The Sweet Taste (Perry County)

by Roy F. Chandler

  I walked at a normal pace that would not arouse attention, past the bar and straight on to my barrel.

  Light flooded from the open door of the bikers' club, and an empty beer can came flying out to clank and rattle across the hard packed yard.

  Despite my casual pace, my heart beat like a trip hammer, and I could feel sweat across my forehead. I blew air in and out of my lungs to force calm and shook my arms to loosen muscles over tensed and straining.

  Ridiculous! The danger was in my own mind. I still had done nothing criminal, and even later, if detected, I would be gone in a flash. The reasoning didn't help much. I was still jumpy as a flea on a hot skillet.

  A last glance told me the highway lay empty. I latched onto the drum and began spinning it upright from its hiding place. It might have rolled, but I couldn't be sure the garbage bag seal would hold. Across the open I worked the barrel, trying not to waste time looking for watchers. In my imagination, figures leaped from the clubhouse to sweep down on me like a wall, but I proceeded unnoticed.

  A few yards above the lined up Harleys I stopped rolling. I had fixed the spot in my mind, and without hesitation, I tipped over the barrel.

  A stab and a slash with my pocketknife opened wide the plastic end. Kerosene and gas gushed and flowed swiftly I into the smoothed hollow made to fit the motorcycles' rear wheels. I slid the drum forward so that it lay within the spill and waited to give the fuel mix time to flow.

  My knife was away, the road flare was bared. I waited. Still no traffic. Even the truck stop lay silent beneath its tacky florescent glow. Within the club the music thumped on. I sweat and waited.

  Enough. The fuel had slopped through the eleven bike wheels. A final glance along the highway, there was only headlight glow well out on the river bridge. I scraped the igniter and the fuse flared. I took a step back to escape low-lying gasoline fumes and gave the flare a quick toss.

  The flame seemed to float in the night air before dropping into the wet stream of fuel oils.

  I was already trotting away. Blue flame flickered, pushing toward my feet. With a powerful whump, gas fumes ignited, lighting the length of the wheel hollow. Heat brushed my back and I snuck a quick glance over my shoulder. Flame jumped, raging in a blasting hot firewall two feet high. The motorcycles were bathed in it as far forward as their engines. I walked, already passing beyond the firelight and into the welcome concealment of night darkness.

  Still no alarm sounded. Then tires exploded in sharp reports and a bellow of alarm swung my head. A single figure stood on the bikers' step bathed in firelight, his arm pointing, perhaps in disbelief, at the inferno enveloping the Harleys.

  Bikers appeared in a rush. They circled the flames, darting and retreating, trying for the still untouched motorcycle front ends.

  Almost beside me a man stepped from the Riviera Bar and called to others with a shout. Good. I would blend with the throng.

  Jello was one of the first around the motorcycle line. He was reaching for his front wheel when the first gas tank exploded. The blast was powerful. Its shock wave rolled across the bikes, spraying heat and flames. It was too much even for Jello Gorse. He staggered away, huge arms held protectively across his face.

  Another gas tank blew up, and the rest followed in rapid blasting explosions that incinerated everything burnable on the motorcycle line. Intense heat reached the Riviera crowd and they mobbed down toward the fire storm, anxious to get closer and miss nothing.

  I eased away, crossing the highway as a Duncannon fire company pumper swept onto the scene. The department’s response was even quicker than I had expected. I doubted five minutes had passed since I had tossed the flare into the channeled fuel. Vehicles were beginning to clog the road berms. A crowd materialized from nowhere and also pushed as close to the blaze as possible.

  A pair of fire extinguishers had been hustled over from the truck stop and were hitting hard at already dying flames. The firemen finished it off in a long instant. Dark descended like a curtain, without a single spark to acknowledge the complete wipe out of the motorcycle line.

  I slid into the Datsun and motored to a good seeing position. Fire department lights suddenly lit the scene with almost eye aching brilliance. There they were, misshapen, blown up, twisted, and burned out wrecks, surrounded by a dozen or so appalled, enraged, dumbstruck, maybe emotionally stupefied bikers. Looming hugely among them was Jello Gorse. Even he stood silently, numbed by the complete devastation.

