The Making of Blackwater Jack

by Roy F. Chandler

  He was limping north and a bit west, which was where vengeful relatives of the unconscious bums would expect him to go.

  Tim wondered a bit about the local law. It might be best to find the sheriff and explain what had happened. He could sort of stay close to the police and claim a bit of protection or understanding, in case he had to dig his pistol out of a saddlebag and defend himself.

  Oh hell, in this county the damaged bums surely had grossly biased relatives on whatever law enforcement there was. The sheriff was probably a cousin.

  There was a better scheme. Tim rolled it in his mind, and knew it might be a decent solution. He slowed, extremely careful in his maneuvering, and fought through a one hundred and eighty degree turn—to turn around on Route 27 and return the way he had come.

  He tailgated a slow moving eighteen-wheeler going past the diner, and a careful glance showed no outward change. The pickup sat alone in the parking lot, and no one was outside.

  Driver’s shop was his destination. Driver repaired wrecks like his, and with a bit of luck, angry relatives would be searching in the wrong direction. Maybe he could hide out near The Shop.

  It would be smartest to stay out of sight while in this neighborhood. It was not beyond reason to hope that Driver might give him, an aggrieved fellow rider, a little cover while he restored the old shovelhead—if that repair was even feasible.

  Holding the beaten-out cycle on the road was harder on the turns of the back road, but Tim kept his speed down and prayed that passing vehicles did not note, for general reporting, a mangled machine and rider heading toward Driver’s shop.

  When Driver saw Tim and the shuddering and leaned over Harley creeping in, he dropped his work and hurried close.

  While Tim loosened strained and stiffened muscles, Driver walked around the bike looking, then he spit a time or two before saying, “Well, you beat the hell out of that nice bike, and that’s putting it mildly.”

  He examined Tim’s lumped forehead and scratched-up face and soggy clothing before adding, “Looks like you rode it until it stopped.” Driver did not sound appalled. He had surely handled worse wrecks in his long career.

  Tim was more than a little nervous standing outside The Shop beside his beaten up bike.

  He suggested, without adding too much urgency, “Could I pull my wreck inside while we talk, Driver? I’ll explain why, once it is out of sight.”

  Explaining took longer than Tim had anticipated. Driver wished to hear every detail.

  Of course, he knew almost immediately who the pickup guys were. Everybody knows everyone else in rural America.

  Driver said with feeling. “I know those punks. They’ll do anything except work. But, the counter girl, her name is Nelly and she is good people. By the way, she is right. Their families are large, ignorant, and as mean as they can get away with. It won’t do for them to come onto you without you knowing it.”

  Driver scrubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You stomped their right hands, hey?”

  “Yep, and I broke hand bones. I considered stomping their ribs as well. What they did, is no joke, Driver. You know that at least as well as I do. I was lucky not to have been killed or at least hurt real bad plowing through that woods like my bike was a bulldozer.”

  Driver was nodding agreement. He said, “Let’s get your bike in deep and cover it over for now. It might be best if no one sees it for a spell.

  “You can clean up in my john, but your eye is damned near closed. When you come out, we’ll get a cold soft drink can for you to hold against it.”

  They rolled the Harley into a dark spot, and Driver flopped a number of old quilts over it. “Doubt that’ll catch anyone’s eye.” He spat aside and appeared to think on the subject.

  He squinted at Tim as if evaluating his prosperity. “Fact is, after you’ve dried off I’ve got a suggestion that we could both make out on—assuming we’re reasonable men.”

  Tim shook his head. “Believe me, right now, I am Mister Reasonable. I’m in strange territory here, Driver, and I’m open to anything that might see me through. Assuming I can afford it, of course. I’m just an ordinary guy, but I’m willing to pay what it takes to get back on the road.”

  Driver handed him a few new parts-cleaning rags to dry on, and Tim headed for The Shop’s single, half-bathroom.

  Driver had a room off to one side. It looked to be the old gas station office still in use. He led the way, and they sunk into a pair of ancient Morris-type chairs that sagged about as far as possible without hitting bottom. Tim thought they were comfortable. Maybe he was more tired than he had realized.

