by Bella Knight
She would cry great gulping torrents of tears, then pull herself together for her daughter.
The Nighthawks contacted the Shriners for help funding Elena’s surgeries, and they started having yard sales and other fundraisers. Ivy put her picture in the bar along with a giant glass. It filled up quickly. The bikers put the word out, and there was a ride in Elena’s name. Katya was stunned and grateful for the outpouring of love from strangers.
Gregory was very careful to be patient and gentle with Katya and with Elena. He bought Elena a tablet computer and created a special sterilized cover for it so she could play it. He downloaded lots of games and books onto it. Elena would laugh at some silly bunny game, or get into a complicated explanation of the book she was reading, and both Gregory and Katya would sigh with relief.
The babushkas pulled Gregory aside a few weeks later, “When will you marry Katya and adopt Elena?”
“When she remembers to think about me,” said Gregory, “right now, all her focus is on her daughter. She’s forgotten I even exist. When the pressure lets up, then maybe.”
They nodded their heads, and patted his hands. Then, they got him more tea.
Hell Continued
On a warm Sunday morning, Henry, Gregory, and Bonnie were putting together Katya’s new 3-wheel motorized bike to get around on, when Henry got a call.
“Henry,” he said.
His face went white. He slowly put the wrench back into the toolbox and stood up. Gregory handed tools to Bonnie, who got them squared away. Henry said “Uh-huh” a few times, then, “Where?” Bonnie whipped a pad of paper and a pen out of her coverall pocket and offered it to Henry. She picked up the toolbox and put it back under the tool rack in the garage at the Nighthawks clubhouse.
Henry got off the phone just as Bonnie walked over to them, “That was Detective Jackson. Manuel Morales is dead. A drunk driver ran him over. Bonnie, you get someone and go to Tina’s. She’ll be asleep. Stay there and help take care of Pedro until we get back. He should still be in school. Someone’s going to have to go over there and escort him home.”
“On it,” said Bonnie, running towards the clubhouse, “Tito!” she called out. Tito worked swing and had been in to tune up his bike earlier and gone in to wash up.
Tito poked his head out of the door, “What is it?” he said.
“Manny Morales is dead.”
Tito staggered as if he’d been hit in the stomach, “We gotta go over there, help Tina and Pedro.”
She stopped talking as Tito came out and hugged Bonnie, weeping into her hair. Gregory and Henry came over and patted Tito on the back. He looked up at Henry, narrowing his eyes, wiping the tears off his face.
“Take care of it,” he said.
“We will,” said Gregory.
They got on their bikes. Gregory followed Henry to the fifteen. Traffic was snarled; they rode on the shoulder until they came to the accident. They parked as far over as possible behind a cop car. Two motorcycle cops were directing traffic. They hugged the wall and walked along it past the empty cop cars.
It was absolutely horrific. Highway patrol officers were marking the scene with yellow numbers and photographing parts of bike, blood, and bone. Henry grabbed Gregory’s shoulder and dug in. Farther on down was a huge silver truck, a dually, with bits of blood and bone and bike embedded in the wheels. Two of the tires were blown. They kept their boots to the wall and kept going, single file. They saw what was left of the bike up ahead. The coroner’s van was there; several separate body bags were on it.
There was a cop car further up ahead. A man’s feet were sticking out of the back. Detective Jackson was asking him questions. Detective Naman was hulking, and writing things down, the pen minuscule in his fingers. The men followed the wall, single file, down to the cop car.
They passed the truck. The entire front was caved in, both lights smashed. Debris from the Harley was embedded in the lights and grille.
“Hey!” said one of the crime scene investigators, “You can’t…”
Detective Naman waved them forward. The tech subsided and put down more yellow markers with numbers. He was up to the number twenty-four.
As they got closer they could hear the man yelling about his rights, about how it was an accident, about how they had no right to hold him. He poked his head out of the car, and Gregory and Henry could see stringy blond hair, and that the person was wearing jeans and black cowboy boots. Detective Jackson patiently asked, “How much did you have to drink, Sir?”
