‘The Skunks?’
‘You don’t want to know. Believe me, lady. You don’t want to know.’
29
Skip Dearborn had been grand master of the Skunks chapter of the Birmingham Hells Angels for nearly twenty years now. In that time he had raped, killed, tortured, stolen, grafted, skimmed, blackmailed, and kidnapped his way through the better part of Southern Alabama, without ever having done any prison time to speak of. Others had suffered in his place. As far as Skip was concerned, that was only just.
He was the smartest and the meanest looking sonofabitch on the block – why shouldn’t he benefit from his smartness and his meanness? There would come a time when someone else stole his crown, but that time wasn’t looming anytime soon. And in the meanwhile Skip exercised droit de seigneur over any women stupid enough to want to associate themselves with his chapter, and had pick of the crop as far as loot, drug money, and any passing pussy was concerned.
Heck, he was like a lion in charge of his pride. He had the shiniest bike, the most patches (he sported Red Wings, Black Wings, the Dequiallo, and even an ultra-rare Filthy Few shoulder blaze), the smoothest leathers, and the foulest body odour of any of the males in his war party. What did he care? Who was going to argue with him? Who was going to cause him any grief? He had a steel plate in his skull, a rivet in one arm, a punctured lung, scars on his back, shoulder, and neck, a perforated eardrum, and occasional tinnitus, which made him very irritable indeed.
Tonight, the tinnitus was real bad. And the only thing that made the tinnitus halfway bearable was either a fight, or pussy, or both. That way, he was able to forget about the hissing in his ears for a pleasurable hour or two.
This particular Friday night he was surrounded by an assorted mob of what the Hells Angels termed hang-arounds, associates, and prospects. Wannabes, in other words, amenable to just about whatever Skip chose to throw at them. A lot of the main chapter members had taken to avoiding Skip’s company on a Friday night, either because they were getting too old, or too comfortable, or didn’t want their women outraged by anyone other than themselves. This pissed Skip off, and he was prone to take his revenge in unexpected and inventive ways.
Running the hang-arounds was one of his neatest tricks. Most of them were so desperate to join the One Percenters (the 99 per cent of remaining bikers being considered law-abiding – what the Angels sarcastically called ‘Citizens’), that Skip could just about do what he wanted with them. Aim a hang-around at a bunch of Citizens and let him loose – that was Skip’s motto. Then he’d stand back and watch the mayhem. Get in a lick here or there with a sawn-off pool cue. Smash a few knife-hands. All good fun and games. No one got killed. No one got seriously hurt – unless you called a few lost teeth, a broken nose or two, and maybe a cracked rib, pain.
Skip’s newest trick consisted of spraying people with triple-action pepper spray when they least expected it. One shot in the eyes, and you could do what the hell you wanted without any danger of a comeback. Tonight, Skip had a can of pepper spray, a sawn-off pool cue, a Kau Sin Ke Chinese fighting chain, and a switchblade in his armoury. The tinnitus was getting so bad that he had to grind his teeth together to counteract the sound – it was like being tied underneath a damned waterfall in Yellowstone Park. He desperately needed an outlet – some way of switching his attention to outside his head.
He flung Alabama Mama’s main door wide open, and strode in, followed by his little coterie of hangers-on. It was early yet. Far too early for any real fun. So Skip intended to hit the mescal for an hour or two, and then take whatever happened in through the door. What he wasn’t expecting was that his evening’s entertainment would already be in situ.
Skip allowed his eyes to trail lazily across the dance floor. Sweet Jesus. Who were the bunch of freaks huddling together around a far-off table? He was so surprised at the sight of them that he even stopped for a moment to stare as if in wonder. As if he’d witnessed some minor sort of miracle. Then he saw Aldinach at the bar.
‘She’s mine,’ he said to the hang-around nearest him. ‘Go fetch.’
The barman came hurrying over towards the assembled Angels. ‘Skip, no trouble tonight. You hear me? Last time around you almost got me canned. Drinks on the house, huh? Tequilas all round. How’s about that?’
‘Mescal. And beer chasers.’
‘Sure, Skip. Anything you say.’
The Angels sat down. Skip watched the hang-around angling towards the woman at the bar. Asshole. What was he doing? Fishing for cut-throats?
‘You. Miss. Care to have a drink with us?’ Skip’s voice was loud – stentorian even. As if he was shouting orders down a communications tube.
Aldinach stood up. She looked around with her head canted to one side, as if she wasn’t quite sure the yell had really come from Skip’s table. ‘That would be very nice.’
The hang-around had only just reached her. Now he drew back in horror. What was the slit thinking of? Was she blind? He had anticipated a little local difficulty in persuading her to come across to the Angels’ table. A straight no, maybe, followed by a ‘fuck off’. He had then intended to try a little wheedling, upon which he would have headed disconsolately back and left the whole thing up to Skip. Let the motherfucker harvest his own pussy.
Instead, the woman gathered up her drink from the bar and accompanied the hang-around voluntarily across the floor.
