The Drive

by Tyler Keevil

  The barmaid started ferrying pitchers of beer over to their tables. On-stage, Venus shielded her eyes and peered out at the audience, trying to see what was happening. It was probably hard to tell, with the lights shining in her face. So she did the only thing she could do: she carried on with the next song. The first few bars were off-key, though, and the band had to stop to re-tune. At the back, the bikers chuckled and mock-applauded the mistake.

  ‘This is such horseshit,’ Bea said.

  She shoved back her chair and strode over to the bar. I hurried after her. She crooked a finger at the bartender to beckon him over. He waddled towards us, twisting a towel around in a pint glass with his fist.

  ‘I thought it was ladies’ night,’ she said.

  The guy held up the glass, considering it. ‘It is.’

  ‘So what’s with those assholes at the back?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, shimmying my shoulders a bit. I’d seen chicks doing that when they were getting all bitchy. ‘What’s with those jerks coming in when it’s ladies only?’

  ‘They know the owner.’

  ‘Goddammit,’ Bea said.

  ‘And the stage is only booked for another half-hour. Ladies’ night finishes at eleven.’ He went back to his polishing. The towel made a soapy squeaking against the glass. ‘Look – I’m sorry or whatever. But you know how it is.’

  We retreated to our table and slumped in our chairs. The band had kicked off a more upbeat number. The drummer was shaking her tambourine and stomping the drum pedal. I sucked on my Dragonfire. The tequila dregs tasted bitter.

  ‘This is all my fault,’ I said.

  ‘How could it be your fault?’

  ‘It’s him. The biker guy I told you about, and his gang. The Cobras.’

  Bea gazed at me. Appraisingly. ‘That’s why you were worried about the peaks?’

  ‘It’s too much of a coincidence. It had to be synchronicity.’

  ‘Whatever it is, they better settle down.’

  They didn’t. They were getting noisier, and rowdier. Venus switched to harder numbers, trying to drown the bikers out. She wailed on her guitar and shouted into her mic, but the louder she played, the louder they got, cackling and braying like a pack of hyenas.

  Then, in the silence between songs, the head biker burped – one of those extended, deliberate burps that lasts about five seconds.

  Venus smirked and said, ‘Looks like somebody ate too much.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the guy called back. ‘I ate too much pussy!’

  All his cronies laughed on cue. It was as if they were a single organism with a hive mind, led by him. Venus blanked on the comeback. There wasn’t much she could say, to a comment like that. Instead she started singing her next song – a punked-up pop cover. ‘You didn’t want a real girl, you wanted me to be your dream girl…’

  ‘You can be my dream girl, baby – my wet dream!’

  That was the guy again. But pretty soon the others joined in the heckling.

  ‘Time to get off the stage.’

  ‘Yeah,’ another shouted. ‘Get off, or take it off!’

  Venus missed a chord change. She was flustered now, and singing out of sync.

  ‘Time’s up, girlie!’

  ‘Is it a girl or a guy?’

  ‘Let’s have some karaoke!’

  They all started chanting. ‘Ka-ra-ok-e! Ka-ra-ok-e!’

  The band members looked at one another, blinking and sweating beneath the lights. A few of the women in the audience tried to counter-heckle, and shouted insults back at the bikers. They loved that, of course. It was exactly what they wanted. Next to me, Bea was trembling – actually trembling with rage.

  ‘Fuck this,’ she said, and stood up.

  ‘Wait.’ I grabbed her wrist. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going over to tell those shitheads to be quiet.’

  ‘Not a good idea, Bea. The guy’s dangerous…’

  I trailed off, withering like a worm under her glare.

  ‘Trev,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to ask them to keep it down. If you’re scared of him you don’t have to come.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ I lowered my voice. ‘But he might recognise me.’

  She rolled her eyes, pulled her hand away, and started walking off. I was thinking, if you let her go alone, you’re not a man, or a woman. You’re a non-thing, a nothing.

  ‘Beatrice – hold on.’

  I slurped back the rest of my drink, feeling the ice chill my teeth, and stood up. I tugged down my skirt, checked my wig and tits. Then I picked up my purse. Bea was waiting for me.

