CHAPTER 9
Here Come De Judge
“BULL. SHIT,” Wild Bill thundered. “I swear, every time you bring that up.…”
“He’s real,” Fagan said. “I saw him.”
The three Road Dogs surrounded him with red faces. Rage, testosterone and a shitload of meth. Wild Bill returned his blade to its sheath.
“Spill it lawman,” Wild Bill said.
Fagan told them about finding Larry’s body, his flight to the bar. “None of you have ever seen him?” he finished. “He’s hard to miss.”
“They been telling that same stupid story for twenty years,” Wild Bill said. “My old man said it was a crock of shit then and it’s a crock of shit now.”
“Cop said he saw him,” rolled up from the back of the room. The old white biker with a prodigious belly and a beard spoke without looking up from his cards.
In the brief silence that followed Fagan heard the black man quietly say, “Gin,” and lay his cards on the table.
“Sheeit.”
“That’s Doc,” Wild Bill said, little pig eyes fixed on Fagan. “That other sorry ass fossil is Curtis. They’re married, ain’t that right boys?”
“Thems was in Nammmm,” Mad Dog said. “Or was it the Civil War?”
Thunder rolled over the Kongo Klub like a line of caissons. Rain poured in through the shotgun hole. Macy came out from behind the bar with a big saucepan, placed it on the floor beneath the leak. She was the brightest thing in the room and clearly didn’t belong there.
What was she doing in this dive? She couldn’t possibly be involved with that ape, could she? Fagan hoped not. Focus, son. He was holed up in a remote roadhouse with five bloodthirsty thugs in tornado weather and a seven foot monster outside chopping off heads. Things always looked better when you put them in perspective. He tried his radio and got white noise. For all he knew Ptolemy had been flattened.
“You have a cellar?” he asked Fred.
Fred shook his head. “This is it.”
“Why’d this fucker chop off Larry’s head?” Chainsaw said.
“Let’s find him and fuck him up!” Mad Dog chimed in.
“You dumb shits,” Wild Bill said. “Can’t you see he’s playin’ you?”
“No he ain’t,” the bartender asserted. He seemed to have gained courage from his shotgun blast. “How do you think my leg got messed up?”
“You told us you hit a deer!” Wild Bill sneered.
“I told you I got this runnin’ from that freak and you insisted I hit a deer! You were so fuckin’ drunk and stoned at the time I can’t believe you even remember.”
Wild Bill pointed a bratwurst-sized finger. “Watch it, old man.”
“He’s out there somewhere holed up in Milton’s Hollow most likely. That’s where he found me.”
“What makes you think that, you old fool?” Bill said.
“You know about Milton’s Hollow! You’ve heard the stories! Christ knows how many bikers he’s killed they never found the bodies.”
Fagan held his hands up. “Gentlemen, I’m not looking to bust anyone for drugs or any of that shit. We have a more serious situation on our hands. Are any of you carrying firearms?”
The Road Dogs looked at one another and broke out laughing. Even Doc and Curtis looked up with grins on their faces.
“They’re all carrying,” Fred said.
“You wanna form a posse, Marshall?” Wild Bill asked in an exaggerated Texas twang.
“A pussy posse!” Mad Dog brayed. Wild Bill and Chainsaw guffawed.
“You gonna swear us in as deputies?” Mad Dog said spraying spittle. Fagan thought he might actually be excited about the idea. “Dig it! There’s five of us! No fuckin’ road freak can stand up to the Road Dogs! Let’s track him down and light him up!”
“Dog, you’re dumber than you look,” Wild Bill said. “Popo what’s the deal? You’re not about to deputize us.”
“Just want to know what I’m dealing with,” Fagan said with a straight face. “I don’t think guns will stop him anyway.”
“You say you gave him five in the chest.”
“I hit him at least three times—I saw the perforations. He must be wearing ballistic armor.”
“Like Doc!” the kid warbled. “Him and Rastus there wear helmets, too!”
Wild Bill’s hand shot out like a bullwhip, smacking Mad Dog in the face and causing him to stagger. He touched the red mark and looked up like a hurt puppy. “I warned you about that shit. Curtis a charter member. You ain’t even a Dog yet. You just a pledge. Don’t go disrespectin’ Curtis. We don’t need that racial shit.”
Mad Dog rubbed his cheek. “Sorry, Bill.” An afterthought: “Sorry, Curtis!”
The old black man did not look up from his game.
Somewhere in the back the generator sputtered. The lights went out.
“Shit!” Wild Bill exclaimed. “What, you run out of gas?”
“Just hang on,” Fred said. “I’ll go check. It has plenty of gas.” He rummaged around in a drawer behind the bar and found a flashlight. Playing the beam on the floor Fred went through a door to the left and behind the bar. A sickly light played through the big front window. Fagan checked his watch. It was five-thirty—it would be light out for a couple hours if the curtain of storm held off. Thunder.
Everyone but Doc and Curtis were on their feet waiting for something. Fred to restore the generator. The lights to come back on. The all clear to sound. The wind blew hard rattling the windows and causing blinds to buzz like a mad locust. Fagan found his gun and returned it to his holster. They heard Fred cursing and shoving things around in the back.
At first it was subliminal, the sound a mosquito makes as it approaches the ear and you feel that first flash of apprehension/irritation. It grew a little and assumed a mechanical aspect, thrashing cams and gears, an intermediate buzz, a dentist’s drill, a weed whacker, pipes bellowing to fill the sky causing the floor to vibrate and bottles to migrate. Wild Bill and Chainsaw exchanged an Oh Shit! look. Fred rushed out of the back wild-eyed with grease on his face. He ditched the flashlight behind the bar and picked up the shotgun.
A freight train pulled up to the door as crimson light splashed blood across the walls. The thrashing built to a crescendo and fell silent. Fagan, Wild Bill, Chainsaw and Mad Dog went to the front window and looked out.
Fagan struggled to control the pain in his ribs. He didn’t want them to see weakness. He looked out the window between Mad Dog and Chainsaw.
The bike was big and black, covered with so many designs, runes, plates and covers that its nature remained a mystery. The rider kicked out the stand and got off. He was big, dressed entirely in black leather with a full-face helmet. He unhooked the bungees holding a large black helmet bag to the pillion, picked it up via the top handle like a briefcase and strode toward the club.
“Holy shit,” Mad Dog said, voice cracking.
The rider’s tread was heavy on the steps. The boys backed away from the window unconsciously forming a semi-circle facing the door.
The door swung open.
***