Stealing Sturgis

by Matthew Iden

  Chapter Ten

  After the first two hours of the ride, before they’d even left greater Los Angeles, had hardly even gotten on the 10 headed for San Bernardino, Becky wasn’t sure she was going to make it. Her head ached down through her neck, her arms were cramped from holding on to either Jason in front of her or the bottom of her own seat, her thighs were screaming, and her butt—her butt felt like it was going to fall off. The constant thrumming of the Harley engine resonated along her entire spine and from there to all the bones in her body, setting each of them to quivering and punishing, in turn, the muscles attached to them. Jason had told her that his Harley—an Electra Glide—was known around the world for its smooth, comfortable ride, especially on long distances, which seemed like a load of crap to her after the first couple of hours.

  It had started just fine. The chaps and jacket Jason had insisted she buy fit like snakeskin, making her look good—dangerous and tough. The smell of all that leather was a little overpowering, but it was also a rich smell, thick and heady. She spent some time in front of the mirror wearing them, laughing when she realized she was mooning just like Jason had a couple of days earlier, but damn, she looked good, with her red hair spilling out over the jacket and the chaps hugging her jeans just right so that her butt looked perfect. The leathers were stiff, but she wore them all afternoon, half posing and half to break them in. Even Mimi, always ready to put her in her place, just pursed her lips and nodded.

  She’d been able to talk herself into facing the drive to Sturgis with a better attitude when Mimi had done some investigating and found that there was more to do at the Rally than drink and tear ass around on a motorcycle. At least three charities were interested in having Becky as their celebrity attraction. After several phone calls back and forth, she agreed to be the celebrity auctioneer for a charity auction benefiting muscular dystrophy. She went to sleep that night feeling good about herself, at least more than if she were simply taking part in a seven-day beer bash.

  Jason roared up her driveway early the next morning, looking like a fashion maven’s image of a Hells Angel in a leather and denim jacket, black chaps, and thick black boots with big silver buckles. Becky knew he thought the buckles, especially, made him look like Brando in The Wild Bunch. He sat outside her condo, revving the bike’s engine until the sound bounced off the walls and even her jaded and celebrity-weary neighbors peeked out their windows.

  “You ready to go, chick?” he asked, grinning like a little kid.

  She smiled despite herself. Jason looked nothing like the spoiled movie star that had snapped at her earlier in the week. There was real enthusiasm behind his smile. “You bet, JJ. Let’s hit it.”

  She hopped on the back and they took off like it was an everyday thing, like they were going to cruise Mulholland instead of laying down two thousand miles to South Dakota. Sitting on the back of the bike, with the wind snapping her hair in every direction, she felt a giddiness that she hadn’t had since she was a little kid, a twitch in her stomach like she used to get on the first day of school or when she’d played softball and it was her turn at bat. People on the streets turned as they cruised towards the 10, not recognizing them as movie stars or celebrities, just staring at them and the bike.

  “Shouldn’t we be wearing helmets?” she yelled into his ear as they hit the highway at eighty.

  “Helmets are for squares,” he yelled back with a grin, and hit the gas.

  The plan was to reach San Bernardino and meet Jason’s little motorcycle gang, Hell’s Hawgs. Becky had met a couple of the guys. Most of them were portfolio managers and dentists who had grown out their beards for the ride to Sturgis. They’d shave and clean up the day after they got back from the trip, stowing their leathers and chains until next year’s Rally. Most were nice enough and relatively harmless—some of them were her father’s age or older—but a few, thinking that knowing Jason meant they knew her, would hit on her and generally creep her out. They’d talk too loudly about sexual positions and multiple partners, glancing out of the corners of their eyes to see if she was listening and interested. When she didn’t feel like ignoring them, she would start yammering about how much she’d made on her last film. That usually put them in their place.

  They pulled into San Bernardino while it was still morning. The Hawgs were already tying one on at O’Brien’s, drinking Guinness and eating quesadillas. She and Jason were greeted with hoots and foot-stomping, a lot of high-fiving, and everyone calling each other “bro.” The excitement of beginning the road trip was painted on everyone’s face. But half an hour later, as talk turned to retirement accounts, Florida real estate, and hedge funds, Jason got everyone on their feet, reconstructed knees creaking and pot bellies swaying with the effort.

