Now They Call Me Gunner

by Thom Whalen

  * * *

  Randal didn’t speak until we were out of the bush and walking down the highway toward our hidden bikes.

  “They brought women. It’s a party, not an ambush.”

  “Maybe the women are part of the ambush.”

  “No. Every witness counts. They wouldn’t have involved any more people than necessary. Four or five would have been enough to take the two of us. Eight is too many.”

  “So we’re safe?” I could only hope that the Snakes knew as much about ambushes as Randal.

  “From an ambush. That’s not the only risk here.”

  He said no more and I didn’t want clarification. I was already scared enough.

  We got to our bikes and mounted up. I followed him back to Kenny Mill.

  When we rolled down to the end of the driveway, the dogs were still penned, still barking. The word, indefatigable, came to mind. I bet they were going to curl up and sleep like logs after everyone left.

  Monk, Wasp, and the big man stepped out of the garage – I should say clubhouse – to meet us.

  “This is Wasp and Friendly,” Monk said.

  Friendly sounded good. I hoped he lived up to his nickname because he could squash me like a bug if he grew unfriendly.

  “Randal and Gunner,” Randal replied.

  “Bucks and Jimbo are inside,” Monk added. He didn’t bother naming the women who were inside with the other men.

  Now we were all on a first name basis.

  Seeing the men close for the first time, I was impressed with their lack of hygiene. All three had long hair that didn’t look like it had been washed in a while, bits of food that had been caught in their teeth for so long it was half-digested, and hands grimy with layers of dirt and grease.

  I knew that Monk was a mechanic and that explained his grease. I wondered what the others did for a living.

  “We were riding through and wanted to pay our respects,” Randal said.

  “Appreciate it,” Wasp replied. “Monk said that you know Billy.”

  “Didn’t know him well,” Randal said. “Did a little business with him but we weren’t full-time partners. I won’t be going to his funeral.”

  “You got his bike.”

  “That was part of our business.”

  “He loved that bike. It was maybe the only thing he did love.”

  “He hated to part with it, but he needed the money. He was downright desperate for a stake. I never asked why, just gave him a good price for the bike.”

  “How about you, Gunner? Were you in business with Billy, too?”

  It was the first time that anyone had asked me about Billy. The first time that anyone had really acknowledged me. I was taken by surprise. “No.” I stammered a little. “No,” I said more firmly. “I never met him. Never even heard much about him until he was dead.” I shrugged. “Guess I never will meet him now.”

  “So you’re not going to his funeral, either.”

  “I wouldn’t have any place there.”

  Wasp looked satisfied. “I don’t guess we would, either.” He waved his hand. “Why don’t you guys come in and have a beer. Meet the rest of the Snakes.”

  It sounded like the entire motorcycle club consisted of these five guys. I’d expected that there’d be more of them.

  If Randal thought the same, he gave no sign.

  Bucks was the guy who looked like an accountant. Jimbo was the gym rat. It would be easy to remember their names. Both of them were cleaner than the three who had met us outside. Bucks, in particular, looked well-scrubbed – the exception that proved the rule, I guess.

  The other guys sat in the mis-matched easy chairs that were scattered around the room. I sat. Randal, Wasp, and Friendly remained standing.

  One of the women, the dark-haired beauty who had been riding with Wasp, handed me a can of Iron City. I’d never seen one before. It was a steel can with a label that was mostly white, dominated by a big red oval that bragged that it was brewed in Pittsburg.

  What confounded me was that there was no pull-tab. Instead there was a strange mechanism. I poked at it for a minute to no avail.

  There was sharp popping and soft hissing around me. I watched one of the other women, the doll-like lady who had been riding with Jimbo, hand Monk a beer. He pulled the ring up and the can popped open. But the ring stayed attached to the can.

  I fiddled with it again and figured it out. The ring was a lever. When I pulled it up, the other end pushed down on a scored section of aluminum, breaking it open and pushing it down into the beer. Weird.

  This was the third beer that I’d ever had, the first one out of a can. It didn’t taste any better than the first two. In fact, it tasted exactly the same. I inferred that beer was not like soda pop, each kind a different flavor. The biggest difference between them was the design on the labels.

  I was sipping slowly but some of the other men in the room were already finishing their second. They poured them into their mouths as fast as they could swallow.

  “Where you based?” Wasp asked Randal.

  “Buffalo,” Randal said.

  I’d been to Buffalo a couple of times, but I didn’t know the city well. I could understand why Randal had not wanted to say that we were from Wemsley – better that these guys didn’t know where to find us – but wondered why he had chosen that city instead of New York or Albany or Syracuse. Maybe because Buffalo was about as far from here as you could get and still be in the state.

  Wasp’s eyes narrowed. “You know the Road Vultures?”

  “I heard of them. I don’t know them personally.”

  “No? They joined the Hells Angels a few years ago,” Wasp said.

  “I heard that.”

  “You said that Billy was killed in Wemsley.” Monk joined the conversation. “You get his bike there or in Buffalo?” Monk looked suspicious.

  “Wemsley,” Randal said. “That’s where our business was done. The cops in Buffalo keep too close tabs on bikers for our comfort. Nobody expects anything to go down in Wemsley.”

  I admired Randal for his agility in patching together his lies.

  “The Buffalo cops keep an eye on independents like you?” Wasp asked.

  “They keep an eye on anyone who rides a chopper,” Randal said. “They’re kind of oversensitive after the problems that they’ve had with the Vultures.”

  “What did you ride before you got Billy’s bike?” Monk asked.

  “Knucklehead on a scratch-built frame. Nice bike but it won’t take another re-bore. I’m keeping it for special rides.”

  There was a lull in the conversation.

  After listening to the sound of beer being slurped for a couple of minutes, Bucks said, “We’re going to join the Angels.”

  “Are you now?” Randal said, mildly.

  Wasp glared at Bucks and he wilted a little.

  After an awkward minute, Wasp said, “The Vultures did. We thought that we’d explore the possibility. That’s all. It’s not a done deal.”

  “I see.” Randal smiled. “I guess the Angels would need to know what kind of club you’ve got here.”

  “We told them that in our letter of introduction,” Wasp said.

  “I’m sure you did,” Randal said.

  There was another awkward pause. The Snakes filled the time by drinking more beer. Every time they dropped an empty on the floor, one of the women was right there to hand them a full can. Service was good in the clubhouse.

  Friendly and Jimbo both crushed their cans with one hand when they were empty – not that easy with steel cans. It appeared to be some kind of ritual competition between the two. Jimbo looked stronger but I noticed that Friendly’s cans were crushed flatter every time.

  The other three guys didn’t bother joining the competition but I suspected that Monk could have done better than both of them. He was a lot smaller but his forearms looked like rubber sheets stretched over bundles of steel cables. Mechanics develop strong hands.

  The room felt tense.


  If the mood turned violent, Randal and I were dead. Even with Randal’s bamboo-handled knife, he wouldn’t get more than a couple of the Snakes before they got him.

  I could do nothing but sip my beer and wait and wish that I was back at Elsa’s, frying a piece of liver for Barkley.