Bike Week Blues

by Mary Clay

  “That’s it?” Frannie asked, clearly relieved.

  “Yes. Now for Rich,” Ruthie went on. “We’ll pause first to clear our minds. I’ll read the plea again, asking that Penny Sue find and convince Rich to turn himself into the police. Then, we’ll imagine that happening like we did before.”

  “Let’s add a smile on Rich’s face and the police patting him on the back. You know, like he’s cleared and everything is hunky-dory,” Penny Sue said.

  Frannie sat forward in her chair. “Good.”

  We went through the script, just as Ruthie described. No bad vibes, no lightning bolts rocked the house, it all went as planned.

  “That was nice,” Frannie admitted at the end.

  “Hold on.” Penny Sue rushed to the sideboard and returned with The Book of Answers. “Let’s double check.”

  “What’s that?” Fran eyed the black book apprehensively.

  “The Book of Answers—don’t worry, it’s published by a Disney company.”

  Fran nodded as if that was impressive enough.

  “You ask a question, then open the book at random. It gives you an answer.”

  “It’s like the old Eight Ball toys.” I explained.

  Fran nodded.

  Penny Sue stroked the book vigorously. “I’m going to ask if our wishes will come true.” She closed her eyes and her lips moving slightly. Then, she dramatically pulled the pages apart. The page said IT CANNOT FAIL. She hopped up and balled her fist in a victory sign. “Fuckin’ A! Now, let’s go to Spanish River and celebrate.”

  Fearing her reaction to the profanity, I glanced at Fran. It didn’t faze her. I should have known. Fran was from Boston and was no wuss, apparently.

  The locals must have been at Biker events, because we didn’t have to wait at Spanish River. This was the beach, where no one dressed up, so almost anything was acceptable, provided you had shoes and a shirt—pants went without saying. But, the bikers had not discovered this nook, so we were seated at once.

  Penny Sue went all out, ordering both the oysters and the mojo chops. I shuddered to think what this might do to a woman whose hormones were already on the level of an eighteen-year-old male. Interestingly, Ruthie went for the oysters, too.

  Now, I don’t know if the old wives tale about oysters is true, but it did get my attention, considering Ruthie’d recently gotten the attention of two good looking men. I hesitated, debating the oysters myself. Then my logical, Baptist brain took over, and I opted for conch salad. Oh, well, another time. Maybe when I came with Ted.

  The dinner was delicious and was followed by thick wedges of homemade key lime pie. Fat, happy, and sassy as Penny Sue put it—there must be something to the oyster thing—we headed back to Frannie’s house.

  Close to ten by then, the Klingons arrived with victory cries and a stack of pizzas.

  The boys, still dressed in battle garb, ambled into the kitchen. Carl stopped abruptly, noticing the goddess in the middle of the table. “What’s that, Mom?” he asked.

  “Did you win?” Fran asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s your goddess of success!”

  Carl regarded his mother as if she’s lost her mind. Then he noticed the Crucifix hanging in place of the wreath. But, the other Klingons were oblivious to the nuances. They picked up the doll, held it high, and let out a deafening victory cry that rattled the windows.

  Frannie pulled out plates, the antipasto, and a couple of bottles of red wine. The doll was forgotten as the Klingons, famished from battle, descended on the food and drink.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  Carl took the last bite of his breakfast and wiped his mouth. “Mom, I honestly don’t think you should go to the cole slaw wrestling at the Cabbage Patch today.”

  We were sitting around the table nestled in the bay window that overlooked the waterway.

  Carl glanced at each of us as if trying to find the right words. “It’s, um-m, a little rowdy. I think you’d be offended.”

  “Rowdy, as in gunfire?” his mother asked, paling a bit.

  “Rowdy, as in vulgar. Women will be flashing a lot of skin.”

  She gave him an I wasn’t born yesterday glare. “We know that a lot of bikers wear skimpy clothes. It’s no worse than the stuff you see on the beach.”

  He cleared his throat. “Mom, some of the skimpy clothes slide off during the wrestling. Nudity is a tradition at this event.”

  She looked down her nose. “So, that’s why you go every year.”

  He studied his plate sheepishly, and I tried not to smile. Boys will be boys—even brilliant Klingons.

