On the map it was to be seen as a small red square set flush against the Equator, for all the world like a scarlet kerchief hung up to dry on a line. That was how Terry Devine expressed it when he first located it in his old school Atlas, but he didn’t know then just how apt he was being.

For the little state of Miranda, after three years of bloodshed and misery, was hanging up to dry on the line, and if events were sufficiently recent to make appropriate the color of that little square as depicted on the map, there was every hope of the newfound peace bleaching it white.

For, after three years, tyranny and corruption had been overthrown, and the riff-raff and scum who had won power by the unexpectedness of a coup d’etat had been cast out of high office. And now that wise and patriotic gentleman, Don Isidore Pancha, reigned supreme.

Such was the position of affairs in the little state of Miranda as the S.S. Eldorado danced into the wide bay of her only port and capital, Las Palmas. Terry Devine stood at the rail to take his first glimpse of the city in all the splendor of its whiteness.

Small chance he had of studying its beauty, for beside him lounged a tall, swarthy man of middle age-a man whose presence and looks implied that he might call “home” some spot near the Equator line where it cleft the American continent-and that man seemed in a mood for talk.

“This refers to you, my friend?”

Terry Devine, starting from the enchantment of his first view of the city they steadily approached, drew up his 72 inches of bone and muscle and turned equiringly to his fellow passenger. He saw that the South American held out a somewhat grimy newspaper a week or two old-a mere leaflet that passed in Miranda as the press-and the South American was marking a half-column article with his thumb.

It was in Spanish, of course, but Terry read it as he might have read his own native English and he found it discussed the expected arrival of a certain Britisher representing a certain British motor bike company desiring world markets. The newspaper, heralding the enterprise as a sign of Miranda’s new prosperity and the taking of her place in the realm of commerce, gave its best wishes to the English representative and trusted he would gain much commission on many orders.

Terry raised his shrewd gray eyes to his companion’s face. “It refers to me, Se?or Martino,” he said with a boyish grin, “and you’d better look out for your railway. When everybody in Miranda is buying Premier motor bike-“

Se?or Esteban Martino lacked humor. Terry was suddenly aware that he was scowling darkly.

“You will not sell one single bike, my young friend,” he retorted with unconcealed ill temper. “You do not know the roads of Miranda! You have not seen them, no! A tank would find them trying! Your company is crazed to send you here with their foolish bike, and soon I shall have you pleading on your knees to me for work as a porter, or something such!” He paused, then: “There is another thing. I am more than owner of the Miranda Railway-I have great political influence, too, and, it will be easy to smash you and your company’s enterprise!”

His tone was calculated to offend, yet Terry’s grin did not fade. “You never know,” he said, “but on the other hand you might have to buy a sheet of sandpaper to keep the rust off your rails. Oh, well,” he added with a yawn, “I guess we’ll be alongside the quay in two shakes and I’ve still a deal of packing to do.”

With that he strolled off in the direction of his cabin, and he was busying himself there when the Eldorado dropped anchor. Something like 15 minutes must have passed after that before Terry, carrying a couple of valises, made his way back to the deck.

On the quay, in front of a long, low customs building, the ship’s cargo was being unloaded, and a cursory glance showed the youngster a crate, which he recognized as that containing the motor-bike with which he was to advertize his company and, if possible, gain orders. He remarked vaguely that, nearby, stood a number of piano cases, and began to reflect idly on the inherent love of music common to the Spanish race.

A sudden din of voices broke the trend of his thoughts-voices raised in a prolonged cheering-and suddenly he saw, beyond the customs building, where the quay merged onto a broad promenade running along the entire seaboard of the city, a concord of people. Closely packed, they were, and Terry caught the flutter of countless handkerchiefs and ran his eye over a sea of faces.

And then all at once he saw a meaning in the cheering and the kerchief waving, a meaning that seemed clear as he realized it had broken out on his appearance. That newspaper article had roused the enthusiasm of the populace, and the numbers had come to greet him!

With that, an inspiration struck Terry. Here was his chance to advertise the Premier bike. He would take it from its crate on the quay, fill the tank with petrol, and drive to his hotel amid the shouting throng. On the spur of the moment he started down the gangway, bowing and nodding responsively as he went, and presently found himself involved with the customs officials.

The duty paid, he opened his crate with the aid of a porter, filled the tank, handed his luggage to the aforesaid porter, and by him was directed to the hotel where a room had been booked in advance. The Customs building had hidden him from view, but now, wheeling the bike, he rounded the crowds. As he did so another rousing cheer went up, and then….

