Stealing Sturgis

by Matthew Iden

  “Where’s the auction going to be?” Randy asked, ignoring a glance from Lee. “No one’s told us yet.”

  “Here,” Sam said, taking the paper back and cramming an address into a corner. “You’ll have to register sometime today, but the big show doesn’t start until tomorrow night at eight. Should be a big deal. We’re hoping to get a ton of people to come.”

  Lee started to mumble his thanks when Randy interrupted. “Really? How big?”

  Sam shrugged. “A couple hundred if not more. Got some celebs coming in to try and draw a crowd. They’re the ones that’ll auction off your bike.”

  Lee straightened at that, but Randy leaned forward. “Yeah? Celebrities?” Randy asked, interested. “Anyone we know?”

  Sam smiled. Though genuine, it didn’t look quite right on his face. “Not personally, I imagine. Couple of rock stars. I don’t remember their names. Not my kind of music. Some movie stars and some suntan girls. One of the beer reps offered to sponsor, but we didn’t want that kind of image.”

  They nodded, then shook hands. “Thanks for your help, Sam,” Lee said. “You’re really bailing us out.”

  “No problem. Just try a little harder next year. Oops, gotta go.” Sam took off across the room. Lee and Randy watched him dash around the bar and, with one of the other bouncers closing in, grab two guys who had gone from a shouting match to an open fight in less than a minute. Lee and Randy left as Sam grabbed one of the fighters in a head lock, the guy’s face turning purple, while the other bouncer had the other brawler’s right arm twisted behind his back.

  Outside, squinting against the sun, Randy turned to Lee. “How’s that for luck? We found a place to stay and maybe where those movie stars are going to make an appearance, all at the same time.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Lee said.

  They snagged a map of Sturgis from one of the information booths and, between that and asking for directions a couple of times, found their way to the BFG campground.

  “You know I ain’t really selling my bike, right?” Lee said as they passed through the entrance to the campground. A huge banner hung from two giant oaks proclaiming the campground for the Bikers for God. Staked around the area were a couple smaller signs with messages like God Rides a Harley and We’re the Real Holy Rollers.

  “Yeah, I know it,” Randy said. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, son. We’re just faking it long enough to get a place to stay, which won’t be for long, now that we know them movie stars are the main attraction at this auction. We’ll follow ’em back after the big to-do, steal them bikes, and blaze on out of here with everyone else on the last day.”

  They found a group of the Bikers for God hanging together at one RV site, explained that they’d talked with Sam about the auction, and were directed to an empty pull-through lot on one side of the campground. A few minutes later, as they were wondering what to do, one of the bikers brought over a spare tent and a couple of sleeping bags. Lee pitched the tent while Randy studied the map of the town.

  “Look at this,” Randy said, showing Lee the map. “Here’s where the auction is, at this grandstand. There’s only one street that leaves the area. That’s the one they’ll take to leave after it’s over.”

  “What if they hang out, walk around a bit?” Lee asked, unrolling one of the sleeping bags.

  Randy frowned, chewing a fingernail. “Huh. Okay, you make sure you’re in the truck. If you see them and I can’t make it to you, you follow ’em until you know where they’re staying. Then come back to town and I’ll meet you at the Dead Man’s Hand. If they walk, I’ll follow them and you hang tight. When I think I know when and where they’re leaving, I’ll come for you and we’ll follow ’em that way.”

  “What about when the BFGers find out we didn’t actually auction off the bike?” Lee asked.

  “I don’t know. We’ll figure something out,” Randy said, impatient. “Tell ’em we couldn’t get to the auction in time, got stuck in traffic. We’ll make it up to them next year. If they kick us out, we find someplace else. The important thing is knowing where them movie stars and their bikes are.”

  They talked over more of the plans until a biker that brought them their sleeping bags came over. “If you guys are going to put that bike in the auction, you’re going to have to register soon.”

  “All right there, bud,” Randy said, raising a hand. “Thanks for the info.” The biker looked at them for a second, then turned around, shaking his head.