  “Are they naked or nekkid?” Penny Sue asked impishly.

  Carl regarded her curiously. “What’s the difference?”

  “Naked means you don’t have on any clothes; nekkid means you’re nude and up to something.”

  Carl chuckled. “I guess there’s a little of both.”

  “Don’t worry, son, we’re grown women. There isn’t going to be anything there we haven’t seen before.”

  I thought of Red’s tattooed breasts and suspected Fran was in for a surprise. Red was a first for me—heavens knew what else might turn up.

  “Besides,” Penny Sue added, “it’s our best chance of finding Rich. Cole slaw wrestling is the highlight of Bike Week. Everyone attends, and we’re counting on him to go with the flow.”

  Carl put his elbows on the table and looked Penny Sue in the eye. “The Cabbage Patch is not a place for serious conversation. It’s a big, wild party.”

  “We’ve thought about that. If we find Rich, we’ll follow him to a place where he can talk,” Fran said.

  “Mom-m, please don’t do this. If Rich is involved with Vulture, I don’t want you within fifty miles of that group.”

  “Carl, we’re not stupid. If we see Vulture, we’ll go the other way.”

  “You don’t know what he looks like!”

  “Penny Sue does.”

  Carl stood up, shaking his head, and reached into his pocket. “I was afraid you’d be stubborn.”

  Fran shook her finger. “Watch your mouth, Sonny. Your father never stood for backtalk.”

  “Yes, and Dad would never have allowed you women to stalk Rich.”

  “Stalk?” Penny Sue said tersely.

  Carl leaned across the table and handed her a silver disk about the size of a thick poker chip. “Yes, stalk! If I can’t talk you out of going, at least use this. Try to slip it into Rich’s pocket, on his bike, something.”

  “What is it?” Penny Sue asked.

  “A GPS transponder. I’d rather track Rich from my computer than have you and my mother chasing all over creation.”

  Fran patted her son’s arm and smiled. “That’s my Carl. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.”

  “Take the new cell phone I gave you,” he continued with a sigh. “Some buddies and I are going out there. If you get in trouble, call me. In fact, you should all take your cell phones in case you get separated. The place will be mobbed.” Carl glanced at Penny Sue. “You thought the Pub was crowded the other night. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  Penny Sue held up her hand like a reticent six-year-old. “The battery in my cell is on the fritz. Won’t hold a charge.”

  Carl glanced up as if praying for absolution, then reached in his pocket and pulled out a square device only slightly larger than the transponder. “Here, take mine. I’ll use my old one. Please don’t lose it—that thing cost a fortune.”

  “I’ll bet,” Penny Sue said, examining the tiny instrument. “This is the smallest one I’ve ever seen.” She passed it over for Ruthie and I to see. “I’ll be careful. Promise.” She took the phone from me and slipped it in the inside pocket of her bike belt. “It’ll be safe here.”

  Frannie held her hands up to her hulking baby boy. He gave us an embarrassed glance, then bent down and kissed her forehead.

  “You’re a good boy. Don’t worry, I can take care of mys
elf.”

  Carl glanced at the umbrella stand in the foyer that concealed the baseball bat. “That’s what scares me.”

  * * *

  We piled into Carl’s beat-up Explorer right after lunch.

  “This won’t draw attention,” Frannie said. She was dressed in black slacks and shirt with her hair tied back in a kerchief. Since it was sunny and unseasonably warm, Penny Sue wore a red print shirt with cutoff jeans and the Harley boots with red flames. As unpretentious as I’ve ever seen her look, she wore minimal make-up and had her hair platted in a single braid down the back. I wore black capris and a tank top, while Ruthie wore jeans, a V-neck shirt, and a really cool turquoise and silver belt. For once, Ruthie was the glitziest of the group, and I wondered with an impish grin if Ruthie was hoping to meet someone—or, rather two someones—at the match.

  “What?” Ruthie asked, noticing my smile.

  “Nothing,” I said innocently.