  ‘With you,’ I said, ‘I’d face a hundred of those fuckers.’

  We strutted over there. I focused on my chick-walk, rolling my hips and putting each heel in place. I told myself, you’re not Trevor, you’re Trevine. He won’t recognise Trevine.

  Bea marched us right up to the table of the main guy. He was obviously the one in charge. All the other bikers were clustered around him, like lackeys in the king’s court. To his right sat a beefy guy who reminded me of a walrus. He even had a walrus moustache.

  ‘What do we got here?’ the biker said, grinning at Bea. He looked more weathered than the last time we’d met. His nose was peeling, his whole face was worn and parched from sun, and that patch of dry skin under his chin had spread – almost as if he’d developed eczema. My visor was fairly battered, too. He was wearing it at an angle, like a wannabe gangster.

  ‘What we got,’ Bea said, ‘is a problem. Because that’s my friend up there. And you’re making her uncomfortable. So I’d appreciate it if you could keep it down until she finishes her set. Please.’

  The biker lowered his sunglasses and looked Bea up and down, in that way guys do – as if he was picturing her naked. She stared right back at him, not blinking.

  ‘And who are you, babe?’

  Bea grinned, as if she wanted to tear out his throat with her teeth. ‘I’m Bea.’

  ‘Bea, huh? Like a honeybee. You got some honey for me, little bee?’

  He used his foot to push a chair towards her. There was mud caked on his boots.

  ‘Have a seat.’

  ‘We have seats, thanks.’

  ‘So I guess a blowjob is out of the question?’

  The big walrus sort of chortled, and something shifted in Bea’s face.

  ‘Good one,’ she said, giving them the thumbs-up. ‘But I’ll leave that to your friends here. You guys look like you spend a lot of time circle-jerking and sucking each other off.’

  The women at nearby tables had turned to stare. The music was still going on in the background – feeble and limp as a deflating blimp – but the real performance was back here.

  ‘Watch it, honeybee. Play nice unless you want a spanking.’

  ‘I think you’re all talk, tough guy.’

  The biker said, ‘All talk, huh?’

  He leaned back in his chair, resting one elbow on the shoulder of his walrus sidekick. The movement pulled aside the front of his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster. The butt of his Magnum gleamed in there. He flaunted it for her, like a flasher flaunting his dick.

  ‘Come on, honeybee. Have a drink with me.’

  ‘Is this how you pick up women?’ Bea said. ‘By threatening them?’

  But for the first time she sounded uncertain – you could tell that the gun had thrown her a little. I’d seen it all before, though. Not just his gun, but his entire tough-guy routine.

  Maybe I could use that to our advantage.

  ‘Nice piece,’ I said, in my fluttery Trevine voice. I stepped up beside Beatrice and struck a bimbo-pose, with my head tilted and one hand on my hip. ‘What is that? A thirty-eight?’

  He gave me the once-over. Then he licked his lips. They were so parched that they’d started to crack and split, like waxed paper. ‘It’s a .500, sugar,’ he said. ‘You like guns, huh?’

  I flicked my hair, trying to look nonchalant. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Wanna see mine?�
�� he asked.

  ‘Ooh,’ I said. ‘Are you really going to show me your big gun?’

  That drew some laughs from his men. Bea leaned over and whispered, ‘I think you’re getting a bit carried away, Trevine.’ But the guy was already easing out his Magnum. There was a collective gasp from the women sitting nearby. I heard chairs being pushed back, and the scuttle of heels. Some of them were getting out of there. Others sat rabbit-still, waiting.

  ‘Pearl-handled and nickel-plated,’ he said.

  Then he laid the gun on the table. I took the seat he’d offered Bea, and touched the pistol, running my nail along the barrel. I pretended to shiver. At some point the music had stopped. I guess the band must have realised that something crazy was going on. Now the place was silent as a sound stage.

  ‘Is it loaded?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure. But the safety’s on. Go ahead. Pick it up.’

  I did, making a big deal about how heavy it was. I posed with it, pointed it, blew on the muzzle. ‘It’s big,’ I said. ‘But are you any good with it, or are you just shooting blanks?’

  His cronies chuckled again. They loved my gun-slut routine.