  “He doesn’t look too sure about us already,” Lee said, watching him go.

  Randy shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt none to register. Might make us look more legit when we skip out on the auction, like we really tried.”

  “All right,” Lee said, though he looked less than certain. “You coming?” he asked when Randy didn’t move.

  “Why don’t you go? I’m going to stretch out for a while, get some sleep for tonight.”

  Lee shrugged and grabbed his keys to the truck. “Wait a sec,” Randy said, scrambling to his feet. “Let me grab my bag.”

  He grabbed his duffel sack and waved as Lee eased through their site and rolled towards the exit, stopping once to ask for directions from the bikers. Randy watched him go, then stooped over and got into the tent, zipping it shut behind him. Kneeling on the sleeping bags, he opened his duffel bag and dug through his balled-up jeans and t-shirts until he found a small cloth bag, heavy for its size.

  With exquisite care, he opened the bag and unwound a long rag that, once undone, dropped a chunky black pistol into his waiting hand. It was a 9mm Glock 17, a wonderfully ugly block of a gun with a thick, cross-hatched grip that fit perfectly in Randy’s palm. He weighed it in his hand. Two full, double-stacked clips bound together with a rubber band fell from the bundle. Randy checked the action on the gun, looking down the sight, and dry-fired it a few times, grinning at the smooth “click” the gun made. He unwound the rubber band from the clips and slapped one into the Glock. He wanted to chamber a round like they did in the movies, but knew that that was stupid. He probably didn’t even need it to be loaded, let alone ready to fire.

  But you never knew.

  Lee drove over to the grandstand area where the biker had told him the auction registration was taking place. The crowds were dense, even thicker than they had been earlier in the day when Lee and Randy had pulled into town.

  He spotted a tent with a sign that said Auction Registration: Help Fight Muscular Dystrophy! and double-parked behind another truck with a bike on it. He explained to a local cop what he was doing there and got waved on into the tent.

  Inside was stuffy, though the shade was welcome relief from the sun. Lee let his eyes adjust to the dark. Twenty-odd people stood in line in front of a large table, most of them carrying something, slowly shuffling forward as the person in front of them finished their business and moved on. A sign stapled to the front of the table said Items for Auction and, looking closer, Lee could see that those with smaller items—belt buckles, knives, jackets—were handing them over and getting some kind of packet in return. Others showed some paperwork and received the same packet. The workers behind the table would get excited when this happened and Lee realized that these people were probably showing registration for their bike to be auctioned.

  He began backing out of the tent when a soft voice near his shoulder asked, “You aren’t here to donate to the auction, are you?”

  Lee turned to the voice. A girl, maybe in her twenties, with clear green eyes and wavy red hair was looking him over, smiling. Her nose was a little long, but he found himself thinking that her lips were perfect. She came up to his shoulder and had a hand on one cocked hip. He blinked two or three times.

  “Yeah,” he said, coughing, then tried again. “I was thinking about it.”

  She was wearing hip-hugging jeans and a sleeveless white top that showed off a nice chest. Her grin spread across her face. “It didn’t look like it. You were turning to go.”

  He fe
lt a flush develop around his neck and spread to his face. “The registration is in the truck. I think that’s what those folks are recording there.” He gestured at the table.

  She put a hand on his arm, laughing. He jumped at her touch. “I’m sorry, I’m just messing with you. You look like somebody punched you in the gut. Let’s start over. I’m Becky.”

  He smiled. “My name’s Lee. Nice to meet you.”

  She smiled widely this time, showing perfect white teeth. “Nice to meet you, too, Lee. Why don’t you show me your bike?”