  We all decided to wear our new bike belts. Unfortunately, Penny Sue packed her .38 and Fran stuffed the pepper spray into their belts. The firepower made me feel nervous, rather than safe. An image of Penny Sue and Frannie May descending on Rich with weapons blazing flitted across my mind. I was pretty sure Fran had more sense, but I wasn’t so sure about Penny Sue. After all, her mojo was revved from last night’s dinner, and I doubted the black cohosh had time to take effect. That Fran would go along with Penny Sue was beyond my comprehension. The two had an affinity that I couldn’t explain. I’d never checked, but maybe Fran was a Leo. Or, perhaps, it was her Italian roots.

  Everyone—at least, in the South—thought Italians took no stuff from anyone, making them all pseudo-Leos. Even rednecks tread lightly around Italians. It was the Mafia mystique. Certainly, all Italians weren’t Mafia, no more than all bikers were in gangs or all Southerners were dumb because they spoke slowly. These were superficial stereotypes based on movies and a handful of weirdo, fringe groups. Still, that horse head from The Godfather gave me nightmares for weeks, and no doubt lurked at the back of many minds.

  Be that as it may, off we went, armed for who knew what. Sun shining brightly, early afternoon, we were going to cole slaw wrestling. Imagine, women wallowing around in shredded cabbage! I wondered if they used real dressing and if it was any good. I normally bought my slaw because I’d never been able to make a decent sauce. Maybe the Cabbage Patch bottled and sold theirs: Official Bike Week Cole Slaw Dressing. Considering my record, I’d give it a try.

  With a lot of doing, we finally found a parking spot in a wooded field of bikes. Frannie May who drove like a professional valet, wedged into a spot I’d never thought possible. “Boston,” she said, getting out of the Explorer and adjusting the bike belt with the pepper spray. “Up North, you learn to take any advantage.”

  What a difference! A Southern woman would drive an hour looking for a big space—preferably two, if parallel parking was required. All that maneuvering into a tiny spot was too tense for a Southern belle. You’d break out sweating and ruin your make-up. Considering it had taken thirty to forty-five minutes to put on your face, a few loops around the block were nothing.

  We locked up and struck out for parts unknown. The first thing that hit me as we walked across the field was the large number of women in swimsuits.

  “Contestants,” Ruthie stated. She’d looked up the Cabbage Patch web page on the Internet.

  We followed the crowd through the field to an area cordoned off by a wire fence where people were packed in three deep. Judging from the hoots and hollers, we knew the wrestling had already started.

  “I want to see what’s going on,” Fran said. “Follow me.” Circling the crowd, we searched for a space. We found nothing until a fine spray of water hit us in the face. “There,” Fran called, racing for a spot being vacated by two drenched spectators. It only took a second to see why the couple left. Directly ahead, a man was hosing slaw off one of the contestants. Outfitted in a slinky bikini, she turned her back to the crowd, pulled back her panties, and wiggled in the spray.

  Another match was already underway in the middle of the fenced enclosure. The ring was a large pit lined with blue plastic and filled with oily, shredded cabbage. The contestants seemed fairly mismatched. One was a hefty girl, as Grammy would say, while the other was a slim-hipped, buxom blonde. Hefty adopted the stance of a sumo wrestler; Blondie pranced in the slush like a ballerina. Hefty lunged, Blondie did a twirling kick, Hefty fell flat on her face, Blondie fell on Hefty and the match was over.

  “That was a nice round off kick,” Penny Sue said, lowering her hands from shielding her face as the spray stopped.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “You’ve taken karate.”

  “Tae Kwon Do. Bodan.”

  “I tried it,” Frannie added. “Got up to orange, then threw my shoulder out. My doctor told me to give it up before I really got hurt.”

  As Blondie and Hefty approached, we turned around, anticipating the shower. “Now what? Ruthie asked.

  “We search the crowd.”

  “How?”

  With the high heels on her Harley boots, Penny Sue was close to six feet tall and could see over the top of the crowd.

  “You survey the back lot, we’ll scan the people around the fence,” I said. “If that doesn’t work, we’ll meander around.”

  “This is hopeless,” Ruthie moaned.

  “You said that at the Pub and we found him,” Penny Sue reminded her.

  “A lot of good that did.”

  Penny Sue put her hand on her hip. “Come on, Ruthie, you’re Ms. Positive Thinking. Besides, The Book of Answers said we couldn’t fail. Now, you either believe in the spirits or you don’t. Which is it?”