Terry realized with a shock that the sea of faces was still up-turned toward the deck of the Eldorado, and that no one paid him the slightest attention; and a backward glance showed him Esteban Martino advancing down the gangway and bowing his acknowledgment of the reception as he came.

Blankly, Terry stood there, and Martino, passing quite close, shot a baleful glance in his direction. Then suddenly a man came through the crowd leading a black horse, into the saddle of which Martino climbed.

Something happened that took Terry utterly by surprise. The cheering gave place all at once to a sudden exultant roar, and simultaneously the motley crowd surged forward onto the quay-past the youngster and on to where the Customs officials were on the point of opening one of those piano cases for inspection. In a twinkling the hapless officials were swept aside, and next second the rabble was breaking open the crates for themselves.

Piano cases-yet the instruments they contained were calculated to give out the deadliest kind of music, for out of those cases the wild crowd drew rifle after rifle and some there were who, carried away in the heat of the moment, loosed them off promiscuously!

Bullets had never intimidated Terry Devine, yet he judged right then that he had no urgent desire to be trampled under in a riot that did not concern him. The crowd was behind him now, massed on the quay. Near him Esteban Martino sat impassively on the black horse, with one or two ruffianly looking individuals gathered about him. The way was clear for a hasty departure from the scene.

Terry kicked the starter of his bike.

The sudden roar of the powerful engine rose above the din of the crowd, and momentarily stilled that din. One other effect it had-on the black horse Martino sat-and out of the corner of his eye Terry noted that effect.

The horse was nervous, highly strung. The roar of the motorbike was startling. Martino was suddenly clinging tooth and nail to his mount as it plunged and curvetted under him for a moment; then scattering the group round about, it flashed off at break-neck pace in an ungovernable panic.

The beast headed blindly for a broad thoroughfare running at right angles to the promenade. Terry had been informed that his hotel lay along that road and so, thrusting the gear lever into “low” and dropping the clutch, he started after the run-away.

As he did so a venomous howl rose from the crowd on the quay, and almost simultaneously there came a wild, desultory volley of musketry. The shots went wide, zipping harmlessly to right and left of the youngster, and overhead; but a backward glance showed him the mob surging hot-foot on his trail.

He did not fear them. Their pursuit was futile, and their shooting, proverbially bad, so that Martino seemed to stand as much risk of a bullet as himself-Martino, a hundred yards ahead on the runaway horse.

Steadily, Terry was overtaking him, yet he was still 30 yards to the rear when, turning a slight bend, he found himself faced by a hastily formed line of soldiery, drawn across the street with their rifles at the ready.

They seemed on the point of firing when Martino’s horse swung to the left and careered between a pair of great solid door-gates set in a lofty wall. Terry, a fitting target for itching trigger-fingers, decided he might do worse than follow, and the next second he was surging into a broad courtyard at the far end of which stood a veritable palace.

In the courtyard Martino had somehow pulled up, amid a group of uniformed officers, and as Terry pulled up alongside the party two of those officers covered him with heavy service-revolvers. Almost simultaneously a burst of firing sounded beyond the gates, signifying that the rabble from the quay had come within sight of the soldiery.

A tall elderly man who carried himself elegantly advanced on Terry. “What is the meaning of your presence here?” he demanded in a tone of mingled agitation and anger. He spoke in Spanish, and Terry answered him in that language, for Terry had been born in Seville, Spain, when his father had been resident there as agent for an English firm of planters.

Briefly the youngster started to explain, but presently Esteban Martino cut in on him.

“It happened in this way, Your Excellency.” With awe Terry realized he had been speaking to Don Isidore Pancha, the president. “The rabble was cheering-for me, I thought-but as my servant brought my horse the crowd rushed the piano cases, and I saw then they were cheering because the Eldorado carried guns for them–“

He checked. Through the gates came those soldiers Terry had seen in the street, and presently, with those gates slammed against a yelling mob, and officer came running across.

“It is hopeless, Your Excellency,” he gasped. “They are ten to one!” We may hold out for half a day-no more. Reinforcements–“

Don Isidore clenched his hands. “It is the scum of the country taking advantage of the troops’ absence-scum guided by some traitor and ripe for plunder and looting and the old regime of terror, which we overthrew! Yet we will fight them-Don Pancha does not flee and leave his home to be ransacked, his servants to die! Reinforcements, you said-in half a day! It is impossible, for the army is at San Luis, where I was to attend maneuvers tomorrow, and we have just discovered that telegraphic communication has been destroyed.”

