Cyclone Rumble

by J.P. Voss

  17

  We drove north along the coast, flipped a bitch at El Segundo, and parked down by the Manhattan Beach Pier. We scoured The Strand, searching desperately for a beautiful blonde named Harper. No luck. When the sun went down, we left the beach behind us.

  We took Artesia to the southbound 405, transitioned to the Harbor Freeway, and hopped off in San Pedro. We stopped at my place and checked for signs of Harper. Nothing. I grabbed a quick shower. I stole a pair of clean socks from my brother. I went in my room and changed my shorts. In the dresser, I found the Saint Christopher Medal my mother had given to me on my twelfth birthday. I kissed it, clutched it in my palm, and then slipped the precious medal into my pocket.

  We left my place around nine o’clock and took the Vincent Thomas over the channel towards Long Beach. About half way across the bridge, I gazed out the side window and took in the panoramic view. Right in the middle, on the southern tip of Terminal Island, stood the ominous Federal Correctional Facility. I wonder if I’ll end up there?

  As we came off the bridge, five or six guys wearing Serpents Colors blew past us going about eighty. Super-heated spent fuel blasted out of high-performance exhaust and rolled over us, momentarily wiping away all other sound. Riding flat out, swerving in and out of traffic, they pulled away at breakneck speed. By the time we crossed the railroad tracks into Long Beach, the Serpents had disappeared. We passed the Marine Terminal, and I checked off to my right. The bikers were parked in an open area along a chain-link fence under some high-output security lights. They’d grouped up with another bunch. I counted ten, maybe twelve. They all looked like dockworkers, only dirtier.

  “Did you see that,” I said. “There’s like twenty of them.”

  Vince smiled and lit another joint. We crossed over the L.A. River. A few minutes later we pulled in the parking lot at the Nu Pike.

  Right after I got out of the car, three old men rolled by on rat bikes. They looked like a pack of junkyard dogs. They were all Serpents. One of them glanced back. His eyes were burnout black. I don’t think he liked me. I don’t think he liked anyone.

  “You know,” I said. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Get your ass kicked. That’s what. I mean it Vince. This is going to get ugly. I don’t have the cash, and I’m running out of stories. I lied last night at the Wonderland Ballroom. Lawson almost got shot, and T-bone got his butt kicked. They’re going to be royally pissed off.”

  “No sweat. I brought a secret weapon.” Vince pulled a plastic baggy full of machine rolled reefers out of his sweat sock. “Acapulco Gold baby. And if this isn’t enough, I’ve got a kilo in the trunk. We’ll turn this little shindig into a love-in.”

  “I don’t think so Vince. I’m getting a real bad feeling in my gut. I’m afraid we’re headed for a beat down.”

  “Don’t sweat it Duff. I’ll handle this thing tonight. Tomorrow—we’ll find the chick and get this whole deal straightened out.”

  Vince strolled toward the park. I reluctantly followed. Just outside the entrance, there were twenty-five or thirty motorcycles, V-twin thumpers, hogs, bobbers, and choppers. The old dudes I’d just seen were parking their bikes. And at least five more Serpents were standing around bullshitting, passing around a gallon of cheap wine. I don’t think they knew who we were, because they didn’t pay us any attention. We steered clear and drifted into the amusement park.

  The Pike was a dump. It had been a big deal back in WWII. In ‘68, the place was on its last leg. It was littered with trash, drunken sailors, carnival barkers, and rickety old rides. We took the long way around the Midway and stopped over by the carousel. The colorful ride whirled to the melody of a carnival organ, while a three hundred pound dirtbag wearing a Serpents jacket straddled a carved wooden horse and barked at the moon.

  “Vince.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You told me there were only ten guys in the club. There’s a hell of lot more than ten guys in the Serpents. I’ve already seen at least thirty of them. And I didn’t recognize any of ‘em. So there’s at least seven or eight more.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I’m not so sure we should hang around.”

  “You worry too much cousin,” he said. “Everything is going to be cool. Let me talk to Lawson. Afterwards, we can take a ride on The Racer.”

  I looked past the carousel toward the roller coaster. The Cyclone Racer was billed as the Greatest Ride on Earth. Over a hundred feet high, the dual-track coaster was a gigantic open-air structure built out of wooden beams and cross braces. The entrance was twenty feet wide and looked like the front of an old covered bridge. Hundreds of people were being herded up the ramp that led them inside and onto the loading platform.

  I said, “I heard they were going to close it down.”

  Vince said, “Bummer man.”

  Off to my left, I noticed three burly Serpents stagger over and stand in front of the roller coaster’s exit. They looked drunk, and high, and mean as fuck. Two of them had some kind of beef. They kept shoving each other until one of them threw a punch. The third dude, the biggest one of the bunch, stepped in and pushed them apart. He lifted his right fist in a threatening manner, and the other two calmed down.

  “All these guys do is fight. We should get out of here. I’ll call the lawyer and tell him we had a flat tire.”

  Vince was checking out some girl getting off the carousel. We watched her walk away. She was heading in the direction of the parking lot. I started after her. After a few steps, when Vince didn’t follow, I turned around.