  Once on their bikes, the Hawgs were all business. From San Bernardino they sped across the Mojave on part of the old Route 66, cutting north on the old Baker-Kelso road. Stands of Joshua trees and yucca were standing on the hillsides and along the road like alien sentinels. The constant roar of wind rushing by gave Becky an earache, but the wind was the only thing that kept them from frying them in their seats. Black leather pants and bomber jackets didn’t seem to be the smartest thing to be wearing. But just as the one-hundred-plus degrees became truly unbearable, a purple bank of thunderclouds closed in on them and the bikes had to cut loose on the 15, racing the storm across the desert. She was thankful for the cooler air, but the storm displaced discomfort with fear and she sank her nails into Jason’s jacket as the lightning strikes came close. Her ears were still ringing an hour later.

  Jason had been after her to get her own bike, but she’d never really looked into it. She wished she had now, since driving at least let you anticipate the bumps and curves ahead. As it was, she took every imperfection and nuance of the road directly on the ass. Not to mention being a passenger could be a colossal bore. She tried sleeping, but jerked awake every few minutes, terrified that she was about to pitch off the back of the bike at seventy miles an hour.

  They finally crossed the state line, avoided Vegas where she lost all hope that they’d be staying in a nice hotel, and pushed on to Utah. That night, she collapsed into bed in a motel outside of St. George, feeling like she’d been flogged, not sure how, exactly, she’d be able to do two more full days like this one. Jason and the Hawgs made a halfhearted attempt at raising hell in the motel’s bar, but most snuck off by eleven to their rooms. Even the die-hards were in bed by midnight.

  The pain was worse the next day, but they had to be on the road early again. The hours passed in a blur of rocky Western landscape. She had the strange feeling she was traveling in a bubble; she and Jason could only have snatches of conversation, the wind ripping the words right out of their mouths most of the time. For the most part, she sat back, hung on, and tried to appreciate the scenery.

  Utah gave way to western Colorado. After a night’s stay in the old town of Grand Junction, the group split, some wanting to explore the Rockies, others wanting to push on to get to Sturgis early. Jason was one of those wanting to get on to the Rally, so he led the remaining Hawgs east and north into Wyoming, cutting through the steep mountains and taking the curves slowly.

  Day three and Becky could see the end was near, but every bone in her body felt like jelly. Only when she pitched a screaming fit at a rest stop near Loveland did Jason and the other Hawgs agree to stop every two hours so that she could get off the bike and feel something that wasn’t vibrating and rattling underneath her. She noticed after her first protests that most of the Hawgs began to dawdle at the rest stops, taking longer and longer to saddle up each time. At their third stop, one of the Hawgs leaned towards her and said, “Thanks for making him stop, honey. I thought my peter was going to fall off before we ever got to South Dakota.”

  They started to see more bikers and every once in a while a group would pull even with them on the highway, the two groups making a virtual army of bikers rolling down the road, shouting to each other who they were and wh
ere they were from. A couple more hours and they began to hit traffic after they crossed the state line into South Dakota, slowing down as they passed towns with names like Lead and Pluma. She saw a sign for the town of Deadwood proclaiming Wild Bill Hickok Was Shot Here! Low Rates. Campgrounds for the Black Hills were scattered everywhere and they passed campers and RVs with kids peering out, watching the thundering bikes go by.

  Becky was asleep when they finally pulled off I-90 to roll into Sturgis and she woke, startled, when they stopped, the lack of road noise rousing her. She raised her head, groggy and sleep-stupid. They were on a modest two-lane street in a small town, with short buildings, most only a story or two high, extending several blocks in both directions. What she stared at, however, were the bikes. Hundreds—no, thousands—of bikes lined each side of the street and in a double row going down the lane as far as she could see. They looked like giant dominoes, stacked and ready to be knocked over in a colossal chain reaction. Bikers in leather and jeans walked the streets, sat on their bikes, yelled to each other across the street. Biker chicks in leather bikini tops flashed passing bikers or mooned painfully out-of-place tourists trying to capture the moment for the folks at home. She’d never seen so many tattoos and piercings, even in Santa Monica. The smell of exhaust, cheap food, and Porta Potties filled the air, competing with one another and making her nauseous. She looked over to Jason, who had just gotten off the bike with a groan of satisfaction.