  ‘Sugar,’ he said, ‘I’m so good with this thing, I can shoot it backwards, blindfolded or riding on my motorcycle. Or all three. You name it.’

  I giggled. Girlishly. ‘No, you couldn’t.’

  ‘Yes. I could.’

  He said it as if he actually believed he could shoot it backwards and blindfolded while riding his motorcycle – which gave me an idea.

  ‘Show me, then.’ I put the gun down in front of him. ‘Show me how good you are.’

  ‘What – in here?’

  ‘No, silly. Out back.’

  He laughed. ‘I can’t just fire this thing for no reason, sugar. Not in the city.’

  ‘Why not? Gonna get reported?’ I leaned forward, put my hand on his knee. I lowered my voice, too – making it all husky. ‘I love seeing a man shooting off his pistol.’

  The biker cleared his throat. His men were looking at him, waiting to see if he’d rise to the challenge. Eventually he picked up his gun, spun the cylinder and snapped it shut.

  ‘Okay, sugar. Whatever turns you on.’

  All the Cobras whooped it up in appreciation, and I clapped my hands like a little girl – with the fingers spread wide. The guy stood to address the whole bar. ‘If any of you ladies are interested, we’re going to have ourselves a firearm display. Out back in the yard.’

  Then he bowed to me, stepping aside to let me go first. As me and Bea passed him, he slapped my ass, the way you would to get a horse going. It stung like hell, but I pretended to like it. The rest of the bikers, and some of the women, fell into step behind us. We led the way towards the rear exit, behind the stage.

  ‘You’re out of your depth, Trevine,’ Bea said, under her breath. ‘We need to leave.’

  ‘No – we need a scarf. Do you have one?’

  Bea always had a scarf – up her sleeve or in her purse or in her pocket.

  ‘Sure I’ve got a scarf. But he’s got a fucking gun, okay?’

  I held a finger to my lips. The biker guy was only a few steps back.

  ‘Tonight, I’m hoping scarf trumps gun.’

  chapter 71

  Everybody piled outside: the bikers and the women, Venus and her band members, the bartender and the barmaids and the bouncer. Everybody. The yard was dark and cluttered, like the back of somebody’s mind. They had a large patio out there, littered with cigarette butts, broken glass and bits of paper. A low-watt security lamp glowed above the fire exit. It didn’t give off much light, but you could see fairly well because of the moon. It was past the halfway point now – going gibbous – and hung directly above the Twin Peaks, coating the slopes with a dreamy, hallucinatory hue.

  At first nobody knew what was going on. We just milled about, nervous and excited as a herd of cattle before a stampede. Then a semi-circle began to form around the sides of the patio. All the women were on one side of the semi-circle, and all the men were on the other. The head biker stood at the centre. He started doing fancy tricks with his Magnum. First he twirled it around his trigger finger like a gunslinger. Then he palmed it into his holster, and whipped it out – super-fast. From the sidelines the other Cobras cheered him on.

  ‘Where’s sugar?’ he yelled, looking around.

  I was standing in the crowd with Bea. When I stepped forward, she came with me. Since the guy had his walrus sidekick as back-up, it only seemed fair that I got to have her.

  ‘There you are,’ the guy said. ‘Come here.’

  He wrapped an arm around my waist and managed to slip his hand under my blouse, palming my hip. Beside us, Beatrice plucked up the sides of her skirts and performed a slow-dip curtsy for the walrus, who looked absolutely flabbergasted by this.

  ‘So,’ I said to the biker, ‘what are you going to shoot for me?’

  ‘What do you want me to shoot, sugar?’

  He wasn’t much different from his brother, that guy.

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, nibbling my fingernail. ‘Let me see…’

  As I considered, I could feel him staring at me from behind his sunglasses.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘Have we met before?’

  ‘Of course – in your dreams.’

  He was still studying me. Closely. I had to choose a target, fast. His walrus sidekick was sipping from a bottle of beer. I pointed to it.

  ‘How about that?’

  The sidekick looked down at his bottle, as if he’d just noticed he was holding it.

  ‘Perfect, sugar,’ the biker said, and motioned with his gun. ‘Put it over there, Fatty.’