  Driver settled a fresh chaw into his cheek before beginning.

  “First off, it’d be best if you weren’t seen anywhere around here for the next few days. When you do surface, you want to be heading out of the county and probably out of the state as fast as your machine can take you.”

  Tim couldn’t argue against that logic.

  Driver continued, “So here’s what I’ve got to offer.

  “I’ve got a room stuck onto the back of my place next door. There’s a bath that you can use. You can hole up there till you’ve got something to ride. If we come to an agreement on what I’ve got to propose, there’ll be no charge.

  “You might remember my worthless son-in-law mentioning a cycle that I built on speculation hoping someone around here would take to it.”

  Driver spit into an already full wastebasket. “One of my dumber moves in recent times.

  “Anyhow, I can tell you right now that your bike’s frame is bent, so is your fork, and the front wheel wobbles like it was on a kid’s toy.

  “It isn’t that your shovelhead isn’t worth anything, but it will cost a small bundle and a lot of time getting it back on the road and in shape for the ride you’re planning. You’ll never get out the money you will put into rebuilding the bike no matter how long you keep it or where you sell it.”

  Again, Tim did not doubt Driver’s evaluation. So what was the solution? Buy Driver’s custom? Tim could feel it coming.

  Driver’s grin was crooked. “I see you’ve put my thoughts together. What I’m suggesting is that you take an honest look at my custom bike and see if we can reach an agreement on what it’s worth—with yours in trade, of course. If we can strike a deal, you can be out of here late tomorrow.”

  He added, “It’ll take that long to get your new ride registered with a temporary license plate.

  “A big thing is that on my bike you can ride around without any of the unhappy people ever suspecting that you’re the guy that busted up their kin.”

  Driver grinned, “And, you’ll be on a scooter that is so fast they couldn’t keep up even if they guessed who you were.”

  The argument had a lot of appeal. Tim said, “Let’s see the bike.”

  The office had once had a bay-type display window—now covered by plywood, but the window seat remained. Driver turned on his most powerful lights, and a spotlight was focused on a sheet-covered motorcycle placed on the raised seat. Driver flipped aside the sheet, and Tim Carlisle’s heart leaped in his chest. Holy cow, what a bike!

  Driver caught Tim’s poorly disguised astonishment. “Yeah. Sort of takes your breath, doesn’t it?”

  Tim admitted it to be so, but his mind was busy judging what he was seeing. Driver helped out.

  “Mostly we are admiring the bling. I chromed about everything that was metal, except the extended tank. Incidentally, that gas tank is the only actual Harley-Davidson piece on the cycle. The rest is the best of after market.” Driver paused to personally admire the bike a bit.

  He went on, “The frame is Paughco, mostly stock except for a bit of stretch in the backbone. The forks are by Frank and the handlebars are … hell, I’ll have to look. It’s been long enough that I’ve forgotten.

  “When I sent everything off to be chromed, I included the frame and the front fender. You don’t often see that, and believe me it cost serious money.

  “My mistake, I
guess. I put the machine beyond our local finances. Everybody looks, but when I mention the price everybody walks.”

  Driver grinned at Tim. “Most likely you will walk, too, but I’m sort of counting on you being better off than you look—and you are more than a little desperate to get out of town and continue on your long trip. Have I got that right, Tim?”

  Tim ignored the question.

  “Geez, Driver, the engine. What is that monster? It’s bigger than anything I’ve ever ridden.”

  Driver scratched at his thinning scalp. “Well, it is a bit different. There are bigger engines, but I’ve gotten fond of this brand and this size. A 117 CI motor is all you will ever want on a road bike that covers lots of miles day in and day out.

  “This is an Ultima, El Bruto, 117 cubic inch Evolution-type, V-twin engine, and it is full of grunt. The transmission is a Rivera six speed, and the clutch is a Barnett. It’s a lock-up model, and it can take the strain of a big-inch engine without notice. The primary is all Ultima. The rear belt is standard Harley size, and nobody faults that kind of belt drive. They always work.”

