The Word of a Liar

by Beauchamp, Sally

  “You trigger happy son-of-a-bitch!”

  Spider moved in on Mason. His face so close Mason could see the sweat in his sideburns. Spider’s eyes snapped. “What the hell did you think you were doing? First, you invite that Jack character without permission, then you haul her ass back here, and now, you shot-off that fucking rifle! Do you have any idea what you could have started?”

  Spider’s enraged voice hit Mason like a snort of cocaine.

  “I know what would have started if I didn’t! What did you want me to do? Stand there and let Squinch run that blade right through Apostle? Every county and state cop would be here throwing us all in the slammer!”

  Mason didn’t budge. The muscles in Spider’s jaw twitched; his Adam’s apple moved up and down. Hit me you son-of-a-bitch, but this time I’m fighting back, Mason thought fuming.

  Mad Dog broke them apart. “Hey, take it easy. We’re all brothers, remember?”

  Spider backed up.

  “I’ve got to get back down there and see if I can sort this mess out. The presidents of the other clubs are in an uproar. They agreed to no weapons except for security, but I doubt they figured on some gun slinger shooting off a fucking M16.” Spider shook his head, noticing Ellen. “What the hell happened to her?”

  Spider looked at the two men simultaneously.

  “I think Rambo scared the shit out of her.” Mad Dog winked.

  “Fuckin’ biker lunatic!” Spider grumbled as he turned and stormed down the path.

  The three continued in silence to the tent. Ellen kept her head down, watching her bare feet moving one in front of the other. Her body trembled with cold. Her legs were so wobbly she knew if the men let go, she would fall to the ground in a heap and have to stay there for the rest of the night.

  When they arrived at Dee’s tent, a couple men were sitting by the fire smoking. Ellen didn’t recognize them, but they wore the Sons of Thunder vest. Dee stood by the grill, cooking what smelled like hamburger. Mason and Mad Dog helped Ellen into a lawn chair. She collapsed like a tattered rag doll.

  “I’ll get you a blanket.” Mason smiled.

  Ellen watched him go to the pickup truck. Mason shut the truck door, the blanket hanging across his arm. He moved in Ellen’s direction but halted. Ellen turned. Desi, came through the crowd, her arms swinging at her sides. She looked deadly. She marched over to Mason, drew up her hand, and struck him hard across his face.

  “Don’t you ever scare me like that again!” she ranted.

  Mason caught Desi’s wrist. The same angry expression Ellen witnessed at the car paralyzed the campers. His chest seethed. His eyes narrowed. Ellen was sure he was going to strike back.

  “Yes ma’am.” Mason pronounced each syllable in a controlled and frightening voice then he issued a warning, looking into Desi’s eyes. “Desi. Never hit me again!”

  Mason shook her wrist loose then walked over to Ellen.

  “Stand up!” he snapped.

  Blood oozed from the side of Mason’s cheek. Ellen didn’t dare mention it. He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. The strings of Christmas lights adorning the campsite and the light from the fire lit up Mason’s face. His eyes were the cold blue of a winter’s sky. She looked over his shoulder, fully expecting Desi to come flying at them, but she was gone. Pulling the blanket close, Ellen sat down hoping Mason would sit beside her, but he turned away.

  Mad Dog, kneeling by the fire, watched.

  “What you lookin’ at?” Mason growled.

  “Nothing.” Mad Dog laughed and then threw a log on the fire. “Just your ole lady kickin’ your ass.”

  Blue flames hissed.

  “Leave him alone, Mad Dog. He’s had enough for tonight.” Dee Dee walked over to Mason and inspected his cheek. Ellen wanted to hug her. Mason didn’t deserve Desi’s wrath. He tried to keep those men from killing each other.

  “I need a drink. Where the hell is that whiskey Muck Eye gave us?” Mason brushed Dee Dee off and began searching the campsite.

  “They’re over there.” Dee pointed to a case of whiskey bottles near the entrance to one of the tents. “Take a load off, Rambo.”

  “Yeah, have a seat, Rambo.” One of the men sitting by the fire, lit a joint and offered it to him. “You need to relax. You look like you’re strung tighter than a guitar string. Don’t let the bitch get to you, man.”

