Iron Goddess

by Dharma Kelleher

  Outside the roar of multiple bikes with unbaffled pipes shook the windows then stopped. Wendy glanced outside again. “Oh shit! Don’t tell Hunter I’m here.” She rushed past Shea toward the restrooms.

  Three guys walked in wearing leather cuts with Confederate Thunder three-part patches. One of them, a bald-headed man with a scruffy, braided chestnut beard stood by the front counter and pointed toward the restrooms. “Mackey, check down there.”

  Mackey, a stout guy with the face of a weasel, nodded and sprinted toward the restrooms. A Confederate stars-and-bars bandana circled his blond, greasy, shoulder-length hair.

  “One-Shot, go ’round outside, make sure she don’t sneak out the back.”

  “Roger that.” One-Shot stood six-foot-something with a military-style crew cut. He ran back out the front door and around the building.

  “I don’t know what you boys want, but you’re gonna have to leave.” Shea approached the bald-headed man. The patches on his vest identified him as the president of the MC. No doubt this was Hunter, Wendy’s old man.

  “Mind your own business, bitch.” Hunter tried to push her aside, but she caught his hand and twisted it around in an arm lock. He let loose a sharp squeal.

  “This is my business, dirtbag!” She tightened the arm lock a pinch to drive home the point. “And in case you didn’t see the sign on your way in, I don’t allow club colors in my shop.”

  A scuffle erupted across the room. “Let me go, you asshole!” Wendy screeched as Mackey dragged her by the hair from the ladies’ room.

  Shea flipped Hunter around to face Mackey and her sister. A Beretta M9 protruded from Hunter’s waistband. She considered reaching for it, but doing so meant releasing the arm lock. She opted to hold tight for the moment.

  Mackey held Wendy with a tight grip on her hair, right at the scalp. Her face twisted in pain as she fell to her knees, her arms flailing.

  “Let ’er go, or I rip your buddy’s arm off,” Shea yelled. No one treats women like that in my shop, she thought, not even my good-for-nothing sister.

  “You stupid bitch,” grunted Hunter. “You’re good as dead.”

  Mackey pulled a snub-nosed revolver and squeezed off a couple of rounds in her direction. The deafening gunshots reverberated through the empty shop. Both bullets punched through the plywood on the door behind her.

  Shea ducked down, using Hunter as a shield, and grabbed the Beretta. Hunter wheeled around to punch her until he saw the gun pointed at his head.

  “Call off your dog.” She stood up, keeping Hunter between her and Mackey.

  Hunter glared until Shea flicked off the safety. “Mackey, hold your fire,” he said.

  Rather than dropping the revolver, Mackey pressed it against Wendy’s temple, still holding her by her hair. This guy is getting on my nerves, Shea thought.

  From the garage came a loud crash followed by shouting. It sounded like Lakota, Switch, and the other Thunderman.

  “What the hell was that?” asked Hunter.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say that was Switch.” Shea pulled back the hammer on the Beretta. “Tell your buddy to put his gun on the floor and let Wendy go.”

  “Soon as she tells me where she took my little girl.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Hunter.” Wendy’s face flushed dark red. “I ain’t telling you shit.”

  Mackey cracked her on the head with the revolver, dropping her to the floor, then pulled her back up again by her hair.

  “You fuck!” Shea pointed the Beretta at Mackey but held her fire. Switch burst in shrieking like a bird of prey and knocked the revolver out of Mackey’s hand with an exhaust pipe. Before he could recover, she swung again hitting him in the head. Mackey dropped like a fifty-pound sack of rice. Wendy recoiled against the wall and curled up into a ball.

  Switch continued pounding him until Terrance ran up and took the exhaust pipe out of her hands. Lakota wrapped Switch in a bear hug, whispering in her ear until she settled down.

  “Nice timing, guys,” Shea said, enjoying the unsettled expression on Hunter’s face.

  “Got the other punk out back wrapped up with duct tape,” said Terrance.

  “This ain’t over, you ugly bitch,” said Hunter. “I got a right to see my little girl. Ain’t nothing you or your overgrown monkey here can do to stop me.”

  Shea smacked Hunter in the face with the Beretta. A line of blood dripped onto his shirt.