He turned to the man whose animosity Terry had aroused aboard the Eldorado. “Martino, my old friend, can you suggest nothing?”

Terry caught his breath on a sudden inspiration. Here was a chance to gain favor for his company, and, into the bargain, to save a country from riot and ruin. “Your Excellency,” he said, starting forward, “I am a foreigner, but I am at your service. With my motor-bike perhaps I can reach San Luis with a signed order for your troops there-in time for them to save you.”

A faint glimmer of hope came into the president’s eyes. “You would do that, Se?or?” he began, and then once again Martino interrupted.

“I have a better way, Your Excellency,” he said, with a dark glance in Terry’s direction. “Along the rear wall of the palace runs the canal-beyond that is the railway station-and there is a train there now. The rebels, I fancy, have not yet paid their attentions there, and moreover I would go unnoticed in the excitement. I will take the signed order personally-by rail. This English youth is likely to be shot down before he is a dozen yards beyond the gates.”

The idea seemed to strike the President favorably. Terry saw his chances of fame and favor evaporating. Moreover, there was a shrewd suspicion in his mind-a suspicion that, he sensed, would be utterly discountenanced by Don Isidore, but…

“Your Excellency,” said Terry, “two chances are better than one, and I am willing to run the risk of bullets. There would be more hope of success if both went-Se?or Martino by his train-I by my motor-bike-for it is possible the rebels have tampered with the railway in advance.”

The President was silent for a moment. With the orders made out and signed, preparations for departure were begun. Assured of crossing the canal by an improvised raft, Martino went to the rear of the courtyard, not without another frown for Terry. And Terry-he kicked the starter of his bike again and sent the powerful machine into a roaring motion.

Twice he circled the great courtyard, gathering speed, and then, on the second time round the solid double-doors-of dark bronze-were flung open suddenly by the palace guards. Terry was in high gear then, and touching 40 to the hour, and like a lightening streak he went through into the street.

The surprise of it was the saving feature-without it he must have been shot down as Martino had prophezied. But, flashing out through gates that were swiftly slammed and barred behind him, he was up the road and a hundred yards away before the rebels-sheltered for the most part in opposite buildings now-were aware of what had happened.

A volley of shots came after him then, chipping paving stones and asphalt, but from the palace wall came a covering fire from the loyalist soldiers. And, running a gauntlet less formidable than it might have been, a difficult target on account of his speed, Terry escaped unharmed and swung swiftly into a deserted side turning.

He came very soon to the edge of the town. It was walled-the wall a relic of ancient times when the first Conquistadores had founded Las Palmas-and there was a great solid gateway. It had been unguarded, and without a pause Terry hurtled through it into open country.

Right away Terry made a discovery-that Esteban Martino had not lied concerning the roads. The streets of the city were well-laid-out, but the open road was like a London navvy’s nightmare-literally pitted with potholes and scarred with ruts, so that to travel at more than 20 miles an hour, even 15 in places, was suicidal. Terry realized that very soon, landing in a heap with his bike a couple of yards off. He picked himself up unharmed but for a bruise or two, and his bike none the worse but for a bent foot-rest; but as he climbed into the saddle once more he caught the drumming of hoofs and, glancing behind, he saw an ill-assorted bunch of rebel horsemen on his trail.

They had secured animals from somewhere, and at once Terry saw that they would make formidable pursuers, for those animals were less hampered-on a road probably familiar to them-than the youngster and his motorcycle. Moreover, their riders were already within range, and their bullets were uncomfortably close.

Terry drew upon the natural resources of an astute brain. A hundred yards to the right, separated from him by ground even worse than the road surface, was Martino’s railway-banked up. It had crossed the canal and now ran due north to a range of heat-hazed mountains. And on each side of the rails was a more or less level strip of ground, two or three feet wide.

Terry swung from the road and went bumping and thumping over the chewed-up ground on the right, and as he did so he knew that his pursuers swerved to follow him with a rousing yell.

They were desperately close to him when he gained the banking of the railway, but with a defiant roar the powerful bike surged up the slope and next second Terry was swinging parallel with the metals, gathering speed and more speed on the narrow but level strip alongside them.

There was a daredevil grin on his lips now-in his eyes the exultant gleam of the born speedman in his element. The rebel riders were at a discount now, with the big machine streaking away from them, and they could only follow it with a few ill-aimed shots, the deadliest of which tugged wickedly at the youngster’s sleeve.