  “I’ll get something for that cut. Sit there by Rat and have a smoke.” Dee Dee ordered then walked to the truck.

  Mason obeyed and slumped down in the chair next to Rat and took a drag.

  Mad Dog threw a few more pieces of wood on the fire then walked over to the case of whiskey. Removing two bottles, he handed one to Mason then sat down next to Ellen.

  “Have a good long swig of this. It’ll take the edge off of things.” Mad Dog said as he passed Ellen the whiskey bottle.

  Ellen looked into his face. Handsome as Mason, his classic look--short dark hair, square jaw, round black eyes and a wide warm smile--contradicted his burly arms and menacing tattoos.

  “I’ve never drunk liquor straight out of the bottle before.” Ellen wrinkled her nose, not sure she could do it. “But after tonight….”

  Ellen took a big drink, coughed then took another long swig. The warm whiskey slid smoothly down her throat, heating her body. She handed the bottle back to Mad Dog. Ellen looked across the fire at Dee playing nurse. Dee Dee swabbed Mason’s cheek with an alcohol pad and he winced. Ellen pictured herself in Dee’s place, touching Mason’s face, looking into his eyes, her fingers brushing back all that long luscious hair to kiss away his pain. The alcohol must be kicking in. If I don’t stop this, Desi’s going to be coming after me next.

  Ellen sighed, bringing her knees up to her chest and covering her feet with the blanket. She watched the flames encircle the charred pieces of wood and thought of her late husband Paul. She knew he was watching her. If she could, she’d tell him not to worry. She was no longer afraid. She smiled, closing her eyes and feeling Paul’s presence in the heat emanating from the fire. His strength was all around her. Tomorrow she would talk to JD. They would be okay.

  “That’s a nice little gash, Rambo. I hope this liquid Band Aid stuff works, because I think you should have a stitch or two,” said Dee.

  Mason didn’t reply. His eyes were on Ellen. The color was coming back into her face and her dark eyes reflected the campfire. Even though her hair was a total mess, and her mascara had run down her cheeks, Mason thought she looked beautiful. Not the same kind of beautiful as Desi, but beautiful nonetheless. He watched Mad Dog move in and for some reason it irritated him. It shouldn’t, he rationalized. Mad Dog was a good guy and had been alone for a long time. He should be happy for his friend instead of being jealous.

  Ellen looked up. He caught her eye and smiled. She smiled back. Mason marveled at the simple, honest warmth it conveyed. She was the kind of woman he could show off to his folks—educated, independent. They’d be impressed that their wayward son found a woman like her. Exactly the kind of woman he’d never been interested in, until now.

  “All patched up, Rambo.” Dee tucked her things back into the first aid kit. “Did you know you and I are practically neighbors to Ellen?”

  Mason straightened, “Really? Where do you live, Ellen?”

  “On Washington Street.”

  “She bought the old Victorian you wanted,” said Dee.

  “You’re kidding! So you’re the one who nabbed my house right out from under me?” Mason sat on the edge of his chair, leaning forward. His mood altered.

  “I guess so. You must be the biker I see hot rodding up the street, terrorizing the children and the small animals on the block.” Ellen teased. “Wait until I get home. I’m going to have a long talk with the realtor who sold me that house. She said the neighborhood was safe, but if you live in it, it’s hardly so.”

  Ellen flipped her hair up off her neck. They all laughed.

  Mason enjoyed her sassy attitude and the light in he
r eyes. She finally looked happy, relaxed.

  “The woman is quick, Rambo.” Mad Dog laughed.

  “You have to be quick on your feet when you’ve taught high school for ten years,” said Ellen.

  “You’re a teacher?” Mad Dog asked. “What do you teach? No…don’t tell; let me guess. Um…Social Studies?”

  Ellen shook her head.

  “Ahh…Business?”

  Ellen shook her head again, giggling.

  “You’re not an English teacher, are you?”

  “Well, not exactly. I’m a principal and an English teacher.”

  “A principal and an English teacher? Ellen you can’t be.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, I was picturing you more like a history teacher. You know, wearing a really short plaid skirt and a blouse unbuttoned to here.” Mad Dog put his hand across the lower half of his chest to demonstrate. “You’re wearing loafers and knee socks and of course some frilly black panties.”