  He smiled at her. “Welcome to heaven!”

  They stayed in town long enough to grab a beer, then went their separate ways to get ready for the evening. The Hawgs left for a campground, some of them hinting that they wouldn’t mind staying with the two movie stars, but Jason ignored them and said they’d meet later at their favorite bar, the Pasture Patty. Becky groaned as she got back on the bike to head out of town.

  The house was located about twenty minutes outside of Sturgis, sitting on a bluff overlooking the town in one direction and commanding a gorgeous view of the Black Hills in the other. It was 11,000 square feet, had fourteen bedrooms, and there was a koi pond in the front yard. Normally meant to house twenty people or more, it felt like a museum to Becky as she and Jason looked around.

  “Damn, we’re going to have a huge party,” he said. “It wouldn’t be much in LA, but compared to most of the shitholes around here, it’s a palace.”

  Becky flopped down on a couch with a sigh and studied the room. A huge buffalo head hung near the door and a set of longhorns sat over a fireplace that was big enough to walk into. A chandelier made of dozens of deer antlers clustered together hung from the cathedral ceiling. The furniture—cream-colored fabric chairs and couches—didn’t fit with the decor. Several wool blankets had been casually tossed over the backs of the furniture and she grabbed one and shoved it under her head. It was like resting her cheek on a wet dog, so she pushed it onto the floor and grabbed a pillow instead. The place smelled like a rental, with the false home odors of bleach, air freshener, and fabric softener hovering in the air.

  Jason bounced around, opening doors and cabinets, turning the TV on and off, checking the view out all of the windows. “Hmph,” he said, looking in the fridge. “No beer. We’ll have to fix that.”

  Becky murmured from the couch, half-asleep. Jason continued to look around, poking in corners and peering in closets. He was looking in one of the guest bedrooms when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number. Mel. He peeked in the living room to see if Becky was asleep, then walked back to one of the guest rooms to answer the call.

  “Hi, Mel,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “Jason,” Mel said, sighing. “I’ve been trying to reach you for a couple of days.”

  “Bad reception, bro,” Jason said. “We’ve been traveling the Wild West for three days now.”

  “Bro? Since when am I a bro?”

  “Sorry, getting into character here. It’s what bikers call each other.”

  “The last bike I was on was a ten-speed my father got for me in 1958,” Mel said.

  “I don’t think you qualify, then, Mel,” Jason said, flipping the light switch on and off. “We’re talking Harleys here.”

  “I figured. Look, Jason, we need to talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “About the movie,” Mel began. “I know you’ve only had a couple of days to think on it, but I’m starting to get calls. That columnist, Martha Oates, keeps calling me, wanting to know if this is your latest bomb—”

  “My what?”

  “Her words, not mine,” Mel said. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. I gave her the usual line—you know, production is delayed but continuing, having trouble with actors signing, told her we were trying to get De Niro. He’s got commitments, et cetera.”

  “De Niro?” Jason said, looking off into space. “That would be cool.”

  There was a pause. “Jason, that was a lie. I wasn’t serious.”

  “I know, I know. I just liked the idea.”

  Another pause. “Okay, sport, what do we do about this?”

  Jason walked casually around the room, gliding his hand along the pine paneling on the wall. “Pitch another idea.”

  “Another idea? When the first one didn’t go? And to whom are we pitching it?”

  “The original investors. We have to get them back into it anyway, right? Since Hal let the cat out of the bag, they’re going to want either a movie or their money back. We act like Billy Budd was just a cover story—a front, if you will—so we could keep the real movie under wraps.”

  “A cover story?” Mel said in disbelief. “We gave them the whole script!”

