherfucker!” Wild Bill exclaimed, reaching into his vest and pulling out an Arsenal double-barreled .45. Chainsaw reached down to his leather gym bag and withdrew a long-barreled .357 magnum. Mad Dog pulled a nine from his backpack and the bikers surged toward the front door like the Three Stooges.
“Hold it!” Fagan yelled, drawing his own pistol.
The black bike roared to life. Three foot gouts of flame erupted from the pipes. Helmet Head pulled out of the rain-slick lot and motored down the road, the shrieking cacophony becoming fainter until it merged with the sound of the storm.
***