“Not enough to deal with you fuckers!” the person in the car said, throwing his head back.
Henry and Gregory came up and stood on either side of Detective Jackson, “Let me explain to you how much trouble you’re in. We’re going to investigate this thing real, good. Did you or did you not run over a motorcycle without stopping?”
“Coulda been a rabbit,” said the man.
He had a thin face, bloodshot green eyes that weren’t focusing well, and lanky unwashed hair that moved when he threw himself around and argued.
“You hit a Harley, going at high speed.”
The man started to argue. Detective Naman slammed his hand down on the roof of the car. The man jumped but subsided.
“One… Manuel Morales was killed, and you and your truck left his body parts all over the highway. I have crime scene investigators that have investigated serial killers throwing up at seeing a man in teeny-tiny parts all over the interstate.”
The man turned a little green, “I didn’t…”
“You didn’t stop,” said Detective Jackson, “he had a wife and at least one kid. I got the picture out of what was left of his wallet. You ready to go down there and tell a little boy his father isn’t coming home?”
“Ac—ac—accident.”
“I have two witnesses and a traffic camera that shows me something else. How you were crowding Mr. Morales. How he signaled to change lanes, to get out of your ‘in-a-hurry way,’ and you ran right over him. Right over him, and his Harley. He’s dead. Not going home to his family. Now, how much did you have to drink?”
“Two, maybe th—three,” the man kept slumping, then leaning to one side or the other.
“Not what the breathalyzer says,” said Detective Jackson, “you blew a one point five. Now, since you don’t seem willing to talk to me, Officers Peterson and Gaines here are going to take you to the hospital. You’re having a blood test. You will be silent, like you have the right to do, while they do this, and not give them any trouble.”
“Ak-si-dent,” said the man, slurring his words and bobbing back and forth.
“If you don’t shut up and go nicely, I’ll have to give these gentlemen your last name. Do you want to turn around and show him what he’s up against?”
They turned around to show him their leather jackets, “Whoa,” said the man, “skulls.”
“These here are the Nighthawks. You’re too messed up to know it, Sir, but they are your new best friends. They will show up to every court appearance you have for the rest of your miserable life. When you sober up, remember that skull. You’re going to see a lot of it.”
He lifted the man’s feet and swung them in the door. He gently closed the door. The man inside was noisily sick. He pounded on the door, and the car slowly drove away.
Detective Jackson looked at Henry, then Gregory, “I’m so sorry. I thought this would be cleaned up by the time you got here. I told you where it was so you could put up a marker, a little cross or something.”
They started walking towards the wall, “Don’t go killing him,” said Jackson, “he’s not even sober enough to figure out what he did.”
“Won’t bring Manny back,” said Henry, “let us know when the arraignment is?”
“When I know something, you’ll know something,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Henry.
They shook hands, and Henry and Gregory went back to their bikes, past the nightmare of the crushed Harley and the enormous truck.
They rode to Manny’s house. Bonnie and Tito’s bikes were there in the lot. It was an apartment house, a cream adobe six-plex with a balcony. They could hear Tina cry from outside the apartment.
“Man,” said Gregory.
“You can go to your woman,” said Henry, “I can handle this.”
“They’re at church,” said Gregory, “they told me to take some time off, and ride somewhere, then to come back for dinner with them and the babushkas later.”
“No place better at a time like this,” said Henry.
“Let’s do this,” said Gregory.
Bonnie let them in. She took one look at their grave faces and flinty eyes and shook her head ever so slightly.
Tito was holding Tina as she alternately cried, screamed, and hit him in the shoulder. Gregory went to the bathroom and came out with a wet washcloth in one hand and a dry one in the other. Henry knelt in front of her.
“I am so sorry, Tina,” he said, “they got the guy that did this.”
She let out a string of Spanish epithets. Henry thought some of them may be physically impossible. Tito visibly cringed.