  Mad Dog’s eyebrows rose. “And when you reach for the maps, the kind that hang from a chalkboard, you have to really reach for it.”

  Mad Dog grinned.

  Ellen nodded.

  “Well, then of course, you have to you bend over to pull it down… and that’s where I come in.” He reached over and patted her thigh.

  Ellen promptly placed his roving hand back in his lap “You have quite the imagination don’t you Mike O’Donnell? I bet you were probably a very naughty boy in school.”

  She rapped a finger on the arm of his chair.

  “And I bet you were sent to the principal’s office quite often for a good spanking.” Ellen’s eyes widened.

  Mad Dog threw his head back and roared. Mason laughed, too, observing the others as they joined in. Ellen’s quick wit charmed the small circle, turning the mood mellow and easy. Mason took a drink of his whiskey, his eyes still on her. He suspected this was the real Ellen Abrams when she wasn’t scared to death. He stretched his legs out, taking another drink.

  A man approached the group. “Rambo.” He looked at Mason.

  “Hey, Wolfman,” Mason greeted him. “What’s up?”

  “They sent me to find you.” Wolfman’s somber tone made Mason nervous. “The clubs’ officers have been meeting down in the tent of Joe Conley. He’s the president of the Highway Men. Your name came up quite a bit.”

  Mason looked at Mad Dog, swinging his arms apart, the whiskey bottle in one hand. “Gee I wonder why?”

  “Well, it sure as hell isn’t because of your charming personality,” Mad Dog joked.

  Mason stood. Taking a long drink, he handed the bottle to Rat. “Lead on, brother Wolf. Take me to your den.”

  “Be cool, brother,” Mad Dog cautioned.

  “I’ll see you later.” Mason tilted his head to the side. “One way or the other.”

  Mason followed Wolfman down the rows of tents and vanished into the crowd.

  Ellen saw the look of concern on Mad Dog’s face. She glanced over at Dee, and the other two men sitting at the fire. All of them looked worried. Now what’s was going on? Is this night never going to end? She laid her head back on the edge of the chair and braved the question.

  “I know I’m being nosey, but what is going on? Why do you all look so concerned about Mason?”

  “Because they might kick him out of the club.” Dee pulled a cigarette out of her jacket pocket and lit it.

  “Who are they?” Ellen asked.

  “The other presidents. Whatever they decide to do, Rambo’s got to abide by it.” Dee took a long drag off the cigarette and exhaled.

  “Why would they want to kick him out? What did he do?” Ellen asked.

  “Shooting that rifle off.” Mad Dog took a long drink from the whiskey bottle. “I don’t think he had much of a choice, Dee. I really don’t.”

  “I hope the others see things the way you do, Mad Dog. I kinda like that guy.” Dee Dee blew rings of smoke into the air and watched them dismantle.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mason followed Wolfman down the field to a large army surplus tent pitched under the cover of a decaying maple tree. Its solitary location signified its importance. The lit interior projected human shadows upon the canvas walls. The murmur of male voices carried upon the still night like a slow moving river.

  Wolfman stopped.

  “Wait here,” he commanded as he pulled back the tent flap and then disappeared.

  The men inside quieted.

  Mason paced. He didn’t think Spider would allow the presidents to get rid of him. Hell, Spider couldn’t stand half the guys himself, but Mason dreaded the likelihood of the boot line. He knew he couldn’t appear to be nervous. The men would smell his fear a mile off--and if they did, things would go a lot worse. Right now, he could use a shot of whiskey. Wolfman reappeared.

  “Go on in. They’re ready for ya.”

  Mason nodded, inhaled deeply, than stepped inside.

  In the corner of the tent a large cooler overflowed with ice and beer. Bottles and cans littered the grass floor. Tobacco and marijuana smoke hung in the stale air like smog over a polluted city. Sweat trickled down the back of Mason’s neck. He stood erect, pulling his shoulders back and cocked his head. Spider sat at a rectangular folding table with eleven other long haired and bearded men. Arms folded across his chest, Spider’s poker expression gave nothing away. The scene reminded Mason of a surreal battlefield where the generals had assembled, except these generals wore leather and denim and their medals were tattooed on their arms.

  One against twelve. No… thirteen, counting Wolfman standing guard, Mason deliberated. I’ll never be able to fight them all. I’m a fucking dead man.

