by Ann B. Ross
“About eight more miles,” he said, lowering his visor.
“Hallelujah,” I said, and lowered mine, getting myself ready to run the gauntlet on Main Street.
Before he could lift his other foot from the ground and give us the gas, another roaring motorcycle pulled in and braked in front of us, stopping us cold. A hot streak of the most irate kind swept through me as soon as I saw the black cycle with orange stripes. Another delay! And by somebody who ought to’ve been minding her own business.
Tammi pushed up her visor and smiled in a flirtatious way at Mr. Pickens. Then she flicked her head toward me and said, “Why don’t you get a real woman to ride with, J. D.?”
It came to me like a flash: She thinks I’m Hazel Marie!
Before Mr. Pickens could say a word, I flipped up my visor and snapped, “I’ll have you know he’s already got a real woman. And I’ll tell you another thing, young lady—if you’re looking for trouble, you’ve just about found it. Now get that thing out of our way!”
Her mouth had dropped open at the sight of me, and it stayed that way. As Mr. Pickens backed us away from her machine, she was too stunned to make a move to stop us.
Mr. Pickens revved the motor and headed toward the street. And we almost made it.
Mr. Pickens slammed on the brakes, almost catapulting me over his shoulders. We skidded to within a hair’s breadth of a sheriff’s squad car that had barreled to a stop directly in front of us, tires screeching and siren whomping.
“Go around him, Mr. Pickens!” I yelled. “I’ll pay the ticket!”
I didn’t know what we’d done to deserve a traffic stop, but I didn’t aim to find out. I was a law-abiding woman, as anybody could tell you, and I wasn’t all that eager to engage in a high-speed chase, but this deputy was going to have his hands full if he thought he was going to stop us tonight.
The window of the squad car slid down, and Deputy Coleman Bates yelled over the rumbling of Mr. Pickens’s motorcycle, “I know about the deadline, so come on! You’ve got an escort!”
“Coleman!” I cried. “What’re you doing here? Where’s Binkie?”
“False alarm!” he yelled back. “She’s home eating ice cream.”
And off he took, heading down Main Street, blue light bar flashing and siren screaming. Mr. Pickens stepped on the gas, getting us up to speed before we even hit the street. We bounced over railroad tracks and went tearing off after Coleman. Mr. Pickens hunched over the handlebars—for the aerodynamics, don’t you know—and I hunched over him, my coattails flapping like Zorro’s cape. Coleman’s siren cleared out the block in front of us, then two deputies on official sheriff’s motorcycles and wearing knee-high shiny boots, came peeling out of a side street, lights and sirens going, and tucked themselves on each side of Coleman’s patrol car.
Lord, it was a spectacle of thrilling proportions! Lines of cars separated before us, pulling over left and right; people on the sidewalks stopped and stared; buildings flashed by before my eyes; stoplights, streetlights, and shop lights whizzed by, and I was clamped onto Mr. Pickens like my life depended on it. Which it did.
One after the other of the motorcycle deputies pulled ahead of Coleman to hold cross traffic at the intersections so we could fly down the street without stopping. Then they’d catch up and pass us to provide the leading escort. Before I caught my breath good, we were beyond the traffic lights and on the Delmont highway, leaning into the curves and screaming down the straightaways.
I squeezed Mr. Pickens’s chest until I felt him grunt. I was so proud of him and our civic-minded sheriff’s department, I didn’t know what to do. And I was downright thankful that only Hazel Marie and I knew I was out in public in a pair of pants that were unzipped, unbuttoned, and about to slide off.
Chapter 35
There were no street lights on the Delmont Highway, but it wasn’t as dark as the mountainous and tree-lined roads we’d been on. There were houses, for one thing, most with lights on, and more traffic on the highway, which didn’t bother us because they got out of our way. And who wouldn’t, with all those sirens going full blast.
I glanced up at the sky, washed with a pinkish tint from the sun that was already below the horizon. Clouds were piled up again in the west, but for now, the rain was holding off.
But all I could think of was the ticking of the clock. What if we got to Red’s at two minutes after? Or one minute after? I knew Thurlow Jones and his idea of a great joke. He wouldn’t cut me a bit of slack, and a near-miss on my part would only add to his fun. It made me ill, just thinking about it.
