A perfect cover for the bikers.
The bikers could see up and down the deserted side street, but no one from the industrial sites or from the few houses down the street could see them. They had scoped out this place ahead of time and the thought made my skin crawl.
I looked back in the side mirror and noticed the bikers looking around, making sure they were alone, just as I had done. I shrank down on the seat so they couldn’t see the back of my head through the rear window and watched them in the mirror. I was glad Jens and I had lowered the windows during the tour or I would have roasted like a turkey, considering it was over a hundred degrees.
One of the straggly ones said, “Shit, Noodles, hurry up. We ain’t got all day.”
Noodles returned to his bike. Ah, I thought, they’re leaving now. Thank God! I let out a long breath I hadn’t even realized I’d held. Noodles motioned the girl to join him and she did, only not the way I was expecting. I thought she would jump on the back of the bike and they’d ride off before I ever had to see how this horrible story would end. Instead, she had stripped off the leather jacket, discarded it on the asphalt, and straddled Noodle’s bike on the front, draping her long, white legs around his waist. Except for one, the other bikers hooted and chuckled as she leaned back against the handlebars and hooked the spike-heeled black boots around his waist. Now wearing nothing more than a red string bikini and a black leather dog collar with spikes, the girl rode Noodles to a climax, her head covered in black ringlets bobbing everywhere. I turned away and stared over at the plant. I wanted to bolt and run but for some reason thought better of it.
Fixing my gaze past the cement silos to the spot where I last saw Jens climb into Travis’s truck, I willed him to return, willed a ready mix truck to round the corner, willed an employee to step outside the batch room and notice me or the commotion behind me and call the police. But as much as I wanted them to, I knew they couldn’t see or hear what was happening in the rail yard across the street.
I was on my own.
By the time I looked back, Noodles was zipping up and retrieving his jacket. Four other bikers had remounted their rides and encircled the girl, each soliciting her to do him the next favor. Her curly hair was mussed and covering most of her face other than her lips, which were brightly covered in lipstick as vermillion as her bikini. She looked completely out of it. Too young, too lost. I felt so sorry for her, even though she was clearly participating voluntarily in this nightmare.
“My turn,” one of them called.
“Wait your turn, asshole,” another growled.
“How was she?” one called to Noodles, who gave a thumbs-up.
The girl smiled triumphantly.
The sixth biker, who stayed ready to ride at all times, never moved, never spoke, and never smiled. He appeared to be looking around for something, making sure no one crashed the party. My hunch was that he was the smartest of the bunch, the leader. Smart, because he didn’t seem to lose focus as the watchman despite the X-rated show that was unfolding only a few yards away. He was too far away from me in the side mirror to make out any details, so I studied those closest to me instead.
Noodles put his jacket on and I noticed the crazy character decal stitched to the back of it. The pudgy man in the tight devil’s costume sitting cross-legged, one hand on a pitchfork, the other holding an Uzi, was familiar. Although it read backward in the mirror, I could see the letters on the rocker and finally sounded out the Lucifer’s Lot. His soiled, tattered jacket was riddled with stains and badges of all sorts, whereas two younger men had what appeared to be new jackets, same kind, but with a different rocker that said “Prospect.” The fourth man, the straggly one facing the truck, was now pushing the girl down onto her knees. He didn’t even have the decency to take off his jacket, which was also stained and covered in badges of some sort, and spread it on the hot asphalt for the girl to kneel on. How could I have imagined that decency and these hoodlums should even appear in the same thought?
I had to look away. I did a hundred Hail Marys once for curiosity about a male’s equipment—and all for nought; the sketch that was going around Sister Delilah’s class was quite incorrect from a physiological standpoint—and had eventually, some years later, cleared up the details. I didn’t need Straggly to refresh my memory.
I willed Ida to sing “Ave Maria” in duet with Luciano in my head and squeezed my eyes shut, focusing hard on their amazing talents. Their climatic “Benedictus fructus ventris tui,” spilling in powerful volumes, morphed into a horrible screech.