  “You gentlemen wanted to see me?” Mason asked, keeping his voice steady.

  The eyes of the bikers rode over him. A tense silence charged the air. A kerosene lamp, hanging in the middle of the tent, popped and hissed. Mason swallowed, hitching his thumb around his dual belt buckle that also served as a dagger. An older man stood. His long blond hair, streaked with gray, hung down around his weathered face. A straggly white goatee touched the collar of his black T-shirt. He moved towards Mason. His dark puffy eyes sized Mason up with a cold intense gaze. Mason waited. The man held a joint to his lips, took a hit, held the intoxicating smoke, than exhaled through his nose.

  “I’m Joe Conley, the president of the Highway Men. You do know why we sent for you Rambo?” It was a rhetorical question. “You risked bringing a lot of heat down on us by shooting off that fire arm of yours. What if you would have killed someone? None of the clubs here want that kind of attention, especially from some wanna be outlaw biker--a fucking lame!”

  Joe arched his brows, jabbing his index finger into Mason’s shoulder. “You understand?”

  Forcing himself to remain calm, Mason squeezed his belt buckle, looked down at Conley’s finger, then up to his accusing bloodshot eyes. Mason could drop the mangy old son-of-a- bitch with no problem, but they all knew he wouldn’t. They wanted to know how much shit he’d take before he had enough, then they’d cut him loose. He wasn’t biting. He’d take his licks.

  “I understand.” Mason said, nodding. “I’ll take whatever I got comin’, but don’t any of you mistake me for a lame.”

  A slow grin spread beneath Joe’s gnarly goatee. Yellow stained teeth appeared. Several of the men began to chuckle. Spider stood up, a beer bottle in his hand. “I told you, Rambo ain’t no pussy!”

  Joe slapped Mason hard on the back. “Rambo, you’re a righteous brother. Squinch is an asshole. I signed the agreement that only those assigned to security would have weapons and Squinch dishonored me.” He took another hit off the joint. “Because Squinch belongs to us, we’ve decided his punishment will be up to the Highway Men. These presidents and the clubs they represent have no hard feelings toward you or your people. You’re welcome to ride next to me anytime.”

  Joe held out his hand.

  Mason relaxed and shook it. The mood changed to o
ne of camaraderie.

  “I do apologize for the actions of that dumb ass. He rides with us but not for long. You have my word. I’d be honored if you’d join me for a drink.”

  Mason smiled. “I’d love to.”

  Joe went to the table, picked up a mason jar and drank.

  “Damn good shit.” Joe said and clicked the back of his teeth with his tongue.

  Joe handed it to Mason who sniffed the clear liquid. It smelled like whiskey. He chugged it down. Burning his throat raw, the fiery liquid snaked down to his belly, torching his blood. He coughed.

  Joe watched with a wryly smile. “Potent, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, what the hell is it?” Mason could barely breathe and his stomach was on fire.

  “Moonshine.”

  “Really?” Mason shook his head. “Never had any before. You make it?”

  Joe ignored the question, taking the jar from Mason. “That’s all, brother. You can go back to the party.”

  Mason turned to leave.

  “One last thing….” Joe stopped him. “Would you have really greased ole Squinch?”

  Mason considered the question.

  “Like a squeaky hinge,” Mason replied and then stooped to clear the tent’s entrance.

  ***

  Mason returned to Dee’s tent. Desi was there. Ellen sat next to Mad Dog, roasting a marshmallow, laughing at something he had said, no longer looking afraid.

  “So what happened?” Mad Dog asked as Mason approached.

  All eyes were on Mason.

  “I had a drink with the president of the Highway Men and shook his hand. He invited me to ride with him any time.” Mason smiled, sitting down next to Desi. He put his hand on her thigh. “You feeling better?”

  “Yeah,” she sighed. “I’m sorry I hit you. I didn’t know Squinch cut you.”

  Desi traced her fingers lightly down the wound. “I was really scared, Rambo. I thought he was going to stab you.”

  Mason kissed her, smoothing back a strand of blonde hair, her green eyes stoking his desire. Resting her head on his shoulder, she watched the fire. Mason looked over at Ellen. “How are you feeling?”