Gregory came over and helped her wash her face, then dried it with the towel. He went back in the bathroom.
Henry grabbed a pillow and held it to his chest. “Hit me,” he said, “he was in the club because I invited him.”
She shot out a hand, connecting with the pillow with a solid thump. She stood, and started kickboxing, hitting the pillow with her fists and blessedly, naked feet. Gregory grabbed another pillow and became her other opponent. She cried out, hit, kicked, twisted until her hair was sodden and her face soaked with tears. She stood, and bowed to both of them.
She wiped at her face, then said, “Shower. Pedro can’t see me this way.”
Bonnie took her in, and then got some fluffy towels out of the linen closet and bought them into the bathroom for her.
Someone knocked on the door. Tito opened the door to a trio of ladies, all holding hot dishes, “Maria, Carmen, Christina, please come in.”
They put the dishes on the stove.
“Men, go,” said a tiny woman with a shock of black hair on top, cut short at the sides, “we take care of her now.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” said Henry. Gregory followed him to the door.
“I’m staying,” said Tito, “I’ll pick up Pedro from school and bring him here.”
“You can stay,” said the woman. She threw him a duster, “you clean.”
Tito looked around. The place was spotless, “Si, Maria,” he said, taking off his leather jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair.
Henry and Gregory got to their bikes. A battered car drove up. Two Hispanic women and a priest got out and headed towards Tina’s door.
“I think we’re in hell,” said Gregory.
“Beginning to look like it,” said Henry, “where to?”
“Sonic,” said Gregory, “I know what my girls like. The babushkas will just have to put up with me invading their space and us drinking something other than tea.”
Henry clapped him on the shoulder, saw him off, then went to the apartment’s leasing office. It was, oddly, open on a Sunday in order to find out the amount of rent for a two-bedroom. The club would have to step up until Manny’s insurance kicked in.
When Detective Jackson called them about the arraignment. They filled the courtroom with riders wearing their jackets. The judge, a very-tall, Hispanic woman, looked alarmed, then relaxed when Henry turned to shake someone’s hand, exposing the Nighthawk emblem on the back.
“Henry David Thibault,” said the judge, “you are charged with one count of vehicular homicide, and with driving under the influence. It looks like you had both alcohol and oxycontin in your system. How do you plead?”
Thibault stood and swayed from side to side, then looked over his shoulder at the sea of bikers behind him. He swallowed audibly.
His lawyer said, “My client pleads…”
“Guilty,” said Thibault, “I did it.”
The prosecuting attorney, a black woman in braids and blood-red nails, stood, “Mr. Thibault said it was an accident and has refused our plea deal.”
“Which is?” asked the judge, directing her steely gaze at the attorney.
“Twenty years,” she said, “he literally tore a man to pieces with his truck and didn’t stop until his tires blew.”
“Ms. Manth,” said the judge to the prosecuting attorney, “are you trying to antagonize the bikers in this courtroom? I take it the deceased was a member.”
“Of the Nighthawks, yes,” she said, “Mr. Morales had a construction job. He had nothing in his system at the time of his death, not even an aspirin. He left behind a wife and child. He rode bikes to Lake Mead on the weekends, for leisure.”
The judge turned towards Thibault, “Mr. Thibault, you didn’t accept the plea agreement. Why?”
He swallowed, then said, “The lawyer lady there showed me pictures of the accident. I didn’t think I’d done it. It didn’t seem real,” he nodded. “I did it. It’s right there, on camera. Trial’s just a waste of time.”
“I agree, Mr. Thibault,” said the judge, “and, it is very real. Turn around and look there.”
He did, and saw Tina Morales, dressed in black from head to toe, holding her son, dressed in a black suit. She had a priest on one side of her and her son, and her friends in a line on the other.
“This is the wife and child of the person you killed.”
Tina rose to her feet, “Yes, your honor,” she said, clearly, “we’ll have to have a closed casket because this man tore my husband to pieces on the highway.” She sat back down. Thibault bowed his head.