  Tim interrupted. “Very informative, but jump to the price, Driver. I’m not made of money, and a chromed up show bike is not something I have ever expected to own.”

  Driver was not through selling. “Look at these wheels, Tim. They’re Billet, and they are damned near unique. Why they’d cost two grand apiece to buy these days. The back wheel uses a 180 tire. A rider can go a lot larger, but bigger isn’t better. 180 looks great and handles really well.”

  Driver shifted gears. “The suspension is by Progressive, of course, and it’s got the best of J-Brakes because I like them, and they look good.

  “I picked up most of these items back in the day, so I can cut a little off what they’d cost in a store, but you are right. This bike will cost money.

  “Take the paint, for instance. I can’t recall the layers I put on, but it’s black and it’s deep, the way a real motorcycle is supposed to look. Against the chrome, there is nothing like black. Am I right on that?”

  Tim agreed he was right, and there was a growing hunger in Tim Carlisle’s gut to own a bike like Driver’s custom. A bike like no one else had, one that … hell, he was convincing himself.

  “You never got to the price.”

  Driver walked away and stopped in front of an old fashioned soft drink cooler that held the bottles and cans in ice water—nothing better for keeping soft drinks just right.

  “What’ll you have, Tim?” Driver grinned, “An ice cold can of any brand will take some of the ache out of that bad eye. I’ll take it off the price of the bike.”

  “Diet Mountain Dew, if you’ve got it.”

  “I’ve got it. Nobody seems to drink the old standards anymore.” Driver delivered the dripping can, and Tim pressed it against his swollen forehead.”

  “All right.” Driver turned to business. “My price for this custom cycle is thirty thousand dollars—cash in my hand.”

  Tim choked on his Dew, and Driver jumped in.

  “Now that’s a starting point for a bit of bargaining, Tim, but not too much dealing. I’m already close on my costs, and that’s discounting a lot of custom work that we haven’t mentioned yet.”

  Timmy Carlisle wanted the bike. The price actually was not that bad. A bone stock Harley, something like a Road King, could cost more than twenty grand.

  Tim walked around the bike, stalling, undecided, but recognizing that simply getting out of the county was worth more than a little.

  He could consider such details because he would have to either live nearby for weeks while Driver put his Old Dog bike back together or rent a ride to take him to some distant dealership where he would end up with something just like every other biker in the world was straddling.

  Tim said, “I was thinking more like twenty grand, Driver. Cash in your hand—as soon as we could get to a bank, of course.”

  Driver sounded insulted, “Oh come on, Tim. For that money you would get a 93 or a 110 cubic inch engine that was unpainted aluminum and nothing custom at all.

  “Get serious. You need this bike. You will have it for years, just like your uncle had his old shovelhead. My bike will get you there and bring you home.

  “You won’t find bolts and nuts falling off a few miles down the road, and you won’t have to take it in to put on a different exhaust that sounds like a motorcycle.

  “Just think about the parts on this bike. There’s Arlen Ness. There are Kuryaykn and Klock Werks pieces—and the seat is by LePera. You’ve got Lindby bars and the saddle bags are … You’ll end up bragging about what you’ve got all the way to the coast and back.”

  Tim pulled at his lower lip. “So, what is your best price, Driver, and you can stop listing. I’ve got the idea.”

  “Well, I’ve given you my price, Tim. You’ve got to come up to me. Not me come down to you.”

  Tim said, “Ok, Driver, I’ll come up, but I’m not going to haggle more. You will have to get serious, or we can’t deal.

  “I’ll give twenty-five thousand bucks—cash. No more! I’m done! That’s it!”

  Driver walked around some more. “Well, we’re close, Tim, but … .”

  “Nope, we’re done, Driver. I don’t think you’ve counted in my damaged shovelhead. Add that on, and you have done well. And you know it.”

  Driver said, “Well … .”

  Tim interrupted him. “And none of this is final until I ride the ‘bling box.’ Hey, it might shake like an old ironhead Sportster for all I know.”

