CHAPTER 11
The Freezer
Fagan went out on the porch. Chaos was chaos but this was getting out of hand. The wind had tumbled the cheap -plastic chairs and tables into the wall. “Can anyone fix the generator?” he called, his voice sounding unusually loud in the absence of thunder.
“I can fix anything runs on gas,” Mad Dog said turning back toward the club. He brushed by Fagan, deliberately giving him the shoulder as he went into the club and behind the bar. Fagan still felt weak and sore from his crash and that kick to the ribs didn’t help.
Fagan followed him in. “Is there a freezer back there, something that will hold the body?”
“If it’ll fit,” the kid said and disappeared through the door.
Doc and Curtis remained at their back table playing cards.
“One of you guys help me carry the body in?”
“What for?” Doc said without looking up.
“Might be awhile before we can get an ambulance out here,” Fagan said.
Curtis pushed himself back from the table. “I will.”
He was a wiry black man with close-cropped steel-gray hair and beard wearing tinted round glasses. He had a diamond stud through his left ear and his brown eyes were devoid of the rage Fagan saw in the others.
Together they went outside. Wild Bill and Chainsaw were arguing, oblivious to Fred’s body. Blood had poured from Fred’s neck to mix with the rainwater.
Curtis stooped and grabbed the headless body beneath the arms. “Looks like he’s pretty much exsanguinated.”
Fagan took the bartender’s boots, stitch lancing across his ribs where he’d been kicked. “You have medical experience, Mr…?”
“Curtis. I’m an RN.”
Fagan led, going up the three steps to the deck. “That’s a new one on me. A black RN outlaw biker.”
Curtis followed Fagan into the bar. “Yeah well we don’t get too many Jewish cops around here.”
Fagan opened the bar door with his elbow and Curtis followed.
A thrum rose from the rear of the building. The lights flickered and went back on. Mad Dog came out of the back door grinning and slapping his hands together in an exaggerated manner.
“Told ya.”
“Good on ya, Mad Dog,” Curtis said as they squeezed by him into the storeroom.
Mad Dog flattened out against the wall as Fred’s corpse passed.
There were two doors behind the bar at right angles. One led to the storeroom. The other led to Fred’s private quarters.
Inside the store room the door shut automatically behind them. The big, concrete-floored space was lit by two sixty watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling—a fire marshal’s nightmare. Stacks of Cutty Sark, Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker, Four Roses and a dozen other brands formed sentinels against one wall. A deep horizontal freezer sat against the opposite wall next to two old uprights.
“What makes you think I’m Jewish?” Fagan said, as they gently laid Fred on the floor next to the freezer.
“Knew a cat in Nam named Fagan. Tom Fagan. Told me it was a Jewish name. Plus you got that nappy hair. Plus you ain’t from around here.”
Curtis chuckled.
Fagan carefully went through Fred’s pockets: a folding knife, three quarters and a penny, a moist blue bandanna and an old Zippo lighter with a Harley logo. He placed these items in an empty cardboard box, stood and opened the freezer. It was half full of pub food including pre-pressed burgers, frozen French fries and drink mixes. There were two upright refrigerators to one side. Fagan stuffed as much of the perishables as he could into the uprights’ freezers leaving plenty of room for Fred’s body.
They carefully laid it inside. It just fit without the head.
“I’ve seen a cut like that,” Curtis said. “When some North Viet big shot wanted to make a point he’d decapitate a prisoner.”
“You were a POW?”
“Three months. Then the bombers came. They fly so high you don’t know they’re there until the ground explodes. Seen men lose their heads to a flying tin roof.”
The freezer remained open. Mad Dog bounced through the door holding Fred’s head in both hands and tried to sink it from ten feet. Curtis’ thin body snapped like a whip as he intercepted the pitch, hauling the head into his belly with both hands.
“You’d best get out of my sight,” he said softly.
Mad Dog shimmied in mock fear and slouched out. Curtis reverently laid the head in the freezer and lowered the lid.
“There’s plywood in the shed out back. Figure we should patch that window before it starts to rain again.”
Fagan followed Curtis out the back door to a cinderblock supply shack. The battered red door faced the rear of the bar and was partially open. A big green dumpster crowded one side, an old Ford pick-up the other.
Curtis pushed the door open, noticed Fagan wincing. “Crack a rib?”
Fagan grimaced and nodded.
“See if I can tape it up. Might have some Vicodin.” He rummaged through his denim vest, found a bottle of ibuprofen. “Try these.”
“Thanks.” Fagan gratefully unscrewed the bottle, bounced four into his hand and swallowed them with a swig from a can of Royal Crown Cola.
“I’ll be all right.”
“Ahuh.”
“You know as soon as the power comes back on this place will be crawling with cops.”
“What makes you think the power gonna come back on?”
Fagan tried his hand-held. Nothing.
Inside the shack was a complete workbench with tools and a circular saw, big rectangles of plywood stacked against one wall. Fred’s Fat Boy sat against the back wall covered with dust. Curtis grabbed a tape measure, a hammer and a box of nails and headed back to the club.
“You know what day it is?”
“Thursday,” Fagan replied hitching to keep up.
“June 22. My momma wouldn’t let me out the house on this day. Said this the night the haunts all roam. Ain’t Halloween. No sir. June 22.”
Back in the bar Macy sat weeping in a chair.
Wild Bill was in Doc’s face. “I say we go.”
“I say we wait until morning. He ain’t going anywhere. You heard Fred. He lives in Milton’s Hollow.”
Wild Bill leaned in and sprayed spittle. “You lily-livered piece of shit. My old man should have left you in Nam.”
Doc stayed calm but Fagan could tell he was ready to explode. Wild Bill abruptly turned. “How ‘bout it, Curtis? You comin’?”
Curtis used the tape measure on the front window. “What about the Aces of Spade my man Terrell?”
***