The barman met them halfway. He raised his eyebrows dramatically when he caught Aldinach’s eye, and then shook his head, as though abrogating all further responsibility for his former client. He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t have a death wish.
Skip got up and offered Aldinach a chair. His manner was studiously polite. Rather like a man who intends to lull a companion into a false sense of security, before snatching the chair away just as they sit down.
He could scarcely believe his luck. What was the slit thinking of? Did she like rough trade, maybe? Was she out for a Friday night she would never forget? And what did he care?
‘You want a shot of mescal?’
‘No. I’d like another margarita.’
‘Coming up.’ Skip yelled across at the barman, who waved a hand in weary acknowledgement.
Aldinach looked around at the table of Angels. ‘You’re all dressed alike. Are you members of some club, perhaps?’
Skip grinned. ‘You could call it that. The “share and share alike” club.’
‘Oh, really? I have never heard of that.’
‘My name’s Skip. What your name, sweetheart?’
‘You can call me Desiree.’
‘You French or something?’
‘I’m from Louisiana. Lake Charles.’
‘Should have guessed.’ Skip hesitated. ‘By the way you dress.’
‘Do you like the way I dress?’
‘Jesus Christ. Do you get this dame?’ Skip glanced around at his hangers-on. He was beginning to look ever so slightly nonplussed.
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘Sure. I like the way you dress. I like it fine.’
Aldinach stood up. ‘I must go to the powder room. You’ll wait for me, won’t you? You won’t go away?’
Skip nearly let his chair tilt all the way over. He could hardly feel his tinnitus any more. There was no way on earth he was going to pass up on this broad. ‘You go right ahead, honey. We’ll all be here when you get back.’
Aldinach weaved her way amongst the tables. As she passed close to her brothers and sisters she smiled, and raised one questioning eyebrow. Oni glanced quickly across to the Angels’ table and shrugged.
‘Those freaks bothering you, sister?’ Skip was standing up now. He could feel a sudden knot in the pit of his stomach.
‘Yes.’ Aldinach turned around. ‘They have said a disgusting thing to me. And that you Angels are pussies.’
Oni sighed. He looked across at his brothers and sisters. ‘Abi will be angry with us if we do this.’
Berith shru
gged. ‘Who cares?’
Oni glanced across at Rudra, Alastor, and Asson. ‘You three on?’
Nawal nudged him. ‘What about us girls?’
Oni smiled. ‘You can mop up after us.’ He stood up and turned towards the Angels.
‘Hey boys,’ Skip said. ‘The fucking circus just came to town.’
30
It was an uneven fight. The hang-arounds didn’t really have their hearts in it. The main problem was that no one had tanked up yet on beer and mescal and crank. The Skunks weren’t honed. They had no edge to them.
The fat guy, and the thin guy, and the harelip guy, and the guy that limped, all moved one way, and the albino giant just came straight at them through the tables. Drinkers scattered in every direction. The female freaks circled around the outside of the fight like barracuda, watching for an opening.
Each of the freaks drew fighting batons from their sleeves. Seeing this, a few of the hang-arounds began to lose heart.
The albino reached them first. Christ, but he was fucking enormous.
Two of the hang-arounds drew knives, to sort of puncture his morale, but he just swept over them with his fighting baton, cracking the head of one, and smashing in the other man’s teeth.
By this time the four other male freaks had hit the ground running. Batons were swirling and swishing through the air. Bones were cracking – hang-arounds were screaming.
Skip ducked under a table, hoping to get a chance to cut someone’s hamstring, but two of the female freaks caught sight of what he was doing and piled chairs and tables on top of him, until he was completely covered by a fretwork of steel tubing.
Aldinach stood by the bar, one eye on the barman, the other on the fight.
‘You with these people?’ the barman said.
‘Never met them before in my life.’ Aldinach glanced towards the main door. Customers were exiting through it in droves. ‘Do you think anyone will call the police?’
The barman shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. But I figure not. Sort of clients we get don’t find cops copacetic.’
‘Are you going to call the police?’
‘What for? How often do I get to see the Skunks getting their hides furrowed?’
Things were quieting down now. Most of the hang-arounds had either fled or were stretched out on the floor or across the bar furniture.
Aldinach minced across the floor towards the mayhem. The eight Corpus members turned towards her as one.
‘Skip,’ she said, in a high, girlie little voice. ‘You under there?’
Oni cleared the tables and chairs that were piled up above Skip Dearborn’s huddled form. He had adopted the foetal position, same as you do when you are attacked by wild dogs.
Skip emerged from beneath the wreckage and stood up. He was holding his switchblade and the can of pepper spray out in front of him as if they were some sort of lucky charm – a string of garlic designed to ward off vampires. He looked around at what remained of his merry band of men. ‘Shit.’
‘You going to use that?’ Aldinach approached closer.
‘This was some kind of set-up, wasn’t it? You’re all in this together? You knew this was going to happen before we even came in. You people suckered us. You ain’t no fucking Desiree.’ Skip raised the pepper spray.