  “Listen, you redneck piece of shit.” She put the gun to his forehead. “This ain’t family court. We don’t settle custody issues here. So unless you want me to pull the trigger, I’d suggest you leave and not come back. That goes for all the Thundermen. You got that?”

  Hunter glanced at Terrance, then back at Shea, wiping blood from his nose. “I got it.”

  “One more thing—which of you rednecks broke in here last night?” She wasn’t sure they had, but wanted to see how he reacted.

  A sneer twisted onto Hunter’s face. “What’re ya talking about? Why would we wanna break into this dump?”

  “Let’s see. Scumbags broke into my shop. The Thundermen are scumbags who’re always looking for a quick buck. You do the math.”

  “We were in Bradshaw City all night.”

  “Oh yeah? Doing what?”

  “None of your goddamned business.”

  “You lying to me?”

  In spite of the gun in his face, he smiled. “Guess you’ll either have to take my word for it or shoot me.”

  She kneed him in the crotch. “Get out of my shop.”

  He doubled over in pain. “Bitch, you’re gonna pay for that.” He limped over to where Mackey lay on the floor and nudged him with his foot. “Get the fuck up. We’re leaving.”

  Mackey groaned and struggled to his feet, massaging a lump on the back of his head.

  Hunter turned back to Shea. “Where’s One-Shot?”

  “Terrance, drag that other guy up front. And don’t be gentle about it.”

  “Will do.” Terrance disappeared into the workshop.

  She ushered Hunter and Mackey through the front door. One-Shot showed up a moment later, with Terrance on his heels.

  One-Shot pulled at the duct tape on his mouth with a great deal of wincing.

  “Let me get that for you, son.” Terrance ripped the tape off One-Shot’s face, leaving an angry welt.

  One-Shot grabbed the side of his face. “Motherfucker!”

  Terrance pulled him to his feet and pushed him toward Hunter and Mackey.

  Shea pointed the Beretta at their bikes. “Now get the fuck outta here. Next person I see here wearing Thunderman colors gets two in the chest.”

  Hunter grinned. “Well, ain’t you Daddy’s little girl.”

  It took every ounce of restraint she possessed not to shoot him.

  The three men started their Harleys in a deep rumble that echoed off the building. As they backed away from the curb, Hunter held up his hand in a gun shape pointed at Shea. She pointed his Beretta back at him.

  Mrs. Brooks, the owner of the Kokopelli Café, came running out, looking alarmed. “Did I hear gunfire?”

  Shea slipped the Beretta into her waistband, covering it with her shirt. “Naw, Mrs. Brooks,” she said with her most innocent smile. “One of the bikes in the workshop backfired a couple of times. Sorry to bother you.”

  Mrs. Brooks didn’t look convinced, but went back into the café.

  Chapter 9

  When Shea was sure Hunter and his boys were gone, she hurried over to her sister. Wendy sobbed so hard her body shook. Blood dripped from the top of her head where Mackey had coldcocked her with the revolver. The yellow-green of fading bruises colored Wendy’s face and arms, reminding Shea of the countless times their mother had been black and blue from Ralph’s beatings. The bitterness Shea felt toward her sister softened. History was repeating itself.

  “It’s okay; they’re gone.” Shea put an awkward hand on Wendy’s arm.

  “They’ll be back,” Wendy said between
sobs.

  “We can worry about that later.” Shea helped her stand, guided her to a chair in the customer waiting area, and handed her a paper towel. “Put this on your head until the bleeding stops.”

  “Thanks.” Wendy pressed the paper towel to her scalp and winced.

  “Wanna tell me what that was about?”

  “Hunter’s my old man.” Wendy offered an embarrassed smile.

  “Yeah, I gathered that.”

  “He used to be real nice, but lately any little thing sets him off. I try to stay outta his way when he’s like this, keep him happy best I can. But sometimes he gets pissed off no matter what.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, like air squeezing out of a tire.

  “The other day our daughter, Annie, asked why Daddy beats on me. I thought I’d been good about hiding it. But she’s eight now and startin’ to notice things.” Wendy stared at the floor. “That was the last straw. I had to get us out of there.”

  Wendy has a kid? “Where’s Annie now?” Shea asked.