I hit my knee hard on the dashboard when Straggly let out a blood-curdling scream. My eyes shot to the side mirror and I saw the girl crash, sideways, onto the ground, taking with her Straggly’s privates between her teeth. Her head bounced off the asphalt as her mouth snapped free of him at the exact moment when Straggly was dragged to the ground beside her. The sound sickened me, and I was afraid I was going to upchuck the Brain Pain Killers after all.
“What the—” Noodles growled.
“Jimmy Bones!” one of the younger bikers yelled.
“Shit!” the straggly one yelped. “Fucking bitch!”
As he sprawled beside her in the parking lot, he gave her a swift kick, her body barely moving, as if she were nothing but a sack of wet cement.
SHE MUST BE OUT cold, I thought, from hitting her head on the asphalt. She needs an ambulance.
Just as I was about to bolt from the truck and run to the office, two motorcycles roared around the corner in front of me and I instinctively threw myself down on the floorboard of the truck. I heard them rumble by my open window toward the other bikers and I started to push myself back up onto the bench seat when I noticed Jens’s cell phone on the floor still attached to the charger. I snatched it open and dialed 911, whispering for help into the phone and asking for an ambulance. They told me it might be a while because all the emergency personnel were busy.
I felt naked without my Sig Sauer, which I had vowed to carry again since my last brush with death, once I was moving about in the world of the living.
Where was Mom’s Mary Poppins purse when I needed it?
No matter how dire the situation or what was needed, my mom could likely and magically produce it from that purse of hers. Hungry? No doubt she had Tootsie Rolls or granola bars. Stuck in a waiting room at a doctor’s office? Playing cards came out with a flick of a wrist and we were playing gin rummy or slapjack. Weather turned at a football game? A collapsible umbrella, a polar fleece blanket, or perhaps sunshine in a can. One time when I tore my pinafore on the way to school, she whipped out a sewing kit and had me repaired and out the door within two minutes, averting an inevitable visit to the principal’s office for a scolding by Sister Marie for slovenliness.
If I ever decide to carry a purse, I’m going to find out where Mom shops for that Mary Poppins version. Because right now, I sure needed that loaded Smith & Wesson she likely had neatly tucked in one of the pockets of that thing.
The rumble of the two new bikes had stopped and everything was quiet. I pushed myself off the floor slowly, praying I hadn’t drawn attention to myself with my whispering. I slithered back onto the seat and stole a peek in the side mirror. Again, I let out a long breath, relieved that the attention seemed to be on the two new bikers, who had already dismounted their bikes and joined the circle around the girl and Straggly, who was hefting himself to his feet and fastening his jeans.
One of the new guys spoke first. “How appropriate. Armed soldiers standing guard over their prey.”
“Mully, it wasn’t my fault,” the screamer whined.
As the intimidating one called Mully closed in on Straggly, he put his hands on his hips, allowing me to see the gun holstered underneath his colors. It was a formidable black pistol—a Sig like mine or maybe a Glock—but I wasn’t sure. I then noticed that all of the bikers had heavy black flashlights slung from their hips, the only “weapon” allowed in plain view when walking on the streets during the rally. The
hundreds of plainclothes cops who were working undercover probably wouldn’t spy concealed weapons, but bikers would earn themselves instant incarceration if they were caught.
“What happened?” Mully demanded.
“Please, Mully,” Straggly pleaded, looking scared shitless. “It was an accident. Just an accident. I didn’t do nothin’.”
I saw Mully glare at the young biker next to Straggly.
“I don’t know what happened,” the young prospect answered quickly, heaving his scrawny shoulders to his oversized ears.
“What happened with Jimmy Bones, Creed?” Mully repeated.
So the straggly one’s name is Jimmy Bones. I should be writing this down. My eyes darted around the pickup and landed on a pen tucked in the seat cushion and some discarded receipts on the floor. I started scribbling.
A man’s voice I hadn’t heard before spoke. “He’s right, boss. It was kind of a freak accident. A fluke.”