  As planned, my oil drum had been flame engulfed. No fingerprints or incriminating residue would be found. Sometimes a scheme did work right.

  Parked comfortably in my battered Datsun, just another interested spectator, I began feeling it. No belated remorse stung my senses. No sorrow over the bikers' bitter losses touched my soul. Instead, a small euphoria swelled aura-like through and around me. Satisfaction began its gentle medicating of the spiritual wounds the bikers had inflicted along the river.

  Then I tasted it, in my mind, heart, being—even through my real flavor buds. Cursed by the meek, the humble, and the "other side of the cheek" philosophers as beneath man's morality, I found the taste of revenge sweet in every way. As rich as fine chocolate, as strong as the best honey, as sharp and clinging as purest maple syrup, I savored the fullness of vengeance.

  My mind said, "Take that, you bastards."

  Take it they did, stalking sullenly like a beaten back mongrel pack among the stinking wrecks of their machines.

  Jello Gorse began pacing among his club members, massive arms swinging with the nervous rhythm of a caged animal. Blue lights flashed as state police finally arrived. A trooper ordered people back, and Duncannon fire police kept traffic moving.

  Attention was called to the burnt-over shell of the kerosene drum and a trooper went to look. A biker kicked angrily at the smoking remains of his Harley - and Jello Gorse blew his top.

  As distant as I was, Jello's bellow of mindless rage was nerve shattering. Bikers scattered. Others froze in place. Gorse swung viciously at the air and repeated his bellowing challenge of pure frustration. As though handling a child's toy, his big hands reached in and jerked a machine from the line of ruin. With a heave worthy of an Olympic hammer thrower, he sent it skidding across the dark pavement.

  Even the firemen stood as though rooted. The troopers stayed away, watchful but not of a mind to interfere. Jello again lunged at the already ravaged cycles, and with a rage strengthened heave, he spun a ruined Harley in an arc that crashed it into the clubhouse wall and partly collapsed the building's porch. Unrepentant, the huge figure plowed across the open, slammed the clubhouse door wide, and disappeared within.

  A stunned half-frightened silence held until another biker yelled angry support and stomped his own loud course into the clubroom. The rest followed, the door slammed shut, and mobility returned to the remaining watchers.

  I found my own forehead sweat dampened, and my hands vibrated as they lay across the steering wheel. I pulled away with other cars, feeling my skin crawl as I drove past the wreckage. For an instant, the stench of burned tires tortured my nose, then I was clear and heading home.

  The chill of Jello Gorse's terrible rage faded slowly. The inhuman power that lifted and threw a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, burnt out or not, was frightening.

  In my early planning I had considered the possibility of slipping up and unexpectedly smashing the man's knee with a length of three quarter inch rebar. I had abandoned the idea as too low-down, even for my situation. Now I wondered if a solid crack with an iron bar was capable of folding one of the giant's knees.

  One thing for sure, I did not intend testing that abandoned scheme.

  +++

  Chapter 5

  That I had inflicted grievous hurt to the bikers who had so gleefully trashed Big Blue was undeniable. Jello Gorse suffered as much as any of them, which was rewarding, but it was not enough.

  Jello had smashed me without cause other than that he felt like it. I often wondered how far he
would have gone if I had not floundered into the river. My body was still weeks from full recovery, and more time would be needed to regain the fitness of muscle I had once enjoyed.

  Oh no, I was not yet square with Jello Gorse.

  Jello took a plane out of Harrisburg/York airport. In three days he was back riding a shiny new Harley-Davidson heritage model. Complete with leather saddle bags and a 1940's style buddy seat, the machine was a biker's dream.

  Jello probably made good money at the steel plant. He lived modestly, so he might have paid cash for his new cycle.

  Should I drive home a point by demolishing my enemy's newest possession? I thought not. Jello was no fool. At least for now, his cycle was probably insured to the limit.

  Singling out Jello would also be a mistake. Until I decided how to whip him into the ground one final, convincing time, Jello Gorse should not suspect he was targeted. The big biker wasn't going anywhere. I had as much time as I chose to devote to him.