  “Just a ruse,” Jason said. “We wanted even the investors to be bluffed.”

  “And what’s the real movie? I’m afraid to ask.”

  “A biker flick. A…a spiritual sequel to Easy Rider,” Jason said, warming to the idea even as he was in the process of inventing it. “A tribute. There’ve been biker movies since the great one, but never a direct sequel.”

  “That’s because they both die at the end.”

  “Whatever. Call it artistic license.”

  “Oookay,” Mel said. “How’s this one going to get made?”

  “Same way the original one was,” Jason said. “Low budget, grainy, locals as extras, whole nine yards. We’ll need more cash from the investors, but that’s normal. Things always go over budget. We’ll use the extra money to finance the biker flick. What’d they make Easy Rider on? Three hundred grand?”

  “Yeah,” Mel said, his voice rising. “In 1969.”

  “Relax, Mel. This one will work. It’ll have everything: homage to a great American film, biker mania, sex. Can’t miss.”

  “Who’s gonna write it?”

  “Me,” Jason said, playing with the blinds. Open, closed. Open, closed. “Hopper didn’t have a script. If he can do it, I can come up with something.”

  “Camera?”

  “Yours truly. I brought a digital with me.”

  “Production? Direction?”

  “Me and me,” Jason said.

  “And maybe I’ll hire some film students from UCLA to handle the editing and post-production,” Mel said, his voice rising. “Jason, what is this?”

  “Living on the edge, Mel,” Jason said. “We don’t have much of a choice, besides declaring Chapter Eleven.”

  There was silence on the other end. “Jason, out of respect for you and the history we’ve got together, I’ll see this through. But if you’re screwing with me and this thing starts to sink—like I think it will—I’m cutting you loose.”

  Jason laughed tightly through his teeth. “I thought actors fired their agents, not the other way around.”

  “This isn’t a threat, just something for you to think about,” Mel said. “There are other actors who need agents.”

  “You’re saying I’m done? I’m through?” Jason said. “Well, screw you, Mel.” He hung up the phone, pushing the End button hard. It made a small beep. Not satisfied, Ja
son threw it across the room, where it bounced off the wall and knocked over a table lamp.

  Becky stumbled down the hall, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on? Why are you yelling?”

  Jason spun around and put a smile on his face. “Nothing to worry about, sweet tits. Just one of the Hawgs, prank-calling me. They want to know what’s taking us so long.”

  She grimaced and began pulling her clothes off. He raised his eyebrows and made as if to unbuckle his belt.

  “Not now, Jason,” she said. “I have to get ready for that charity thing.”

  He frowned. “Charity thing? What are you talking about?”

  “The registration for the charity auction,” she said, her voice muffled as she pulled her shirt over her head. “I told you before we left. I’m the celebrity draw.”

  He watched her as she slipped out of her jeans. “Aren’t you coming to the Pasture Patty with me?”

  She walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. “I’ll meet you there later. The registration thing will probably only be for an hour or two. The real auction isn’t until tomorrow night.”

  “I don’t want you spending all of your time on it,” he said, thinking of the filming he had to do.

  “I won’t,” Becky said as she pulled back the curtain and stepped into the shower. “For Pete’s sake, it’s a charity event and we’ve got all week. Let me do something of my own while I’m here.”

  He undressed and padded over to the shower, slipping in behind her. “Jason, I told you not now,” Becky said when she felt his arms slip around to cup her breasts. “I don’t want to be late for this.”

  “I’m the one with the bike,” he said with a lopsided grin. “You want a ride or not?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Baby Boy packed quickly but carefully, not knowing how long he’d be on the hunt for Lee and Randy. He’d never left Virginia before and figured South Dakota—a place so far away it took him ten minutes to find it on a map—must be cold as hell, even though it had the word South in the name. So he threw in a thick, quilted jacket on top of his leather coat, some gloves, and a hat. A couple of changes of jeans, shirts, and extra ammo for his guns, and he was set. He picked up a carryout bucket of fried chicken and a case of Coke then hit the road.