I wanted to look at my watch, but knew it was too dark to see it and I was too scared to turn loose of Mr. Pickens to even try. So I held my breath, hoping I could hold up time, too.
We leaned into a long, sweeping curve and, as we were coming out of it, I saw lights glowing against the low-lying clouds. Mr. Pickens yelled something but the wind snatched it away. I knew what he was saying, though. We’d made it. We were coming up to Red’s, where the parking lot was blazing with pole lights and strings of lights strung around on everything that was standing.
I could see more parked motorcycles, the chrome on them glinting in the lights, than I’d ever seen in my life. They were lined up along the front of the restaurant, parked at the side, stuck between cars, pickups, trailers, vans, and two flatbed trucks. And people! My word, half the town must’ve come out to welcome in the riders. And we were the last of them.
We began to slow down to make the turn into the lot and, with all the sirens and flashing lights our motorcade was exhibiting, swarms of people who’d come in from the Run stopped what they were doing and stared at us. There were dancers out in the sidelot, men standing around motorcycles, men and women going in and out of the restaurant and clustering around the vendor booths—they all stopped and stared, bunching up together to see who was coming in with a police escort. I felt like a visiting dignitary.
We bumped into the packed gravel lot as the sirens died down to a whine. Mr. Pickens slowed his machine and headed toward the door of the building.
I banged my hand on his shoulder. “Find Thurlow!” I yelled. “Run him down, if you have to!”
I wouldn’t’ve put it past the old goat to hide in the crowd until it was past five. I swept the crowd, looking for him, and saw Mrs. Causey, Sister Flora, and Mr. Wills waving and jumping up and down. The Reverend Mister Abernathy stood beside them, welcoming us with a broad smile. It looked as if word had gotten out about the importance of my timely arrival.
I glanced around, looking for Pastor Ledbetter, but he was nowhere to be seen. He was probably sulled up in his study, justifying himself for his principled stand, while Emma Sue was out spreading her wings.
And, Lord, there was Lillian, right in front, and standing beside her was Thurlow Jones. Mr. Pickens saw them, too, for he braked to a stop so that I was eye-to-eye with them.
I snatched off my helmet, giving not one thought to the flattened state of my hair, and demanded, “What time is it?”
Mr. Pickens cut off his motor, looked at his chronograph watch, and said, “Four minutes to five!”
Lillian said, “I got two minutes till, but I’m fast.”
Thurlow Jones pulled out a pocket watch, studied it with great seriousness, and announced loud and clear, “Three after, railroad time.”
The people who’d crowded around us protested with a loud “No-o-o.” But I didn’t need any encouragement.
I came flying off that motorcycle, one hand clutching my downward-creeping pants and the other reaching for that no-good, lying, bandy-legged little pest.
He turned to dodge into the crowd, but Lillian had him by the coattail and she dragged him back.
I got right up in his face and said, “You look me in the eye and tell me it’s after five!”
“Well,” he said, grinning and looking somewhat abashed. Or maybe snagged and caught. “Maybe that’s why trains don’t run on time.”
“The check, then,
” I demanded, holding out my hand.
“Oh, I’ll get it to you tomorrow. That be all right?”
It was all I could do not to pound him into the ground. The sorry thing was enjoying this! Teasing me, putting me off, dragging the whole thing out, and me in dire peril of losing Willow Lane and my home—to say nothing of my trousers and my temper.
“Thurlow,” I said, a dangerous tone, which he undoubtedly recognized, vibrating in my voice. He stepped back a pace, but Lillian jerked him to a standstill. “Thurlow, I’ll have you know, I’ve been through rain, fog, and mud; I’ve been crammed into a sidecar and plopped on a seat not big enough to sneeze at; I’ve been followed and pursued by unknown personages, almost run off the road, and sabotaged on top of that—which you may have to answer for. I’ve been unclothed and redressed so that I’m not fit to be seen in public, yet I’ve ridden miles through the wilderness, restrained myself from injuring a red-headed woman and from tearing up Harold Cox’s Esso station, and raced down Main Street, breaking every traffic law in the book, and I have gotten here absolutely on time!” My voice had reached epic dimensions by this time, and I had the full attention of the audience and Thurlow Jones. “So,” I said, shaking my finger in his face, “do you think I’m going to wait till tomorrow to get that check? Think again!”