He paid no heed. In a few seconds he was out of range, and heading along by the track at close on 50 an hour-heading for the north on an iron trail of adventure-the north, those heat-hazed mountains and, beyond, San Luis… “The Canyon of Lost Souls.”

Hours of climbing-incessant climbing…

Perched away up there amid those grim fastnesses of vivid, sun-scorched rock he felt oddly trivial, as a fly on a wall. He seemed to be travelling parallel with the brink of a mighty canyon, on a terrace along which the railroad was built. To the left an almost sheer wall of sandstone reared itself farther skyward; to the right, as he had marked, was the gaping chasm, shut off to some extent by a fairly broad parapet of stone.

Between parapet and sandstone wall there was only the width of the track-sleepers, with no strip of ground alongside, so that he was forced to pursue a jolting course over the rough wooden beams. It seemed as if every bone in his body were being jarred numb, yet he saw no alternative. He could only hope that the canyon was of no great length, for, among other things, the tires prevented him from attaining any speed.

Above the deep, slow chuckle of the bike’s exhaust he caught a new sound, a sound that brought him half-craning round in the saddle. As he turned he saw the belching black smoke of a railway engine, saw simultaneously the bluff front of the locomotive itself, with its cow-catcher and its great headlight-American pattern, like most of those little state railways equipped from Yankee or British engineering shops.

The loco drew two coaches, and in a flash Terry realized this must be Martino’s train. He watched it as it drew nearer, steadily overtaking him on account of his necessarily slackened speed, and then all at once he decided that there was every likelihood of his being run down unless he steered clear of the track.

There was no room for him on each side of the metals-his handlebars were inches too wide-and he could not possibly outstrip the train over those sleepers. There remained the parapet.

Terry, pulling up, dismounted and clambered on to that parapet; then, taking his bike by saddle and handlebars, he gave a superhuman heave. The machine was a prodigious weight, but with his muscles standing out against his shirt sleeves, he lifted it up beside him in his strong arms.

An inadvertent glance drew his attention to the chasm, and at the depth of it as seen from his perch he grew faint and dizzy. Just for an instant it seemed as if some magnetic influence were drawing him to the brink of the parapet, whence he would be plunged to death thousands of feet below.

He forced his thoughts from the awful chasm, and, turning, saw that the train was very close now. He waited for it hurtle past him.

He waited in vain. With the thunder of its wheels growing on him there came a new sound-the shrill metallic screeching of brakes. Next instant the huge engine, enveloped in smoke and steadily hissing steam, was drawing to a standstill beside him.

The smoke wafted aside, blown gustily on some chance breeze, and on that Terry was aware of a familiar figure leaning from a window of the first carriage. There were other figures at other windows-ruffianly looking individuals whom Terry vaguely noted as being armed-but for these he had little attention. His glance was focussed on the first-the figure of Esteban Martino, covering him with a wicked little pearl-handled pistol.

“Well met, my young friend of the foolish little machine,” said Esteban Martino, and underneath the jocular sneer in his voice there ran an electric undercurrent of menace. “We were told by a certain party of horsemen that you had taken to the railroad.”

Terry stared up at him without the flicker of an eyelid. As he did so he realized that those other figures were flinging open carriage doors and, clambering on to the parapet, advancing toward him. But still the youngster paid them small heed-his mind was on a certain suspicion that had occurred to him in the palace courtyard.

Leisurely he kicked down the stand and propped the motor bike upon it. Then he spoke: “Friends of yours, those horsemen,” he said quite casually, and: “Friends of yours, that rabble at the quay?”

Esteban Martino smiled. “Why not? However, so much you have guessed, and I am inclined to tell you more, seeing you are about to die-for die you will, my young friend. The ancient Indians called this the ‘Canyon of Lost Souls,’ and soon your soul will be flitting to and fro within its depths, when we fling you and your cursed machine down there!”

He paused, his brows drawn down over his glittering eyes. Then:

“I told you of my political influence. I can tell you more-I can tell you that soon I shall be president, for I am the leader of what you were pleased to call a rabble, and I was behind the smuggling of those guns aboard the Eldorado. And but for you and your confounded machine I should be leading my men to victory-a victory which will give hope to all our friends and rouse them against the reining president. For we shall subdue Las Palmas and after that, with recruits flocking to our cause, we shall overwhelm the Government troops at San Luis, who will make but a poor fight when Don Isidore is dead.”

The words came as no surprise to Terry, for he had suspected it all along. But even in that moment he marvelled at Chance, which had taken Martino helplessly on the back of a runaway horse into the presence of the man he sought to betray.