  He took her outside in a kind of trance, walking her over to the truck. He showed her his bike and watched her smile, her reaction. She seemed interested in everything he had to say, asked him questions about how he’d gotten it, and when. She said she liked his accent and asked where he was from. He told her Virginia, embarrassed, and she said she’d been to Virginia Beach once as a kid. Maybe fifteen minutes passed before he realized that a few people had stopped to watch them, which bothered him peripherally, but he didn’t put two and two together until one of the workers from the tent poked his head outside and called, “Miss Winters, we’re going to need you in here, if you don’t mind.”

  He looked at her and said, “You’re Becky Winters?”

  She nodded and grinned again, looking like an imp. “Who did you think I was?”

  “I don’t know. I guess…well, just Becky.”

  She reached over and squeezed his arm gently. “I am just Becky. Thanks for showing me your bike, Lee. I’ll see you tomorrow night at the auction.”

  Stunned, he watched her walk away, following the bottom of her jeans the whole way into the tent. She stopped at the entrance and turned around, her hair swinging. “Hey, Lee. We’ll probably be at the Pasture Patty tonight. I think it’s on Junction Avenue. You should come by if you can.”

  Lee felt the blood rush to his face again, but managed to stammer, “Maybe we’ll do that.”

  She smiled again and disappeared inside the tent. Lee watched her go, still feeling the spot on his arm where she’d squeezed, burning like a brand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lee pulled back into their spot at the BFGer campground, waving to the bikers as he drove past. Randy sat in the opening of their tent with his arms behind like stilts, propping himself up. He raised a hand in greeting as Lee pulled in. The truck rattled and coughed to a stop and Lee climbed out.

  “Howdy, pardner,” Randy said, squinting at Lee. “What took you so long?”

  “Traffic, lines, crowds,” Lee said, idly scratching an elbow. “Drove around awhile, tried to make it look good for the BFGers here. Couldn’t come back too soon.”

  “What, you didn’t actually put your bike on the auction block, did you?”

  “Hell, no. Saw the tent they were talking about where you’re supposed to register, but I just drove by.”

  “You see any of those movie stars Brother Sam claimed are supposed to be there?”

  Lee shook his head and looked away. “Nope. Just a bunch of redneck bikers selling their crap. They got the strangest things.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t stop,” Randy said.

  “The line was spilling onto the street,” Lee said. “Guess people can’t give their stuff away fast enough.”

  Randy nodded, thoughtful. “Guess not. Say, you want to get a bite to eat? It’s been a while.”

  “Don’t think so. I got a headache, thought I’d lay down for a while. But go if you want to. You got money?”

  Randy grinned. “Not much, Pops. Spare some?”

  Lee pulled two tens from his wallet. “Don’t spend it all in one place, son.”

  “You want me to bring you back something?”

  “Nah, I might go out later, if I feel better.”

  “Don’t wait up for me,” Randy said, getting to his feet with a groan.

  Lee switched places with him, sat down on the tent floor, and stretched his legs with a groan. “No worries there.”

  Randy shoved the money in his pocket. “Hey.”

  Lee raised his head. “Yeah?”

  “You head into town, don’t forget, we’re looking for those movie stars. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lee said, giving him a mock salute. Randy gave him the finger back and walked away with a laugh.

  Becky left the registration tent after a few more hours of looking good and making conversation, signing autographs and listening to people, smiling and suffering through the hugging, squeezing, and ass grabbing. The auction managers made it clear they hoped that a celebrity at the registration would bring more people to donate. Then, at the auction itself, the celebrity draw would bring in the buyers.

  Their hunch seemed to work. Becky had never seen more crap being offered for sale, though they told her that some of the things she had raised her eyebrows at—like the chopper casket from Die Riding, Inc., complete with chrome handles and screaming eagle motif—were the items that would bring the biggest bids. They let her go once they’d received the hoped-for one hundred items, including a couple of bikes from different garages around the country, custom leather saddlebags, and, not to be outdone by the casket maker, two urns from a rival company, one made from the V-twin engine cylinders and another out of a rocker box mounted on an oak panel.