Aldinach snatched a fighting baton from Nawal’s hand. Before Skip was able to respond, she brought the baton down across his knife hand, smashing the bone. Then, as he bent down to grab his wrist, she smashed him across the back of the neck, snatched the can of pepper spray, and blasted him full in the face.
Skip pole-axed to the ground like a discarded shirt.
‘Heck of a date,’ said Aldinach, as she and her siblings started out of the building.
31
Calque, who was driving, and not relishing his silent passengers, turned up the volume on the radio. ‘Listen to this.’
An announcer was describing the previous night’s mayhem at Alabama Mama’s.
Sabir, who was trying to get some sleep after yet another disturbed night, groaned. Lamia, who had somehow managed to curl up and fall asleep on the back seat, didn’t respond.
‘Look what we’ve been missing. We’ve been staying in the wrong part of town, apparently. A gang attack. Two groups of Hells Angels tearing into each other. Fourteen people taken to hospital. Redneck heaven.’
Sabir straightened up. He knew he wasn’t going to get any sleep from here on in. ‘What do you know about rednecks, Calque?’
Calque hitched his chin. ‘I know a lot about rednecks. The Polish man at the motel even told me two redneck jokes.’
Sabir pretended to reel backwards. ‘But you can’t even speak English. How could you possibly communicate with him?’
‘It is simple. He is a Pole. A civilized man. A European. He speaks French.’
Sabir sighed. ‘Can you remember them? The jokes, I mean.’
Calque appeared to be deep in thought. ‘Yes. I think so.’
‘Well tell me them, then. If I can’t sleep, I might as well be entertained.’
Calque pursed his lips, his eyes furrowed against the morning sunlight. ‘The first one goes like this. A redneck from Alabama dies. But fortunately he has left a will. In it he leaves his entire estate in trust for his widow. The only snag is, she can only inherit when she reaches the age of fourteen.’
Sabir stared at him. ‘That’s it?’
Calque shrugged. ‘I thought it was very funny. I laughed when the Polish man told it to me. The other one is better, though. Much better.’
‘Okay, shoot.’
‘There you go again with this silly expression. Why should I shoot? It simply doesn’t translate into French. When you speak French, you should use the French idiom. Not an American one.’
Sabir turned down the radio, which was still blaring the local news at them. ‘I would very much like to hear the second joke, Captain Calque.’
Calque nodded. ‘Very well. I shall give it to you. This is even funnier than the first one.’
Sabir squeezed shut his eyes.
‘Two rednecks from Alabama are approaching each other on the road. One has a sackful of chickens in his hand. The second redneck says, “If I can tell you how many chickens you have in your sack, will you give them to me?” The first redneck thinks things over. “If you can guess how many chickens are in this sack, I will give you both of them.” The second redneck stares down at the sack. “Five?”’
Lamia gave a hoot from the back of the car. Even Sabir had the grace to laugh.
‘You see,’ said Calque. ‘I told you the second joke was better. In France we tell such jokes about you Yankees.’
‘Yeah, well, that doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ said Sabir. ‘We Yankees tell such jokes against you French. I learned dozens of them when I was in the National Guard.’
Calque pointed his finger in Sabir’s direction. ‘You are half French. Don’t forget that, Sabir. You owe a duty to your maternal homeland.’ He was beginning to look slightly nervous.
‘How can I ever forget it? That’s why I was the butt of the damned Frenchy jokes in the first place. However, I figure that any man who can’t tell a good joke against himself doesn’t deserve the claim to a sense of humour. Don’t you agree?’
‘Go on,’ said Lamia from the back of the car. ‘Tell us an anti-French joke.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘Okay. How many Frenchmen does it take to screw in a light bulb?’
There was silence in the car.
‘One. He holds it, and the rest of Europe simply revolves around him.’
Calque took both hands off the wheel and made a disparaging motion. ‘That is not very funny at all.’
‘Okay. Try this then.’ Sabir took a preparatory breath. He was beginning to feel a sense of impending doom. Still, for some reason he couldn’t quite figure, he felt unable to stop himself. ‘How do you confuse a French soldier?’
‘
How?’
‘You give him a rifle and ask him to fire it.’
Calque slammed the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. ‘That is outrageous. Did they really tell such jokes as this against you when you were in the army?’
‘I wasn’t in the army. I was in the National Guard.’
‘The National Guard, then. Pah.’
Sabir’s jaw was beginning to freeze with the tension of his unwanted position. ‘Yes. All the time. Comes from having a foreign-sounding name. The true joke was really on them, because my father was pretty near 100 per cent pure American – it was my mother who was French.’
‘Tell me another joke. One about women this time.’ Lamia was sitting up straighter in the back of the car.
‘It’ll be about soldiers. Those are the only ones I know.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘What do female snipers in France use as camouflage?’
More silence.
‘Their armpits.’
‘Their what?’
‘Their armpits.’ Sabir knew for certain that he’d gone too far this time.
The Mayan Codex Page 19