Martino was speaking again. “For your interference, and to prevent further interference, you die! I entrained personally, with a handful of my men, to see that you did not reach San Luis and that you died!”

He turned toward the men who had descended to the parapet, half a dozen in number, and at his command they started toward the youngster. It was then that Terry jumped to action.

Standing idly with his hands behind him, he had allowed Martino to talk on and now Martino, turning toward his men, had allowed the pearl-handled pistol to waver. The six, advancing on the Britisher, had pocketed revolvers, which they had been carrying. There were other men in the train-an escort against possible stray parties of loyalist troops-but these had laid their weapons aside and leaned unwarily on the carriage doors. It was Terry’s chance.

Like a flash he lifted his hand and something streaked from it, glinting in the sunlight-a heavy spanner he had slipped out of his tool kit. It struck Martino on the temple, and with a cry the traitor went reeling back into his carriage, dropping the pearl-handled pistol.

The foremost of the half-dozen ruffians on the parapet sprang forward with an angry snarl, but swift as lightening Terry spun on his toes and again his right hand was in action.

It held nothing now-beyond an instantaneous sleeping potion. The big bunched knuckles drove home on the dago’s jaw with a sickening crack, and the fellow went reeling amidst his fellows, flinging them into momentary confusion.

Momentary, yet Terry needed no more than a moment. In a fraction of time he had kicked his bike from its stand. Next instant he was in the saddle, with the bike roaring defiantly beneath him. Away-along that crazy parapet hung up among the mountains, and the mighty canyon to the right of him checking the breath at the mere glimpse of its depth. Away-and in a twinkling round a nearby bend taken at frantic, desperate speed, with the wheels skidding toward the brink on the smooth, glassy stone.

Yet he was round it in safety, and before so much as a shot could be fired; and somehow he had righted that ghastly skid on the turn and was streaking along in high!

A hundred yards he covered, and then he sensed rather than saw that the train was thundering round the bend after him. A moment later a shot whined across his shoulder and went futilely into space above the canyon, singing its song of death.

Another followed, rattling against his rear mudguard and ricocheting after the first bullet. A third chipped the parapet, aimed for the tires. Terry caught his breath as he saw it spurt up a fragment of stone an inch from the whirling wheel. A burst and he would plunge headlong to doom!

Another bend in the parapet. Terry made it in safety.

On the spur of the moment he made up his mind. A desperate risk, yet he was game to take it-had to take it. Unhesitantly he opened the throttle to the limit, felt the bike leap beneath him like a hound with a cast-off leash, saw the bay under his front wheel.

Mid-air for the briefest fraction of time, and then the jolt of contact with the parapet again. Wildly the machine swayed, but with his heart choking him Terry righted it and gained control of the steering again.

A hundred yards farther on and he knew that he was outstripping the train, with the “speedo” needle well over the 60 mark and climbing, climbing. Sixty-on a parapet above a mighty chasm!

The company had chosen him for riding ability, his command of the language, his engaging way, and his grit. Truly they had made no mistake in their estimate of him! The menace of the bullets again, yet the wild swaying of the train threw out the rebel’s aim and with every passing second Terry was a more difficult target.

Another of those chancy bays! And this time it was not to be jumped as the other-Terry saw that as he drew near-saw that its width was too great. There was the alternative-to follow the parapet in its semi-circular outward bulge! No time to climb down and lift his bike over, for before he could effect that and remount, the train would be level with him.

Terry followed the parapet! Round the bay he went, slackening up for the feat almost imperceptibly. On the wild reckless swing he felt the rear wheel sideslip toward the outer edge and the mighty drop, sensed the poising of that wheel half on stone, half in space; and then engine power and driving genius drew it from the brink.

He left the canyon at last, the stone parapet sinking gradually then to the level of the track. Once again Terry found himself careering alongside the sleepers on a narrow strip of level ground, and it was only then that he glanced back. Martino’s train was still in sight but losing ground rapidly, for Terry was on a downward slope and the needle was hovering on 70.

A downward slope. All around him the ground sloped downward to a vast, verdant fair-sized city.

He had crossed the mountains and was in sight of San Luis.

Francis “Ace” Calhoun awoke with the fear, accompanied by guilt, which wasa bit odd. It wasn?t that Ace didn’t have plenty to feel guilty about. In his 32 years, he had been involved in as much debauchery as any 10 pimps or con men. He had slept with his best friend’s wife and his wife’s best friend. He’d gotten the clap from his boss’ daughter and given it to his daughter’s boss. Then, of course, there had been that notorious, drug-addled day back in ’87 when he’d stolen 23 cars.