  Driver snorted at the insult. “Well, we could deal if you could go just one thousand more, Tim. I’m not going to make a cent on all the work I did and … .”

  “Sorry, Driver. I’d like to have the bike, and it would suit me to have it right now, but twenty-five is my limit.”

  Driver began to speak, but Tim again cut him off.

  “I’ll tell you what, Driver. You just take some of the bling off your custom until you figure you’ve removed a thousand bucks worth. Then we’ll bargain again.”

  Driver sat down in one of his ratty chairs. He smiled just a little and bemoaned, “You’re a hard man, Tim. You haven’t even figured in the free night in my extra room I’m giving you, or the ride we’ll take getting you to a licensing place. I’ll lose half a day’s work just doing that.”

  Tim smiled back. “I figured all of that in, Driver. So, I’ll throw in a good lunch wherever we go to get the license, and I’ll recommend The Shop to every rider I see along the road.”

  Driver slapped his thighs and rose hand extended. “It’s a deal, Tim. Twenty-five big ones in cash tomorrow. What bank can you use?” He snickered. “I figured you had more than a few lamb’s tongues salted away back home.”

  “We can go to Bank of America. They are about everywhere. But Driver, the deal is not closed until I’ve ridden the bike.

  “No pig in a poke stuff here. How do I know it will start, and take off like a jack rabbit, and cruise without my having to hang onto the bars like I was an athlete?”

  Driver snorted in pretended annoyance. “Help me get this beautiful machine down so you can experience perfection for the first time in your riding life.”

  He picked a sadly battered helmet that was sort of pink in color from a shelf. “Wear this lid while you are on the road around here. It might not be the best if anyone recognized you.”

  Tim examined the full-face helmet with distaste. “Good God, Driver. Anyone seeing this would be tempted to drive me off the road, and I’ve had enough of that for one day.”

  Tim helped lower the custom, feeling his muscles stiffened with small aches starting all through his body. He had taken a beating, and tomorrow would be a miserable day, and maybe there would be a few after that.

  Out front, Tim turned on the gas, gave the motor full choke, punched the engine’s compression releases, and gave the throttle a single twist, per Driver’s recommendation.

  The motor started on its se
cond revolution. A bit amazing considering that it had been sitting, probably for more than a few weeks.

  Tim eased the clutch and pulled away. He allowed warm up before he tested what the new engine could do. Holy cow! A torque monster!

  Within a mile or two, Tim Carlisle had a new love. He had never ridden a machine like this one. There was power—stunning power, and there was super easy handling. The fit was perfect for his arm and leg length. Driver must have known he was coming. The LePera seat had a backrest. That would be better than using his baggage, which required adjusting too often.

  Tim sought faults. He found none.

  But, lordy, his body ached. Tim made a comfortable U-turn in the road’s width without touching a foot. Extra nice handling. No doubt about it.

  Back to Driver’s then to bed. Tomorrow, if he could move, they would get him licensed, and he would be gone from this dangerous part of Kentucky.

  Damn, he was suddenly hungry. He wondered where Driver did his eating.

  Tim Carlisle smiled to himself. If Driver had known how easily his customer could afford to purchase this bike or any other he might like, he would have demanded a lot more than he was getting.

  There were not many millionaires riding the highways, but Tim Carlisle was one of them. He sort of liked that unsuspected condition.

  7

  September had arrived. Behind lay the adventures of motorcycling Tim Carlisle had hoped to experience.

  Of course, the Sturgis Rally had been the best. All motorcycle rallies are similar, but rally size varied, as did licentious behavior, usually depending more on how much drunkenness and skin exposure local law allowed than diversity of interests among attendees. Sturgis, an exception, excelled because of The Black Hills.

  Tim had settled into a motel and campground across the highway from a large Reptile Garden just outside Rapid City. From there, he could attack all of the famous rides and view every noted site in the area.

  And those rides had been at least as memorable as the twists and turns of The Tail of The Dragon. Their names rolled among Tim’s favorite memories.