Part 26 (2/2)
”Yeah. The Preacher's kind of a head case.”
That was an understatement.
”How so?”
”I don't know. He's just out there. But he rides this chopped '64 panhead that is truly righteous.” He took a long swig of Diet c.o.ke. ”I'm sorry I stood you up last night. Did you find my note?” He was looking for a new topic.
”Yes. What was this event that was so important?”
”A boxing match,” he said without expression. His face had the consistency of bread dough. And about as much color.
”Do you follow boxing?”
”Not really. These guys do, so I went along.”
”What guys?”
”Just these guys I met.”
”At the Harley shop.”
He shrugged.
”And the tattoo?”
”Pretty cool, eh?”
He raised his sleeve. A scorpion wearing some sort of helmet spread its legs across his left biceps.
”What is it supposed to mean?”
”It doesn't mean anything. It just looks kick-a.s.s.”
I had to agree.
”Your mother is going to kill me.”
”Harry has a tattoo on her left b.u.t.tock.” He p.r.o.nounced the last with a British inflection.
I am the lord of the dance, said he . . . . . .
For a while neither of us spoke. I ate my sandwich while Kit picked at his, nibbling off a gram at a time then was.h.i.+ng each down with Diet c.o.ke.
”Do you want another?” he asked, pus.h.i.+ng back his chair and wiggling his empty can.
”No thanks.”
When he returned I plunged in again.
”How much did you drink last night?”
”Too much.” He scratched his head roughly with both hands and the hair went from Carrey to Alfalfa. ”But it was just beer, Aunt T. Nothin' hard. And I'm legal here.”
”Just beer?”
He lowered his hands and looked at me, making sure he understood my meaning.
”If there's one thing you can count on with this boy, it's a negatory on pharmaceuticals. This body ain't much, but I'm keeping it a drug-free zone.”
”I'm very glad to hear that.” I was. ”What about the Preacher and his flock?”
”Hey. Live and let.”
”It doesn't always work that way, Kit.”
Go ahead. Ask.
”Are these guys bikers?”
”Sure. That's why it's Disneyland for me. They all ride Harleys.”
Try again.
”Are they affiliated with a club?”
”Aunt T, I don't ask them a lot of questions. If you mean do they wear colors, the answer is no. Do they hang with guys that do? Yeah, probably. But I'm not going to sell my boat and strike for the h.e.l.ls Angels, if that's what worries you.”
”Kit. Outlaw bikers don't draw lines between gawkers and those wanting charter members.h.i.+ps. If they perceive you as even the most minor of threats, or even a slight inconvenience, they'll chew you up and spit you into tomorrow. I don't want that to happen to you.”
”Do I look like an idiot?”
”You look like a nineteen-year-old kid from Houston with a fascination for Harleys and a romanticized image of the Wild Ones Wild Ones.”
”What?”
”The Stanley Kramer movie?”
A blank look.
”Marlon Brando?”
”I've heard of Brando.”
”Never mind.”
”I'm just feeling free. Having some fun.”
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