  For the most part, she liked the crowd that came in. Most of them were regular people just there for a week’s worth of good times. One couple she talked to that was offering a knit Harley-logo quilt had been coming to Sturgis for twenty-eight years. They’d gotten married at the Rally and the whole wedding party had either been riders or had learned quickly. Others, mostly young guys, had come to see her. They posed for pictures and settled for autographs when what they’d hope for was a almost-naked Becky Winters wearing a leather thong and decals on her nipples, like most of the other girls.

  She wandered around the town after leaving the registration tent, feeling homesick and out of place. The bikes and the people blurred together into an indistinct mass. The smells of food, sweat, and exhaust were overpowering and melded into a tang that had her stomach roiling. Every biker that passed on Main Street was obligated to rev their engine, deafening everyone, though she seemed to be the only one not enjoying it. A blue smoke lay heavy on the air from what one of the auction workers had told her was the burn-out pit, whatever that was. It made it hard to breathe and gave her a headache. The crush of people drove her into a shaded alley just to catch her breath.

  She thought back to the one biker, Lee. He hadn’t even known who she was or that she was going to be there. She felt a surprising wave of disappointment that he had recognized her name. She liked how he looked—thin, but not skinny, with a pointed jaw and high cheekbones. And blue eyes that reflected the sky. He’d been so proud of his bike and so embarrassed when she’d first started talking to him. She hadn’t seen a boy blush since grade school.

  School made her think of home and she felt a familiar knot of depression settle in her stomach. She hadn’t talked to her dad for months. She was always too busy, there was always something more important to do. Mel had turned into a surrogate father, but she was careful never to tell him too much or rely on him too heavily; he might be someone she’d have to fire someday, as Jason often reminded her.

  Well, what was wrong with calling now? She felt a familiar reluctance: the longer she went without calling, the less she felt like picking up the phone. She debated with herself for a good five minutes before saying, “God!” out loud, startling a nice Midwestern-looking family passing by. What did it take to make a phone call?

  She kept walking until she felt like she’d left the worst of the Rally noise behind, then pulled out her cell phone. She looked at it for a minute, biting her lip, then dialed her dad’s place in New Jersey. The phone rang five or six times before his old answering machine clicked on. She felt guilty at the wave of relief that washed over her.

  “Hi, Dad, it’s me. Becky,” she said at the beep. “Sorry I have
n’t called in so long. Things have been super busy—”

  The machine clicked off as the phone on the other end of the line picked up. “Steinmetz’s,” her father said on the other line. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dad, it’s me,” Becky said.

  There was a pause. “Hi, honey, how are you?”

  “I’m good. I just wanted to call. I’ve been so busy lately, hardly had time to sit down.”

  “Yeah, you must be, making movies.”

  “That’s what I do,” she said with a tight little laugh.

  “I meant to tell you, that last one you were in, it was good, but you’re showing too much skin. You’re an actress, not a stripper.”

  “It’s what sells, Dad,” she said, smiling. Trust her dad not to mince words. “Besides, it’s not half as bad as what most of the girls have to do.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not most girls, are you? You’re a Steinmetz, no matter what you call yourself now,” he said. “Just thought I’d make my wishes known.”

  “I hear you loud and clear.”

  “Okay, I’ll drop it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You still seeing that old guy?”

  “Jason,” she said. “Yeah. And he’s not old, he’s barely forty.”

  “Uh-huh. What’s that make you? Barely twenty, then, I guess?”

  “Dad, please.”

  “Please what? When I was your age, they would hang a guy dating somebody that much younger. You’re not sleeping with him, are you?”

  “Dad!” she said, appalled. “For Pete’s sake!”

  “All right, sorry. I feel like I’ve got to get this all in now, because we don’t, I mean, I never—” He trailed off. She heard him clear his throat.

  “I know. I never call,” Becky said after a pause. “I’m sorry, Dad. It won’t always be like this. You always told me to make hay while the sun shines, right? Even though we’d never seen hay.” He laughed weakly at their old joke. “Well, I’m making it, but it won’t last forever.”