  T-bone had Vince in a headlock. My cousin was struggling to break the hold. The crowd was starting to scatter. I ran to help. A Serpent stepped out of the chaos swinging. His fist smashed my left ear. My eardrum popped. I stumbled sideways and took a knee. I looked toward Vince. Serpents were swarming him. I tried to get up. Somebody punched me in the middle of my back. I flew forward as the wind rushed out of me. I did a belly flop on the concrete. I sucked wind. I looked up at Vince. T-bone released his chokehold and stepped back. A dozen Serpents rat packed Vince. He fought back. The Serpents were relentless. The punches came from every direction. Vince tried to get away. They pummeled him. He fell to his knees. Blood oozed from cuts above both eyes, and red drool ran out of his mouth and hung down off his chin. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his chin dropped. His arms were limp at his side. He was helpless. A couple of Serpents spit on him. Then they all back off a few feet. T-bone stepped forward. He pulled a miniature baseball bat out of his jacket. It was one of those two-foot pieces of hardwood they sell at the Dodger games. T-bone reared back his arm. He stepped into it, bringing the bat forward, waist high and level, like a forehand in tennis. Vince’s nose splattered. Blood flew everywhere. Vince went limp. I got sick. Things got blurry. I could hear Lawson. He was yelling.

  “Spread out and attack.”

  I shook it off as best I could. When the hazed lifted, there were Serpents everywhere. They were going berserk, running up to strangers and punching them for no reason. Some guys would fight back and get rat packed. Most of ‘em ran. Chicks were screaming. People were scattering in every direction. The fuckin’ place was coming apart at the seams. When I tried to stand up, a leather-clad forearm hooked my throat and hauled me to my feet.

  “I’m going to enjoy this,” T-bone said. He closed his arm around my throat, cutting off my blood supply, and slowly crushing my larynx. He lifted me off the ground, holding me in lethal suspension, while I dangled like a condemned man at the end of a rope.

  Lawson pulled a pig sticker out of his boot, and stuck the steely point into the soft tissue just below my eye. “Where’s the money? Tell me right now. You’ve got ten seconds. When I’m done counting, I shove the blade of this Arkansas Toothpick back up behind your eyeball and pop it out.”

  “Do it,” T-bone said, “Do it Lawson. Fuck this piece of shit. He’s going to tell us. Let’s have a little fun along the way.”

/>   I struggled for my life. T-bone tightened the sleeper hold and laughed. I started to black out. I was a goner. I heard someone say, “Bite off his fingers T-bone.”

  T-bone dropped me. My legs fell out from under me. I rolled around on the ground groveling for air. With my lungs still begging for oxygen, I got to my knees and crawled for daylight. I felt a boot in my back, just before my face hit the ground. T-bone bend down and grabbed my wrist. He took my left pinky finger and stuck it in his slimy mouth.

  Lawson said, “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s cut off his head.” He pointed to the Cyclone Racer and walked directly toward the coaster’s exit gate. Two Serpents followed, scanning the area, acting like Secret Service Agents.

  T-bone pulled on one arm, and some Serpent who smelt like stale cigars yanked on the other. They dragged me toward the Cyclone Racer. I stumbled along gasping for air. When we started through the coaster’s exit gate, I tried to jerk my arms free. T-bone clubbed me in the mouth with his elbow. I spit out blood, broken teeth, and what was left of my fighting spirit.

  We moved uncontested through the exit corridor and stopped at the edge of the unloading platform. Up the track, there were no people waiting to get on the ride. All the customers had scattered. Across the track, behind a freestanding control station, one bewildered park employee watched the cars come in full, and go out empty. Lawson and his bodyguards stepped off the platform, moved across the tracks and surrounded the guy. We followed.

  Lawson said, “Keep the coaster going.” He stuck his knife in the park employee’s face. “If you stop it, I’ll cut off your nose.”

  A coaster train came around the last turn and stopped in front of us. The passengers exited, and the train pulled up to the loading area, where it stopped for a minute, and then pulled away empty.

  Lawson stared at his wristwatch. Another train came around the last turn and stopped. Lawson was still looking at his watch. When it pulled away, Lawson took a couple of steps down the track and stopped in an open area. We followed. Lawson kept staring at his watch. Another coaster train came in and stopped.

  Lawson said, “Three minutes between trains.” He pinched T-bones cheek. “After this train pulls out, put his head on the track.”

  When the empty train pulled out, T-bone and his partner crammed my face on the track so my neck was on the rail. My ear was against the ground, and I was facing sideways, so I could see the coaster train come around the last turn. T-bone and the other guy held me down by standing on my hands and forearms with their motorcycle boots. The pain was outrageous, and I jerked around like I was having a fit. One of the other assholes sat on my legs and pinned me. Lawson knelt down and held his watch in front of my face. The second hand was reeling.

  Lawson leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Can you hear the Cyclone rumble? Listen real close, and you can hear your last breath.”

  “What about the money! If I’m dead, you’ll never find it.”

  “You’ve got less than three minutes. If I don’t have the money by then, you’re dead.”

  “I can get it tomorrow.”

  “Not good enough.”

  I could feel the coaster racing down the track, violent hairpin turns and sudden drops sent shock waves along the rail and tremors down my spine. I struggled to get my neck off the railing. The biker who was sitting on my legs slugged me in the back. It hurt like hell, but I was pumped full of adrenaline, and too afraid to give up. I arched my back and tried to kick my way out. I strained with all my might. They laughed at me. Exhausted, I laid my head on the railing. I could hear the coaster getting closer. I almost started to cry. I heard the voice of an angel.

  “You let him go this instant—you horrible bullies.”

  The bikers didn’t respond. I guess Serpents can’t hear angels.