  +++

  In August heat I began easy jogging. I ran on the roads, favoring my ribs, and letting neglected systems regenerate.

  My endurance bordered the pathetic, but I knew it would surge after a few conditioning runs. An ability or strength can be renewed far quicker and more easily than the time required for original developing. It still paid to start easily and progress cautiously. Most athletic injuries occur through over-stressing, and I intended to avoid that blunder.

  My ribs were tender to prodding, but they seemed tough and resilient. I worked in abdominal exercises and began my first labors on the blocks spiked to the house wall. I pulled with arms and shoulders, but helped out with my legs, lest something not quite ready become strained.

  +++

  Of course, the rest of life must go on. Big Blue was stored under a truck cover in Fred Thebes's equipment shed.

  I took Chris Shoop river fishing and for some gentle, downstream canoeing that wouldn't overwork my weak spots.

  The three of us began making public sales. Lori was the main buyer, but we went together on a few purchases too rich for her pocketbook.

  Dealers and pickers watch one another. Ordinary buyers also follow the professionals' lead. The thinking seems to be that a pro buys for resale, so if he can buy it, the deal must be good. Because Lori was known, it often paid for me to do our bidding off to one side.

  In the fall, Perry County auctions fill the Saturdays. The best auctions are of old farms or homes where generations have jammed the attics and outbuildings.

  Buyers come from big cities for the better auctions. They are hard to beat because their shops sell to the urban moneyed.

  If we couldn't outbid them, we locals often made them pay by running the prices as high as we dared before letting the outlander have the piece. Occasionally we got caught, but you could usually sell your overbid item, off to the side, to the customer you were bidding against for about what you paid for it. Buyers who come a long way will usually go another five bucks or so.

  The real fall sales hadn't gotten rolling yet, but it was good fun and Lori was making more than pin money. With high hopes, we took a dough tray, a slant top desk, and a three-panel, three-drawer blanket chest to Philadelphia.

  We cleared three thousand dollars. Unbelievable! I began to take antiquing more seriously.

  +++

  A letter from Red Harston, summering along the Anchor River, suggested I get back to Alaska. A zealous state employee was calling to talk with Gene Perry, unemployed victim of a bear mauling. Harston wanted no warning flags posted near his name. Gene Perry's face and figure needed to be seen around the Great Land.

  It was the last week in August. Up north, Harston and the rest would be gearing up for fall hunting. I could be part of it. I was healed enough, and Red would assign me easier hunts.

  I hesitated. For one thing, I was not yet through with Jello, but that could wait until winter slammed Alaska's door. Did Jello ride his Harley through the cold months? Something to wonder about.

  My real reluctance lay in leaving Lori Shoop. I could feel tendrils of caring strengthening between us. A woman like Lori might be snapped up anytime. Would she be available in December, or much later if I stayed north for skiing? Didn't I want to head for Florida when cold set in? What was I thinking about anyway?

  Some decision-making could be delayed. I still had time before the moose, caribou, sheep, and bear seasons came in. I would make a quick trip north, deciding things as I went along.

  We were parked at the Red Rabbit drive-in, working our way through enough food for an infantry squad when I spoke about it.

  "I've got to run up to Alaska, Lori. I've a few things to straighten out."

  She laughed lightly, a sound I liked hearing. "Run up, Gene? You make Alaska sound as close as Baltimore. When do you have to go?"

  "Right away, tomorrow, if I can schedule it."

  I hesitated only a moment, because I felt no reservations in offering. "Maybe you and Chris could come along. We'd only be gone two weeks, and I'd pick up the bills."

  "Oh Gene, I'd love to go, and it is generous of you, but I can't. It would be very unseemly for us to go off like that."

  Lori paused, searching for other reasons that might not sound so Victorian. "There is the Joe Black sale this weekend, and I have a chance to buy out of the house before the auction. I just can't go."

  Chris said, "Oh Mom!"

  I grinned, not surprised by her answer. "Well, I'll not press you. There will be other times." Had I said that? Holy cow!