I glanced up from my note scribbling and saw the smart biker farthest away dismount his bike and approach the group. His jacket read “Enforcer” and his arms were as wide as Jimmy Bones’s waist, his teeth discolored with age, tobacco, and lack of hygiene.
Mully nodded as if satisfied with Creed’s confirmation. “Is she dead?”
Creed bent to feel for a pulse. His thick fingers probed around the spiked collar, and I could see his frustration mounting the longer he felt for the girl’s pulse, her head lolling to unnatural angles because of the spikes propping up her neck. The men stood around the girl lying at their feet. The hot noonday sun beat off the asphalt parking lot like an unending, silent scream, and I imagined the girl’s musky perfume and the body odors of recent activities rising in nauseating waves like the smell of a freshly squashed skunk on the highway. The bikers stood poised above her like Boy Scouts, albeit errant ones, around a campfire. And all I could do was sit here, helplessly, as I waited for Creed’s answer and for God to answer my prayer.
“Yep,” Creed said.
Not the answer I was hoping for. Not another one dead. Each year too many bikers died in accidents and at least one young girl ended up missing or dead this time of year. Years ago, they thought there was a serial killer going around killing folks in the Black Hills around the time of the rally. It was probably accidents like this, I supposed. But it was all too surreal for me. After all, the girl was kneeling when she fell. Her head couldn’t possibly have hit the ground so hard from that distance to have crushed her skull or caused that much brain swell. Maybe she was unconscious, but not dead.
Before I could be mad at God for ignoring my prayer to keep the girl safe, I realized I should be doing something. I grabbed Jens’s phone and tried to recall Travis’s number. I fiddled with buttons looking for speed dials, the address book, anything, and stumbled across a camera function. I gave up on calling for help and started snapping shots in the side mirror. I decided to flip around, creep to my knees, and peek over the seat, taking direct pictures of the motley crew and risking my discovery. I made sure the supposed dead girl was in the pictures as well as the bikes and the license plates.
“From the beginning,” Mully said softly. How incongruous Mully’s demeanor was compared to the others. He was so controlled and focused. Almost … polite.
“Cheetah was doing his thing,” Creed explained. “He found her up on Main Street. She didn’t need any encouragement.”
The quieter of the two young prospects lowered his eyes and swiped at a rock with the toe of his boot. I wrote Cheetah’s name down and snapped a picture of him.
“She wanted to pull a train. She had started on old Noodles. He wanted it while he sat on his bike. She did him right there,” Creed pointed to the handlebars on his bike.
Beneath his gray beard, Noodles grinned. “Good lay, too, Mully.”
I grimaced. What a bunch of lowlifes. I noticed Mully wince in disgust at Noodle’s crude comment as well. It appeared all the bikers noticed, based on the change in their expressions. I offered up another quick prayer that the ambulance would soon be here so the poor girl could, thankfully, be taken away from these scum buckets. Creed had to be wrong about not feeling her pulse, which would be easy to miss given the spiked collar.
“Then it was Jimmy Bones’s turn,” Creed explained.
Jimmy Bones stammered, “She was happy to do it. Really. She was real eager and all. It’s not like we had to convince her of anything. Really.”
Mully frowned and coolly coerced a validation. “Creed.”
Creed looked down at her smooth skin baking in the late afternoon heat. “She went down on him, squatting right where you’re standing. Then she just sort of … fell over.”
“Fell over? That’s it?” Mully asked.
“Just before you and Weasel pulled up,” Creed explained.
I wrote down the name Weasel as the second biker to arrive later with Mully. Just in case this was important, I noted the time.
Jimmy Bones whined, “She almost bit my fucking dick off. Bitch.”
He spat at her dead body.
Mully sighed, taking a slow look around to see if his motorcycle club had drawn any attention. They were all wearing their colors, which happened to be both a blessing and a curse. People would stay clear of them, thanks to their widespread reputation, but would also take notice of them.
Jimmy Bones wouldn’t give up. “Mully, I swear, it was an accident.”