But none of this had ever bothered Ace before because he viewed morals inmuch the same way he viewed underwear — he knew they existed, but he?d never understood why others considered them necessary. It’s not that Ace was immoral in the traditional sense. It’s just that morals had simply never occurred to him, and he lived in a world where consequences were like getting caught in the rain — it just happened sometimes, and not necessarily as a result of anything you did. To Ace, the world contained two kinds of people, Ace and not-Ace, and he had no doubt about who existed to serve whom.

Nonetheless, there it was, that itching sensation, accompanied by apremonition that retribution was at hand and that the hammer wasabout to come down.

Fortunately, however, there was the ever-present hip flask of JD to stupefy that one rebellious nerve ending that refused to vibrate in synch with the larger picture of Ace’s persona. He took a mighty swig, pulled on a crustypair of jeans and shambled stiffly out to the garage of the dingy apartmentin which he stayed (under a phony name, of course). The garage was whereThe Beast lived…

Ace’s bike was a dozen bad ideas all rolled into one. From the “Easy Rider” front-end to the worked 96 ci Evo engine, it cornered like shit and triedto power-wheelie every chance it got. It looked like a collision between achopper and a medieval weapons locker; hand-made parts (including thehardtail frame) had been hack sawed and flame-cut with the jagged edges andsharp points left on. But once you got it up around 80, it was 520 poundsof pure, smooth hell, and there weren’t many vehicles on the road that couldcatch it in a straight line. Ace straddled the monstrosity, wrestled itupright and thumbed the huge engine to life.

Minutes later, he was out on the open road, rolling down the pre-dawnhighway, thoughts of divine retribution far behind him. With a little luck,he would cross the bridge from Pennsylvania into New Jersey before theyuppies were even out of bed, then cut across to Wildwood and the HOGrally. Aaah, the HOG rally, where beer flowed like a river and the women(not coincidentally) looked mighty fine. Ace had his knees in the wind,the rumble in his ears, and was feeling like the king of the world.

Glancing in the rear view mirror, he suddenly noticed that he had picked up one of those inevitable tailgaters who won’t give you any space and refuseto pass. Annoyed, Ace eased the throttle open. Seventy and the tailgaterstill hung in there. At 80 mph he began to fall away. Slowly, Ace’sirritability faded and the peaceful feeling of the open road returned.

Then he saw the flashing red and blue lights.

Shit! The goddamn cop didn’t even see the tailgater. (Or else he did, buthell, why hassle a taxpaying citizen when you can bust a big bad bikerinstead?) In any case, there was nothing to do but wrap the throttle aroundand hope for the best. Ace was wanted in at least a half-dozen states, andthe bike had so many stolen parts in it that it was practically a rollingfelony.

At 120 mph, the cop was still hanging on. Ace was practically blind inspite of his shoplifted wraparound Ray-Bans. The wind-scream wasdeafening and the tears that streamed from his eyes evaporated evenbefore they reached his ears. The pavement sped by in a blur andhard-shelled bugs impacted against his face and jacket like shots from a BBgun. At this speed, there was no margin for error. Everything, from adiscarded beer bottle to a patch of oil, represented a life-threateninghazard. Then the engine began to cough and sputter, and Ace knew that hewas really fucked…

The high-speed chase came to an inglorious end as Ace coastedunceremoniously to the side of the road. In his rear view mirror, he couldsee the cop getting out of his cruiser with his revolver drawn, but the copseemed to have understood at once what had happened, and Ace thought thathe could see him laughing. The cop strolled over to Ace with no realsense of urgency, but nevertheless pointing the gun at Ace’s back. Therewas no point in even getting off the bike. Ace kept both hands on the ape-hanger handlebars where the cop could see them. No sense compounding his miseries by getting shot.

“Keep your hands where I can see ’em!” the cop shouted. “Do you understandthat it is a crime to run from an officer of the- “

“Yeah, yeah,” Ace replied, cutting him off. “You got me. Shit, I’m guiltyas sin, why argue?” The cop smiled. For the first time, Ace noticed that hewas dealing with a mean, pig-eyed fellow with a missing tooth, who wasobviously enjoying the opportunity to humiliate a biker. The cop relaxedand stopped pointing the gun directly at Ace, although he didn’t put itback in the holster either. He eyed Ace up and down for what seemed like avery long time, as though carefully weighing some kind of decision.Finally, he said, “This can go down two ways. First way is I bust you forleading police on a high-speed chase, reckless endangerment, resistingarrest and anything else I can find when I check for outstandingwarrants.”