  Ruthie huffed. “May I at least wait until the spraying stops?”

  “Of course, darling. We don’t have to be dumb about it.”

  Ruthie clenched her teeth and didn’t say a word. I thought she would bust. But, in a few minutes the spray stopped and we turned toward the ring.

  “I’ll take the right,” Ruthie said. “Fran, you take the middle and Leigh will cover the left. Okay?”

  A shame we hadn’t brought binoculars. It was hard to distinguish faces when people were packed together like sardines. Of course, women with binoculars at a female wrestling contest might give the wrong impression. Not that I really cared; however, it could present complications we didn’t need.

  The wrestling was distraction enough. The new contestants were unusually vocal and evenly matched, making it impossible not to watch. Coated from head to toe in slaw, they rolled in the mush, clawing for dominance. A roar went up from the crowd as someone’s halter was flung aside. A few minutes later, a thong bikini went flying.

  “Are they naked or nekkid?” Fran asked under her breath.

  “Darned, if I know,” Ruthie said weakly. By now, Penny Sue had abandoned any pretense of surveillance and was watching, too.

  It was difficult to tell who was getting the upper hand in that roiling pit of flailing limbs and curses. Even the referee seemed overwhelmed until the pantiless contestant landed a punch to her opponent’s stomach. Foul!

  The referee waded into the slimy fray and tried to separate the women. Bare Butt was obviously not happy with his decision and took a roundhouse swipe at the referee. He dodged the blow and fell backward onto the other woman. Egged on by whoops and hollers, the Bare Butt Wonder jumped from the pit and went into a primal victory dance. That’s when a man wearing a Security shirt appeared. He ushered Bare Butt toward us, while the referee and other contestant struggled to get out of the pit.

  Bare Butt continued her wild antics even as she was being hosed off, finally bending forward toward the crowd and ripping off her bra. I gasped. Ruthie yelped. The lady’s boobs were tattooed with flowers. It was Red.

  That’s when things went crazy. “Well, if it isn’t Bubble Head and Molly.” Red grabbed a towel from someone, which she wrapped around her waist and headed our way.

  I grabbed Franni
e’s arm. “We need to leave.”

  “Do you know that person?”

  “It’s the lady we told you about from the Pub. She’s a friend of Vulture’s.”

  “Good. This is the break we need, right?”

  “No, we don’t want to tangle with her.”

  Frannie frowned. “What are you afraid of? There’s four of us, one of her, and she can’t be armed.”

  Penny Sue had already started to move away. “Leigh’s right, Frannie. This isn’t the time or place.”

  Red was wild-eyed, and the crowd parted before her like the sea before Moses. Unfortunately, we had to slog our way though the throng. She caught up to us as we broke out of the thickest part of the mob into a wooded area next to a hot dog stand.

  She pointed at Penny Sue. “I’ve got bone to pick with you.”

  Eyes narrowed, Penny Sue backed off. “We have nothing to talk about.”

  Red stepped forward, looking up into her face. “Not so brave without your tall buddies, are you?”

  “Wait one minute,” Frannie May said sternly, giving Red the look. Sadly, it was lost on this woman who was obviously high on something.

  “Stay out of this, Granny, unless you want your ass kicked, too.”

  “What?” Frannie started fumbling with her bike belt. Lord, she was going for the pepper spray. I shook my head and reached for her hand. She gave me the look. I backed off instantly. Fran pulled out her cell phone and started to dial.

  “Fake, chicken shit,” Red sneered at Penny Sue. “You think you’re so smart. Stay away from Rich. Little Dickie’s mine.”

  Penny Sue set her jaw. “That remains to be seen.” She turned to leave, and Red slugged her in the jaw. In one smooth move, Penny Sue swung around, leg extended, and swept Red’s legs out from under her. The towel went soaring. With the determination of a pit bull, Red jumped to her feet, naked as a jaybird, with fists flying.

  Penny Sue backed up and assumed a defensive posture—something from Tae Kwon Do, I supposed.

  Fran fumbled in her bike belt. This time I knew she was going for the spray. “Stop that,” she shouted. “Stop this minute!”