  The fat guy’s nickname was Fatty, apparently. That made sense.

  ‘No,’ I said, in a spoiled-child voice, ‘let me do it.’

  I took the bottle from Fatty and held it up, presenting it to the crowd with a showgirl flourish. Somebody wolf-whistled. Carrying it like that, I strutted across the patio, striking my heels on the concrete and swinging my hips. Around the yard was a concrete wall, about head-high. That was the place. I went over and balanced the bottle on top. As I adjusted it, I noticed the label for the first time. It showed the head of a black bird with a hooked yellow beak, beside the words Black Hawk Stout.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re my hawk on the high wall.’

  I kissed it for luck, then sashayed back to the centre of the horseshoe. The biker and Fatty were chuckling and nudging each other – as if Trevine had done something silly and female.

  ‘I thought you were going to give me a challenge, sugar. That’s easy.’

  ‘Even if you do it blindfolded?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Why would I do that?’

  I looked at him with big doe-eyes. ‘I thought you said you could shoot backwards and blindfolded and riding your motorbike.’

  One of the women, who was obviously pretty hammered, called out, ‘You did say that. I heard you.’ A bunch of the other women muttered and nodded their agreement.

  ‘Ladies,’ the guy said, like a teacher explaining to a group of children, ‘that’s just a saying. Nobody could ever really shoot a target blindfolded. It’s impossible.’

  I looked at him coolly. ‘Want to bet?’

  He laughed. His men laughed, too. Even some of the ladies laughed.

  ‘What kind of bet is that?’

  ‘I bet I can hit it, even if you can’t.’ Dipping one hand in my purse, I slowly pulled out my pistol, like a stripper teasing off a piece of clothing. When she saw that, Bea made a little sound, as if to say, what the hell is Trevor doing with a gun? The biker looked as if he was wondering the same thing, and around us the crowd started whispering and murmuring.

  ‘How about it, sugar?’ I said. ‘A shoot-out. Me against you.’

  I pursed my lips, blew him a kiss. He blinked, as if the kiss had caught him right between the eyes. He didn’t answer immediately. I think he must have suspected a trick.

  ‘And what if you
win?’ he asked. ‘What then?’

  ‘Then,’ I said, raising my voice and addressing the whole crowd, ‘you and your buddies have to leave, and my friend gets to finish her set. It’ll be ladies’ night, all night!’

  When they heard that, the women all started cheering and whooping and stomping the ground. Among them, I caught sight of Venus – looking absolutely stunned. I winked at her.

  ‘And if I win?’ the guy said. ‘What do I get if I hit it first?’

  I levelled him with my sexiest Trevine stare. I padded around behind him, ran a hand over his chest, and whispered in his ear, ‘What do you think, silly? If you win, you get me.’

  The Cobras standing nearby, who’d overheard, all went, ‘Oooohhh.’

  ‘Do it, boss,’ one called out.

  ‘Go for it!’

  The guy looked around. You could tell he was still trying to figure out my angle, my plan. He couldn’t, though – mostly because I didn’t have one. Not a rational one, anyway.

  ‘Okay, sugar,’ he said. ‘Let’s do this. How many shots do we get?’

  ‘I don’t know how many you’ll need,’ I said. ‘But I’ll only need one.’

  ‘Like hell you will.’

  We picked a spot to shoot from, and Fatty scratched a line in the gravel with his toe. Then we flipped to see who would shoot first. I won the toss and told the biker he could go. He made a big deal about taking off his jacket and checking his gun. He spun the cylinder, cocked the hammer, and sighted along the barrel like a pro. Then he stepped up to the line.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Where’s the goddamn blindfold?’

  Bea already had her scarf out – a green silk scarf with red and blue floral patterns on it. She waved it above her head, displaying it, then stepped up behind the biker. The silk was thin so she folded it twice to make sure he couldn’t see through it.

  ‘Could you give me a hand, honey?’ she asked Fatty.

  Fatty hurried over. He seemed incredibly excited to be helping her. He held the scarf across his boss’s face while Bea tied it carefully at the back. In his hair you could see white flakes of skin, thick as snake scales. ‘Somebody needs Head and Shoulders,’ she said, under her breath.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said you’re all ready to go.’