Ace inhaled deeply. Far away in the foggy extreme of his memory heremembered his grandmother saying that if you’re going to eat with thedevil, you need a very long spoon. “What’s the other way?” he asked.

“The other way,” replied the cop, “is I do somethin’ for you, and you dosomethin’ for me.” He scrawled something on a scrap of paper and handed itto Ace. It said, ?Holiday Inn, 2831 Roosevelt Blvd., Rm. 254, 8:30 p.m.? “Andjust to make sure you’re a man of your word,” said the cop, “I’m impoundingyour bike.”Ace stood on the pavement outside the gray monolith that was the HolidayInn and looked at it for a long time. There seemed to be no doubt thatwhatever was about to go down would be something he would later regret. The only alternative, though, was to let the pig have his precious bike that he?d built, piece by piece, with his very own hands, and there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that happening. Steeling himself, he took one last drag from his cigarette, flicked the butt into the gutter and walked inside.

Once in the lobby, Ace was aware that his long hair, beard and tattoos were drawing stares from the people behind the desk. Trying to look nonchalant,he strode over to the elevator, punched the “up” button and stepped inside.Getting off at the second floor, he walked down the hall toward room 254.He paused a moment, wondering what sort of heinous trouble was almostcertainly waiting for him inside. Then he knocked.

The door opened just a crack, but nobody beckoned him in. Whoever was onthe other side of the door obviously didn’t want to be seen or identified.Ace pushed the door open and walked in.

He was instantly struck in the face by a powerful halogen light that reduced the rest of the unlit room to jagged shadows. Some unseen figureclicked the door shut behind him and there were two silhouettes standingon the other side of the light. “You’re late,” rasped one of the figures.The voice belonged to Officer Pig.

“Yeah, well, I had to take the goddamn bus to get here,? Ace replied.”Would you mind turning that fuckin’ thing off?”

“Apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Calhoun,” said another voice, whichcarried a hint of Spanish accent. “But it would be to our mutual benefit for you to remain ignorant of our identities.” The voice was low, resonant and smooth as aged brandy.

“OK, enough of this X-Files crap,” said Ace. “You wanted me here. I’mhere. What the hell do you want?”

“A proposition, Mr. Calhoun,” said Mr. Smooth. “We have a job to offer you. We want you to drive a tractor-trailer from Mexico City to California. Ofcourse, we would not expect you to accept our proposal merely to recover your motorcycle. The job pays $50,000 upon your arrival in the United States.”

“If I refuse, I suppose you’re gonna put me in jail?”

“Oh no, Mr. Calhoun. It’s much too late for that. Should you refuse us, bythe time they find you, your own mother won’t recognize your remains.”

Ace thought about this. He had considerable experience with posers andwannabe tough guys who tried to bluff their way through confrontations.Whoever Mr. Smooth was, he didn’t sound like one of them. “What’s in thetruck?” asked Ace, as if he didn’t know.

“That information is only available on a need-to-know basis,” replied Mr.Smooth. “However, I will tell you that there will be 10 drivers. Of the10, nine will be decoys carrying crates of coffee. Only one will becarrying the actual merchandise, and none of the drivers will know whetherhe himself is a decoy. So you see, the risk is minimal, and the rate ofpayment is quite good.”

Ace thought about the potential mess he was getting himself into, but thelure of the 50 grand was too great. “I’ll do it,” he said, “but I wanthalf up front. And I want my bike back.”

From the shadows, Mr. Smooth chuckled.The following day, Ace cruised down a deserted country road,which is where he liked to go to think. Right now the hamster wheel in his head was turning even higher rpm?s than his engine, pondering this incredible turn of events. Mr. Smooth had, of course, refused to give Ace the 25 grand up front. He had, at least, returned the bike, which Ace had had to tow back to his garage to fix the traitorous son of a bitch. At any rate, Mr. Smooth was clearly not a man to be trusted, and just as clearly not a man to be crossed. It was not all that hard to believe that even a medium-sized drug kingpin would be willing to pay half a million dollars to his drivers; an 18-wheeler full of coke wouldsurely make the half mil look like chump change.