“Now, Mr. Thibault,” said the judge, “I think it’s clear that you didn’t understand the consequences of your actions then, and you’re dimly realizing them now. I’m giving you twenty-five years, and you’ll be eligible for parole in eighteen years. I don’t doubt that every single one of these people in this room for Mr. Morales now, who are still with us, will want to be heard at your parole hearing, so I wouldn’t count on that. I suggest you devote your life to being a model prisoner and helping other inmates understand what happens when you get behind the wheel while intoxicated.” She pounded her gavel, “Case dismissed!”
As he was led out of the court, every single member of the Nighthawks stood and turned their backs to show the skull on their leathers. Thibault quailed, and stumbled out of the courtroom. They helped Tina and Pedro out of the courtroom, and into a blindingly bright day.
The Nighthawks went to the graveside part of the funeral, a long string riding behind the hearse and Catholic church members. Tina was stoic, almost cold, after crying herself dry over the last three days. Pedro was obviously angry; glaring at everyone.
Henry drew Tito aside when the service ended, “Tito, I know you’ve got a job and a lovely lady…”
Tito waved his hand, “I will work with Pedro, take him to the boxing gym you guys use. He will be angry a long time, though. He is much like his mother.”
“About her…”
“She will be fine,” said Tito, “she is very strong. Her son, though, if he carries the seed of hate within him, will damage himself.”
“We can’t bring his father back.”
“No. He’s just starting to understand that,” said Tito. They both stared at the boy, and Henry nodded.
Comfort
Ivy opened the bar the day of the funeral. For the first time, it felt like a chore. She found one of the giant glasses, and wrote out a card and printed out the photo she’d snapped of Pedro and his mother standing next to the grave on her office printer. She taped on the picture, and wrote, “For Pedro’s School” on the bottom. She set it out on the other end of the bar from the one for Elena’s, which was opposite. She took the food and liquor deliveries like she was swimming through sand. She and Bella said almost nothing as they stocked the bar. She pasted on a smile when the dancers showed up.
It was
a wake, pure and simple. Bikers from many clubs showed up to pay their respects. Some got drunk, but most just sat with each other and told stories of Manny and of the road.
The band caught the mood, and played Breakdown, Ride Like the Wind, I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing, and Objects in The Rearview Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are.
At the end of the night, the tourists were long gone, and Ivy did what she said she’d never do; she got up to sing. She sang, See You Again while the keyboardist accompanied her. Tito hopped up and did Wiz Khalifa’s part. The entire bar sang the chorus. The tears flowed. They had a last drink to the fallen, and in twos and threes, they left.
Gregory was the only one left. He sat, beer in hand, staring at the bottles on the back of the bar. She patted his hand. He barely registered her presence.
She zeroed out the register and rushed back to count and fill the deposit envelope.
Bella squeezed her hand, “Go with Adam,” she said, squeezing back.
She went out the back, rode to the bank to make the deposit, and rode back. She put in her code, and entered the bar, lit by only the neon bar lights.
Gregory was still there, staring at his beer. She walked behind the bar and got herself a whiskey, “Want some?” she asked.
He waved her off. She walked around and sat down next to him. She held his hand and sipped her drink. He stared at the glass bottles some more.
She finished her whiskey and took the empty beer bottle out of his hand. She rinsed the glass and the beer bottle. She put the glass in the little dishwasher, and the bottle in the recycling slot. She wiped down the bar and took his hand. She helped him stand, and walked him past the bar towards her office.
She turned off lights as she went, the last one being the one in the hallway. They entered her office, the only lights on in the entire bar. She led him to the couch and set him down. She took off her own boots, then his, and put them by the door. She hung up his leather jacket and hers on the back of the office chair.
She sat down next to him and held his hand, “You’re on overload, Gregory. Too much damage in too short of a time.”
He stared at the hand holding hers, “I can’t undo a damn thing that’s happened to you. You’ve also been living at the hospital and working, and now Manny. You’re in shock.”