He grinned, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a folded check. “Don’t get in an uproar. I’m just foolin’ with you.”
I took it and examined every inch. It would be just like him to have failed to sign it. But no, it seemed to be in order, and I cannot tell you what a burden was lifted from my soul.
But just to make sure, I narrowed my eyes at him and said, “Don’t you even think of stopping payment on this.”
And he had the nerve to be offended. “What do you take me for? I’m a man of my word, and that check’s as good as gold.”
“It better be,” I said, somewhat mollified. “Or I’ll be after you like you won’t believe.”
Then he edged up to me and said, “That wouldn’t be a bad thing at all. Why don’t you invite me over next week?”
My eyes rolled so far back in my head, I didn’t think they’d ever come back down. If he thought I would sit at a table with him after his recent bout of self-inflicted organ damage, he would have to think again. I turned my back on him so fast that I felt another slippage in the leather department. I whispered to Lillian, “I’m about to lose these britches. Where’s the ladies’ room?”
She took my arm and pushed us through the crowd and into the restaurant. People were still gathered around the windows, where they’d watched our entrance and the ensuing confrontation; a few were sitting at tables, intent on getting service, and Willie Nelson was singing “On the Road Again” on the jukebox. An infelicitous selection, if you ask me.
Lillian cleared our way into the restaurant, heading for the ladies’ room. “Comin’ through,” she called. “Got us a ’mergency.”
I should say we did. I just couldn’t get a grip on Hazel Marie’s pants, and I feared they’d soon be around my ankles. But people were pouring back inside, so we were stopped time and again for congratulations on an outstanding run.
Mary Alice McKinnon ran up and whispered, “We need to get together and tally up the proceeds from the Run. I think we’re close, Miss Julia, but I’m still counting what came in from the riders and from Mr. Jones.”
“Find us a quiet spot,” I said, “if there is one. I’ll help as soon as I visit the ladies’ room.”
She nodded and backed away as more people pushed between us. They wanted to hear about every little thing— Sam’s sabotaged cycle, who’d done it, how fast we’d gone, and on and on. Questions, backpats, handshakes came at me from all sides, while all I wanted to do was get behind a closed door and adjust those pants.
Through a momentary gap in the crowd, I caught sight of the man in the Burberry raincoat. He was sitting at a table in the far corner, his raincoat draped over a chair so that the signature plaid was in plain sight. He gave me a nod and a quick smile, which I neither understood nor returned. I will tell you what’s a fact: I was bone-tired of being followed around by strangers, either on motorcycles or off. And as the crowd surged around Lillian and me again, it came to me that the fat boys and Tammi hadn’t been the only strangers dogging our tracks that afternoon.
Just as we got to the ladies’ room door, LuAnne threw her arms around me and cried, “Julia! I’ve been worried sick about you. What happened? Oh, I’m so thrilled that you got Thurlow’s check. Tell me all about it.”
“LuAnne,” I said, “unhand me. I’ve got business to tend to, then I’ll talk to you.” Then I saw the brown bottle in her hand. “Are you drinking beer? Is that beer?”
LuAnne was a Presbyterian of the near-fundamental persuasion, and I could not believe that she’d taken to drink, as she so evidently had.
She flapped her hand at me. “Oh, Julia, don’t be so judgmental. It’s non-alcoholic beer, and not a thing wrong with it.”
Well, look who was calling who judgmental, but I didn’t call her on it.
“Listen, Julia,” she whispered, beer fumes emanating from her breath, even if they were non-alcoholic. “I can’t wait to tell you about Big Bill, and what a time we had.”
Lillian grabbed my arm and pulled me away. “Sorry, Miz Conover, but Miss Julia got to go to the bathroom.” And she pushed me through the door into a ladies’ room with considerably more space than the last one I’d been in.