The other young prospect blubbered, “Really, it wasn’t Jimmy Bones’s fault. Or ours. She didn’t look like she was on anything. She was willing. None of us had to hit her or force her or nothing.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Cheetah, the quiet prospect, offered.
“Don’t apologize,” Mully said. His impassive manner unnerved me. I reassessed my earlier impression of him as intimidating, thinking now the word was more like imposing. I snapped some more pictures, zooming in on his face. “We’ll deal with your class later. Did she make any noise? Scream? Anything?”
They all looked at one another, searching each other’s eyes for an answer. Weasel stood solidly behind Mully, his arms folded across his chest, staring down the street watching for unwelcome motorists or bikers.
“She kind of … hiccupped,” Creed described.
Jimmy Bones nodded and looked at the biker next to Creed. “Tell him, Teddy.”
I wrote down the name Teddy and snapped another picture, studying his face. He was the biker in line for the girl after Jimmy Bones, the next highest on the pecking order, I supposed.
“Hiccupped, my ass,” Teddy added gruffly, sounding like he’d gargled with fire for breakfast. “It was more of a cough.”
“She damn near chomped it clean off,” Jimmy Bones repeated.
Mully studied the two. Looking back at Cheetah, he asked, “Hooking?”
Cheetah shrugged.
Mully frowned, nudging the girl’s bare shoulder with the toe of his boot. Her body flopped backward on the pavement. “Relax. We’re not in any trouble here. Coroner’s going to find this young lady died of heat stroke or an aneurysm. Maybe even a heart attack or something. Even if she overdosed, it wasn’t us who supplied.”
The other men started to relax, smile, slapping each other on the back.
Jimmy Bones grinned, “Probably died of suffocation, my dick’s so big.”
This brought laughs from everyone except Mully, who stood stone-faced, which made each man regret that he had. I about puked. I could hear sirens in the distance. God, please let it be for the girl.
Mully asked, “Citizens, Weasel?”
Weasel shook his head. “Clear, boss.”
“Cops?”
“Clear.”
“Main Street, huh, Cheetah?” Mully gave him a half smile.
Cheetah nodded.
“Based on this weekend, the Rally’s going to be good for us this year, gentlemen,” Mully said, walking around the girl’s body as if sizing up the situation. “Made some profit and haven’t agitated the Inferno Force yet for
taking any of their territory. Made more contacts this year than ever before. Our chapter will be prosperous all year. Probably more than Bomber’s or Striker’s best years combined, may those great mentors of mine rest in peace.”
The other bikers’ cheers were guttural.
“Best year our chapter’s ever had,” Mully added.
The bikers mumbled happily.
“Maybe we should celebrate,” Mully said. “I was anticipating Cheetah would find a volunteer for us to earn wings on, and we’d be eager to have them on our colors. But I never dreamed we’d have this.”
I heard the sirens approaching.
Mully’s velvet voice commanded, “Time to earn a pair of purple wings.”
I wasn’t sure what all the men were doing, but they quickly fell in line behind Mully, and one by one they dropped to their knees between her thighs, each Lot member lowering his head to her crotch.
God help me, no more pictures, mental or otherwise. I buried my head in my hands.
“Hurry,” I heard Creed say.
As the last of them finished with the woman, the sirens grew close enough for them to take note. All the bikers looked down the street past me as an ambulance rounded the corner. They scrambled toward their bikes and headed in the other direction toward the alleyway.
All but Mully.
He squinted and trained his stare in my direction. I snapped a final picture and ducked behind the seat just as the ambulance completed the corner. I doubt that Mully saw me, but if he did he couldn’t have seen much of me since I was mostly covered by the seatback and the cell phone was pressed against my face. I popped out the memory stick from Jens’s phone and wrapped it in the receipt on which I’d written all the names, stuffing it deep into my jeans pocket. When I flipped around on the seat and looked in the side mirror, I saw Mully mounting his bike and stealing a glance my way before heading off behind the others, leaving the girl alone in the middle of the street.
“MOM?” I CALLED OUT as I entered the front door.
Lot’s return to Sodom Page 3