  “I left her at my friend Margaret’s when I went to work this morning.” She grabbed another paper towel and wiped her nose. “Then this afternoon, on my way back to her house, Hunter and the guys spotted my car and started chasin’ me.” She crumpled the paper towel and clenched it in her fist. “That’s why I came here. I got your voicemail. Figured maybe you could help.”

  “How’d you know where I worked?”

  “Oh please! I seen your booth at the bike shows in Phoenix. Word gets around.”

  Shea grimaced. “Was it true what he said?”

  “ ’Bout what?”

  “About the Thundermen being in Bradshaw City all night.”

  “I dunno. Me and him got into it last night. Then he got a call from One-Shot, some club business he had to deal with. Threatened to kick my ass when he got back. Once he drove off, I packed a couple bags and went to Margaret’s with Annie.”

  She dabbed at the bloodstains on her blouse with the paper towel, which smeared it more. “I should prolly head to Margaret’s and check on Annie. Hunter ain’t too smart, but he knows Margaret and I are friends. Sooner or later, he’ll figure out we been staying there.”

  “Thought about filing a restraining order against him?” asked Terrance.

  “Like a restraining order’d stop Hunter.” Wendy managed a weak chuckle. She stood up and wobbled until Terrance grabbed her.

  “You should go to the hospital first and make sure you don’t have a concussion,” he said.

  “I’m all right. Got a thick skull. Besides, I gotta check on Annie.” Desperation tinged her voice. She looked at Shea with a pleading smile. “But I wouldn’t mind if you tagged along. Margaret could drop you back here.”

  “Shea would be happy to,” said Terrance.

  Shea gave him the stink eye; it was the last thing she wanted to do.

  “Wait here a moment,” she said to Wendy.

  Shea beckoned Terrance with her finger. “You and me gotta talk.” She led him into the office and slammed the door shut. “What the hell you mean, I’d be happy to?” she asked in hushed tones. “I promised Jessica I’d take her to a new sushi restaurant in Ironwood for dinner. I ain’t got time to be riding along with my sister to God-knows-where.”

  Terrance looked confused. “You hate sushi. You call it fish bait.”

  “So? Jessica likes it and I like her. Point is, I ain’t getting in the middle of no custody dispute between my crazy-ass sister and her old man. I like not being dead.”

  “She’s your sister, Shea. At least give her a ride to where she needs to go.”

  “She has a car. She’s perfectly capable of driving to her friend’s house on her own.” Shea crossed her arms and stared out the office window at the barren showroom.

  “Have a heart, girl! She nearly got killed a moment ago.”

  “Yeah, and nearly got me killed in the process. I ever tell you she lied to protect that scumbag father of ours? So, fuck Wendy and her fucked-up life. If I wanna see trashy white people doing stupid shit, I’ll watch reality TV where there’s no chance of me getting my head blown off.”

  “What about your niece? Aren’t you interested in meeting her? She’s family, for God’s sake.”

  Shea wanted to say no. Wendy chose to be a Thunderman’s old lady. But a part of her wondered what would’ve happened if someone had been there for Mama. What if Mama had gotten away from Ralph and taken me and Wendy with her?

  “Fine.” Shea pulled out her phone to call Jessica. “Hey, hon. I’m gonna be a little late.”

  “No, you can’t be a little late. We have reservations at six thirty. I already picked out an outfit for you to wear.”

  “Well, as much as I love you picking out my clothes,” Shea said, rolling her eyes, “I have to give someone a ride up to Bradshaw City.”

  “Let me guess. It’s a woman.”

  “No. Well, technically, yes, but it ain’t like that.”

  “How did I know?”

  “Jess, she’s my sister.”

  “Oh baloney, you don’t have a sister.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “You never mentioned her before.”

  “That’s ’cause we haven’t spoken in seventeen years. We’ve been…what’s the word?”

  “Estranged?” suggested Jessica.

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “You haven’t seen her in seventeen years, but suddenly you have to give her a ride to the other side of the county?” Jessica’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “She and her old man are having problems. Listen, call the restaurant and see if you can push the reservation back to seven thirty. I should be back in plenty of time.”

