CHAPTER 7
The Road Dogs
Fagan let his cop’s gaze stop at each. The two in back were salt and pepper, looked like they were in their sixties although they could be anywhere from forty to eighty. The biker lifestyle put the miles on your face. They never looked up from their card game.
The three around the circular table glowed with malice. The man mountain with the knife was obviously the prez followed by a human fist with a shaved skull and inked neck and biceps in his late thirties. Cowlick was a gangly nineteen, pale face a constellation of zits.
Fagan dismissed them and walked to the bar, setting his bifurcated helmet down with a thump. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. He looked like a child’s toy that had been dragged through broken glass and a coal mine.
“Bullard County Deputy Sheriff,” he croaked. “Do you have a land line?”
The middle-aged bartender was short with bright, inquisitive woodchuck eyes and hedgerow brows. He leaned down and plopped a black plastic rotary on the scarred wood bar. Someone had carved “Road Dogs” into the surface in elegant Gothic script. The wall above the bar was decorated with old license plates and tin signs: The Wild One. Wild Angels. Easy Rider.
Fagan picked up the receiver. All he heard was the rushing in his ears. He turned to the room. “Anybody got a working cell phone?”
His legs gave way and he collapsed to the barroom floor, brushing his helmet off the counter. His helmet rolled a couple feet and stopped.
The Road Hogs roared. Cowlick clapped his hands.
“What’s the matter, Ossifer,” Cowlick sneered getting to his feet. The leader put out an arm and Cowlick resumed his seat. The bartender scurried out from behind the bar with a glass of water. He walked with a limp, right leg with an odd kink.
Fagan felt weak as a baby bird. He half-struggled to a sitting position, leaned against the front of the bar and waited for the world to stop spinning. His luge ride down the highway had scrambled his brains. He might have a concussion. He looked around. There were cig butts on the floor and a quarter inch roach.
“Just relax,” the bartender said softly with a southern accent, handing him the glass. “You had a wipeout.”
Fagan drank thirstily. He nodded.
“We saw your bike slam into that pole. You nearly got your ass fried.”
Fagan tried to say something but couldn’t find the wind. He drained the glass. The bartender helped him to his feet and deposited him on a barstool. “I’m Fred,” he said softly. “You must be the new deputy. You know the Road Dogs?” Just a hint of anxiety.
Fagan nodded. “Officer Fagan,” he said.
“What’s that?” the kid said standing. “Did you say Officer Faggot?!” He doubled up cackling. The others barked. A real knee slapper. Fagan thought Cowlick seemed a little manic. They all did—they all had that artificial stillness speed freaks get when law walks in the room.
By thy long gray beard and glittering eye.…
Not that Fagan gave a shit, but they probably had to scrape goods and works off the tables in a hurry when he slid by. He thought he sniffed a telltale chemical tang. Fred went behind the bar and nervously wiped with a white cloth. Fagan pointed to the bottle of Jack Daniels behind Fred and held up two fingers.
“Please,” he croaked.
“Hey Ossifer Faggot!” the kid sang. “Ain’t it against the law to drink while you’re on duty?”
The bikers watched Fagan with barely concealed mirth. This was better than a pole dance. Cowlick scooted forward and scooped up Fagan’s helmet, turning to display it to his comrades like a belt he’d just won. He saw the hole in the helmet and stuck a finger through.
“What the fuck?”
The slab held his hand out. “Hand it over.”
The kid flipped the helmet to the leader. “Here you go, Wild Bill.”
Wild Bill examined the helmet and looked up. “What the fuck happened to you?”
The bartender leaned in. “You need something stronger than Jack, officer.” He dipped below the bar and retrieved an earthenware jug with a cork stopper. Someone had doodled a skull and crossbones on the side with a black felt marker.
“This here’s the real thing—genuine corn liquor. One eighty proof.” He poured two inches of brown liquor into a tumbler. Wild Bill stared in fury and consternation.
Fagan held it up to the light, tossed it back and swiveled to face the room. The liquor hit his gut like a depth bomb. Heat flared in all directions. He waited a second for it to get into his blood. The room tilted and whirled.
We all need it one time or another.
Three pairs of eyes regarded him with undisguised hostility. Salt and Pepper never looked up from their game.
“What kind of pig starts drinking at four in the afternoon?” the skull snarled.
“What happened, officer?” the leader said with exaggerated unction.
“Anyone know a Lawrence Rodell?”
The kid’s jaw dropped and his face twisted in shock and disbelief. Salt and Pepper looked up. They did not radiate hostility. Rather a world-weary cynicism.
“What about him?” Wild Bill said.
“He was decapitated.”
Cowlick turned to the skull. “What’s that mean?” he said softly.
“Means his head was cut off, numb nutz.”
The bartender mouthed something behind the bar.
“Bullshit!” the leader exclaimed.
“Man on a bike,” Fagan said. “Possibly seven feet tall dressed all in black leather. Full face helmet carrying a samurai sword.”
“BULLSHIT!” Wild Bill declared pounding the table. “BULLSHIT! MACY! WHERE THE FUCK’S MY BURGER?!”
The graceful girl/woman sashayed out from behind the bar carrying a platter on which rested the burger, condiments and three shot glasses filled with Jack. She set the shot glasses neatly before Wild Bill, Cowlick and the skull and then slammed the burger down in front of Wild Bill hard enough to make it airborne.
Wild Bill backhanded her with his right hand, the sound of flesh on flesh like a rifle shot. Macy staggered.
Fagan got off the stool with blood in his eye.
***