Now They Call Me Gunner

by Thom Whalen

  * * *

  I read all the newspaper stories about Billy Paul’s murder. There was no trial. Before the summer was over, the Road Snakes pled out to reduced charges of manslaughter. Wasp, Friendly, and Jimbo got ten years each because they took part in holding and stabbing Billy. Monk got seven for being there. Bucks got a suspended sentence because everyone agreed that he couldn’t have planned anything like that. I’m not so sure. He was pretty clear when he told me the story about The Doll. I think he’s smarter than he pretends. Not brilliant, but not completely out of it, either.

  Personally, I think the sentences were fair. Billy needed killing, not just for what he did to The Doll, but because he was never going to leave Gwen alone.

  If the Snakes hadn’t beaten him to it, Randal would have had to do Billy himself sooner or later.

  The Snakes did Randal a favor.

  After Randal was released, I only worked at Elsa’s for another three weeks before I had to move to New York and start my first semester at Columbia. I couldn’t believe that the whole summer was already gone. Time flies when you’re terrified.

  On my last day, Mrs. Everett asked me if I were going to come back to work next summer. I told her that I was. I did, too, but no summer was as exciting as the one that I worked with Randal. Good thing.

  On my last day, Randal told me that he’d be around on his next day off to pick up the bike. I’d been using it so much that I’d almost forgotten that it was just a loaner. It felt like my bike.

  That Wednesday, I got it ready for him. I washed it down and cleaned it up. I assumed that he was going to return it to its real owner. I didn’t know who that was but I wasn’t going to return it in worse shape than I’d received it.

  At about ten in the morning, Randal rode up on his chopper, looking cool as any man ever had. His cool air still amazes me. He knew how to hide his demons. Nobody could see them until they got to know him real well.

  He swung off his chopper and embraced me. “Good to see you, man.”

  When he let go of me, I handed him the key to the loaner bike. “Here’s your bike back.”

  He handed me a different key in return.

  “What’s this?”

  He nodded at Billy’s chopper. “The chopper’s yours, now.”

  “I can’t take that.”

  “Hell, you can’t. You earned it. You saved my life. It’s yours.” He handed me his chrome helmet. “Goes with the bike.” He grinned at my candy apple helmet. “You can keep that one. Katie’s going to need it when she’s riding with you.”

  What he meant was that he wouldn’t be caught dead riding with it on his head.

  “Are there any registration papers for it?” I asked.

  He laughed. “I never got any papers for it. I doubt that Billy did, either. Who knows where he got it from. You outwitted a gang of outlaw bikers. I think you can figure out how to handle the DMV.”

  I guess he was right. I wondered if he had actually bought it from Billy or just taken it but I would never know. “You take care of Elsa’s Grill while I’m at school,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Not happening. I gave my notice. I’m going to strap panniers on the back of this bike and hit the road. I’ve been in this burg too long already. There’s a whole lot of world out there waiting for me.”

  He climbed on the black bike and waved. “Take care, Gunner.”

  I waved back as he rode away. I was too choked up to say goodbye.

  That was the last that I ever saw of Randal.

  After all that we’d been through, I never did learn his last name. Gwen moved on a year later. Mrs. Everett died a few years ago and Elsa’s Grill closed. I couldn’t look him up if I wanted to.

  I still have Billy’s chopper. It’s an antique, now. I did figure out how to get it registered. I went down to New Jersey and claimed that the paperwork was lost. After I forged a few signatures, it was mine. The records weren’t computerized back then so it wasn’t hard at all.

  It helped that there was no serial number on the frame. Too much custom work had been done on it.

  * * *

  My first day at Columbia, I turned a few heads when I tooled up on my chopper.

  Beautiful co-eds swooned. Tough guys turned green with envy. At least in my imagination.

  A couple of guys tried to chat about their bikes, but they were dweebs on stock Japanese road bikes. They’d never been within smelling distance of an outlaw biker gang, much less raced for their life down a dark mountain highway in the middle of the night.

  When they asked my name, I told them that people called me Gunner. Never again did I introduce myself as Phil.

  I didn’t have time to chat with anyone for long when I arrived. I had to take care of important business.

  I went straight to the registrar and changed my major. I liked math but I’d found something way more interesting. Not law like Randal suggested. That would have been a real drag. Psychology. I wanted to understand the demons that haunted Randal.

  I’m still doing that. After I was granted my doctorate, I took a position as a clinical psychologist at Walter Reed, specializing in PTSD. Sadly, it’s a growth industry. There’s always more wars to be fought and more demon-haunted soldiers coming home.

  I married Katie. To the surprise of both of us, our long-distance relationship worked out. At least for one semester. It helped that I had the chopper so I didn’t have to bus back and forth to Wemsley until the weather got too cold.

  After Christmas, she came down to New York and got a job as a waitress.

  Since meeting her, I’ve never had a day when I didn’t find her fascinating. I still can’t tell when she’s really as whimsical as she acts and when she’s just putting me on. Not even with all my years of clinical experience.

  My real life started in the summer of nineteen seventy-one and it has been a hell of a ride.

  THE END

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  While I tried to be true to the times, this story contains one glaring anachronism. In 1971, the legal age for drinking alcohol in New York State was eighteen. It was not raised to twenty-one until 1985. Unfortunately, I was not made aware of this until after the story was published. There are so many references to Gunner being under the legal drinking age and Gus selling alcohol to minors that it is impossible to correct this error. I can only apologize and hope that this did not detract too severely from your enjoyment of my novel.

  Yours, Thom