  Jessica paused a moment before responding. “Fine, I’ll call them. But you’d better be here.”

  “I swear. We’ll be eating raw fish and that spicy green stuff in no time. Love you.”

  Shea hung up, walked out of the office, and stood in front of Wendy. God, she looked pathetic, thought Shea. Mascara running, face swollen, blood everywhere.

  “Fine. I’ll ride with you to your friend’s house.”

  “Will you drive? I’m a bit wobbly.” Wendy held up the bloody paper towel, as if to prove her point.

  Shea frowned. “Got your key?”

  Wendy held up a ring of keys with a Confederate battle flag charm attached. “It’s the one with the Ford logo on it.”

  Shea took it from her. “Grab your purse,” she said with all the warmth of a Popsicle.

  Chapter 10

  Wendy pointed Shea to an older model Mustang. The paint on the roof was peeling and faded, as if someone had taken a belt sander to it. The broken passenger side mirror hung limp like a dog’s ear.

  Shea opened the driver’s door and sat down. Crumpled bits of paper, empty soda cans, and the occasional french fry littered the floor. Wendy climbed into the passenger side.

  “Where we headed?” asked Shea.

  “Margaret lives on the east side of Bradshaw City. I’ll show you.”

  Shea drove up Arizona 89 twelve miles to Bradshaw Highway. For the first five minutes, they rode in silence. Shea stared out at the road ahead, trying not to think about Derek or the Pink Trinkets’ bikes or how pissed Jessica was going to be when she finally made it home.

  “I missed you, you know,” Wendy said, looking out the passenger window.

  Shea tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her anger igniting like gasoline fumes. “Maybe if you hadn’t lied, I woulda stuck around.”

  “Lied? About what?”

  Could she really not know? “Never mind.”

  “Well, whatever it was, I’m sorry, all right?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fine.” Wendy twisted a strand of hair. “It’s cool you got your own bike shop. I remember you and Daddy working on bikes together all the time.”

  “Can we not talk about him?”

  “Geez, is there any subject you ain’
t opposed to talking about?”

  “Right now, I don’t feel like talking about anything. I just want to get this over with.”

  “Whatever.”

  For the rest of the way, an oppressive silence filled the car, interrupted by occasional directions from Wendy. Shea turned off the main highway into a neighborhood of compact redbrick homes. She parked in front of a house with a rusted tricycle in the middle of the dirt yard and an older model minivan with a dented bumper in the gravel driveway.

  As they walked to the front door, several of Margaret’s neighbors stood staring at them from adjacent yards. Shea nodded at the onlookers and whispered to Wendy, “What’s with the audience?”

  “Something’s wrong.” Panic colored Wendy’s voice. The door stood open, its frame busted in. “Annie!”

  “Dammit, Hunter must have gotten here before us.” Shea had hoped to avoid more of the MC’s violent drama.

  She moved Wendy away from the door and pulled Hunter’s Beretta from her waistband. Her thumb pressed the button to eject the magazine. Eight rounds left. She hoped it would be enough. She slapped it back in.

  “Wait here,” she whispered. “They may still be inside.”

  “But my baby!”

  “Sit tight.” Shea left her sister sobbing on the front porch and slipped into the house. Her heart pounded in her ears.

  The living room was small but uncluttered, decorated in a style Shea liked to call “early garage sale”—sort of shabby-chic, without much chic. Threadbare couch, milk crate bookshelves, and carpeting that reeked of mildew. On the upside, there wasn’t any smashed furniture or other evidence of a struggle.

  She tiptoed deeper into the house. A small hallway extended off to her left. To her right was the kitchen.

  The familiar funk of blood filled her nose. Maybe Margaret left a roast out on the counter too long, she thought, calming herself against more sinister possibilities.

  She stepped into the kitchen. The scent of blood grew weaker. No roast lay on the counter. Just a small pile of dishes in the sink. A voice in her head screamed at her to get out of the house, but she had to find her niece first.

  Following the odor, she crept down the hall to the first bedroom on the right. A pile of plush toys sat on a bed with a faded patchwork gingham quilt. Posters of boy bands adorned the walls. She searched the room and wall closet, careful not to leave prints. There was no sign of the girl or the source of the smell.