As soon as the door closed behind us and I had looked under the stalls to be sure we were alone, I let my coat fall open. The mangled remnants of Hazel Marie’s leather trousers were bunched up far below my hipbones. “Lillian, would you just look at what I’ve been subjected to?”
Lillian gaped at the sight. “Law, Miss Julia, I never thought I ever see you in a pair of britches.”
“Well, if you’ll notice, you’re not seeing me in them now, because they’re not half on.”
We began laughing then, and I almost lost what was still hanging by a few threads.
Then, suddenly aware that some biker chicks might come in to use the facilities, I got myself under control. “Where’s Hazel Marie, Lillian? We have to change clothes. Although,” I said, looking again at the mutilated condition of her leather pants. “I don’t think she’ll want these back. Where is she, anyway?”
“None of ’em be back yet. Mr. Red, he send a flatbed to pick up that motorsickle of Mr. Sam’s, an’ some more folk went to bring everybody back.”
“Then there’s no telling when they’ll get here.” I flopped down on a bent folding chair that was a convenience of the facilities and prepared to endure my half-dressed state a while longer.
“It don’t matter. Miss Hazel Marie call me right when you and Mr. Pickens leave that place, and she tell me to bring you both somethin’ to put on.” She reached for a Winn-Dixie bag on the counter. “I got ’em right here in this paper sack.”
I jumped up, almost losing what I was holding onto. “Bless her thoughtful heart! Oh, Lillian, this is all turning out all right. We’ve got Thurlow’s money and all those sponsorships, which will surely be enough. And I’ll give it to Clarence Gibbs Monday morning, which means you’re going to have a house on Willow Lane and I’m going to keep the one I have. You don’t know about that, but I’ll fill you in later. And furthermore, I’ve got my own clothes again.”
“She call Coleman, too,” Lillian said, smiling so that her gold tooth gleamed in the flourescent light. “She tell him to get you here on time, an’ he evermore did, ’long with Mr. Pickens, who ever’body here say a motorsickle-ridin’ fool.”
I started laughing, a mixture of elation, for having saved mine and Lillian’s bacon, and relief, for having survived that arduous journey without a scratch. I threw my arms around her and hugged her. “I love you, Lillian. And I love Hazel Marie and Little Lloyd and Coleman and Mr. Pickens and Sam. But you, most of all.” I gave her another squeeze. “Now help me out of thes
e tacky things.”
Chapter 36
It made a world of difference to be back in a button-down-the-front dress and cardigan, as well as to replace Hazel Marie’s droopy tights with a pair of hose. After a good bit of work with what Norma had called helmet hair, I was as close to my normal self as I could get with what I had to work with in Red’s ladies’ room.
Just as Lillian and I went back out to the main room of the restaurant, Sam, Hazel Marie, and Little Lloyd came in the front door. We hurried over to them, past groups of bikers and others who’d come to see the end of the Poker Run. A jukebox was playing and, off in a side room, there was the click of pool balls, and never-ending calls to the bartenders. I ignored it all, edging my way toward the door amid more congratulations as I passed.
When I finally got to the ones I most wanted to see, I called out over the uproar, “Thank goodness you’re all back safe and sound.”
“And you, too,” Sam said, giving me a big smile and rubbing his hand along my arm. “We’ve already heard how Pickens got you here with only a minute or two to spare. Congratulations, Julia, you did it.”
“Oh, Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie cried, throwing her arms around me. She still had on my dress with her biker boots and her leather jacket, making an unlikely combination. “You don’t know how worried we were. There we were, stuck out there with Sam’s broken Harley, not knowing where you were or whether you got here on time or what. Oh,” she went on, “here’s your pocketbook. I haven’t let it out of my sight.”
“Thank you, Hazel Marie,” I said. “I feel lost without it. Lillian has a change of clothes for you in the ladies’ room, which I expect you’ll be glad to get into.”
“What happened, Miss Julia?” Little Lloyd asked, pulling at my sleeve. “Was it fun? Did you like riding with J. D.?”
The answer to his last question was Not especially, but I said, “Let’s just say I’m glad I did it, but you won’t catch me doing it again. As for riding with Mr. Pickens, he got us here on time and in one piece, so I am thankful to him.”