  "Of course, there would be the jet flight up there, over the Rockies and all. We'd see bear, moose, maybe mountain goats—once we were down. Mt. McKinley might show itself, and it would be different seeing guides, hunters, and Indians, all with their guns and gear."

  Chris hazarded, "Mom doesn't need me. I'm just in the way here."

  I pretended surprise. "You interested in going, Chris? It would be just you and me." Lori was grinning around her sandwich.

  "Oh boy, Gene. I want to go so bad. I'd miss the start of school and everything. Wow, Alaska. Maybe we'd see the spot where that grizzly mauled you. Maybe there'd still be bones and...."

  Lori cut in. "Now just wait, Chris. Gene hasn't invited you to go along, and there are other things to think about. We haven't bought your school clothes yet and...."

  "Aw Maw, nobody cares about clothes. We'd be back in plenty of time, and I might even get a bear's claw or something for you to wear. Isn't that right, Gene?"

  I let him stew, pulling at my lower lip, then sipping coke, as though I were thinking it over.

  "Well, it's a long plane ride, and I've a day or two of poking around in Anchorage. That will be boring. You sure you want to come?"

  "Wow, I've never ridden in a plane! Can I go, Mom?" The boy struggled with his hopes, food forgotten, his mind flooded with adventure dreams and fears of his mother's refusal.

  Lori appeared doubtful, but I could tell she wanted to agree. "Are you sure you want an eleven year old tagging along, Gene?"

  "Aw, mom, I'm nearly twelve, and I can carry wood for campfires and stuff. I won't be in the way."

  "I'd like having Chris along, and he won't be in the way."

  "Well, he can't be late for starting school, Gene. Going to Alaska is a great adventure, but school comes first. I wish you had said something sooner."

  "Red's letter only came today, Lori, but unless we get socked in by an early blizzard out at one of the cabins, we'll be back just in time." I winked to be sure she knew I was joking about the blizzard.

  Chris said, "Wow!"

  With a mother's concern, Lori spoke a bit distractedly. "He doesn't have anything to wear and...."

  "We'll throw some things into a bag for him, just like I do. If we forget something, we'll just do without it. It'll only be for two weeks."

  Chris added, "You have to stay loose when you're in Alaska, Mom."

  Lori groaned, "For eleven years I have attempted to civilize him, and it will all be undon
e in fourteen days."

  The two of us sat grinning at her, already knowing we'd won.

  +++

  Alaska is further from Perry County than Hawaii. We flew to O'Hare in Chicago, then to Seattle, before the final leg to Anchorage. There are more direct routes, but on short notice, it was the best we could get.

  Most of the flight was at night. Chris slept with that boyish ease that lets them drop off without a care in the world. I had time to doze and think. The tourist class seat, built for half-sized people, didn't help, and I kept uncomfortably shifting around wondering if I was getting soft as I closed in on forty years.

  I thought some about Jello, but for now revenge was on the back burner.

  Having the boy along allowed a sort of vicarious excitement. I recalled my own tender years, and my dreams of great adventures. Mine were mostly of tramp steamers to unidentified Pacific islands where World War Two equipment lay abandoned in heaps. I raised tanks from watery graves by inflating thousands of penny balloons I had along. I buried remains of honored dead amid dramatic ceremony and got the machines of war working to defend my island strongholds. In my case, no one had cared what I dreamed. My current hope was that I could add a little meat to some of Chris's youthful fantasies. Alaska still meant adventure to most, and the impression could be accurate if you knew where to look and how to go about it.

  I plonked the boy in a movie matinee while I made my Anchorage duty calls. That done, a rental car gave us three days on the Kenai Peninsula. We camped rough on the Homer Spit, experiencing the astonishing twenty foot tidal range and making a short educational visit to the Hungry Dog Saloon where pseudo-Alaskans howled, lied, and sometimes battled for the edification of the tourist trade.

  Then we drove to Talkeetna for contact with Red Harston and the rest of his guides, gillies, cooks, handlers, pilots, and packers. It sounded like a horde, but consisted of only a half dozen, as everybody wore at least two hats and often more.