The question was, what was the real chance of Ace ending up with the hottruck? On the one hand, Ace was a fairly conspicuous person, so it wouldprobably make more sense for him to be a decoy. On the other hand, since hewas the new guy, he was expendable. Hell, they might just reward him byriddling him with bullets when he got to California, if he got toCalifornia. Although it was likely that the other drivers had beenrecruited in much the same way, and Mr. Smooth couldn’t damn well kill themall…

Round and round he went, like a dog chained to a $50,000 stake, knowing that it was a bad idea but nevertheless unable to let go of the thought of all that green. One thing was certain, though: Mr. Smooth had Ace at a definite disadvantage, and Officer Pig was probably the key to figuring out the identity of Mr. Smooth. Ace slowed the bike to a halt, walked it around a Mack-truck-sized U-turn, then twisted the throttle and roared back home.An hour later, Ace impatiently paced his apartment like a cagedanimal, a ringing telephone clamped tightly to his ear. After what seemedlike an eternity, a voice answered on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hey Buzzard, it’s Ace.”

“What’s up, bro?”

“You’re not gonna believe this…” Ace briefly recounted the incredibletale of the last 24 hours.

“So whatcha gonna do?”

“Well,” Ace replied, “for starters I want to figure out who the pig is. Can Scratch still hack his way into the cops’ personnel records?”

“Sure. They ain’t changed their password in five years.”

“Good,? Ace replied. “We’re looking for a fat cop, about 50, with smalleyes set close together.”

“Hate ta tell ya this, bro, but that don’t narrow it down much.”

“Our man’s also missing a front tooth on the left side.”

“OK,” replied Buzzard. “I’ll getta holda Scratch. We probably shouldn’ttalk about this over the phone. Meet me at Gino’s tonight at 9 and I’lltell ya what we dug up.”

“Thanks, bro. I owe you one.”Ace pulled up to Gino’s Bar and Grill, a run-down dive in a dilapidatedsection of town. He could see Buzzard’s ’53 Panhead chopper parked outfront and he eased his own bike up next to it. He sat there, letting thebig beast rumble between his legs for just a moment before hitting the killswitch and flicking the kickstand down with the well-worn heel of his leftboot. The honky-tonk blare of the jukebox, the clacking of balls on thepool table and the raucous laughter of barroom banter wafted through theclosed door and out into the moonlit night. Ace dismounted, clicked thefork lock into place and clumped up the short flight of rickety woodenstairs that led to the front door.

Ace pushed the door open and scanned the dark, smoky room for Buzzard?s lanky form. Sure enough, there he was, drinking a beer and smoking a fat cigar in a booth near the back door, and right on the dot of 9. Old Buzzard was as reliable as ever. Ace felt somehow comforted by this.

Big Dave nodded a silent greeting to Ace from behind the bar and, withoutwaiting to be asked, poured a tall, frosty mug of Guinness Stout. Ace slidinto the booth with Buzzard, and Big Dave sent the beer over with the newwaitress, a tender little blonde with pouty lips and lobotomy eyes. Acecould tell at once that the news was bad by the grave look on Buzzard’sbearded, leathery face. He waited for the waitress to get out of earshotand said, “That bad?”

“Worse,” Buzzard replied. “The pig’s name is Scanlan. Tom Scanlan. See,Scratch figured he’d talk to Snoop ’cause Snoop knows everybody. Turns outSnoop knew a guy that was once recruited by Scanlan, an’ he barely escapedwith his ass in one piece. Anyway, the guy says that Scanlan’s on thepayroll of an outfit that smuggles coke fer a Colombian cartel. Wheneverthey make a run from Mexico to California, they divide the real goodsbetween 10 or 20 trucks, not ta put all their eggs in one basket.Those trucks are driven by clean-cut sorta guys who can usually make itpast customs. Then they recruit another 20 or so decoys ta draw theheat, mostly high-profile types like ex-cons with swastika tattoos andgrunge kids with long hair an’ nose rings.”

“And outlaw bikers,” added Ace. “What happens to the decoys when they getto the States?”

“Most a’ them don’t get to the States,” Buzzard replied. “The bosses plantjust enough dope in the trucks to get the drivers busted. They get pickedup at the border fer possession of contraband or some bullshit like that,an’ then they rot forever in some Mexican hell-hole of a jail. The few thatdo make it back are paid with a bullet in the back a’ the head, an’ thendumped in the river. That’s why they use outlaws an’ derelicts fer the job;nobody misses ’em when they disappear. Best thing you could do is disappearright now; go ta Canada or someplace an’ lay low fer a while.”

“That would be the safe and smart thing to do,” Ace agreed.

“But it ain’t what you’re gonna do,” said Buzzard, reading the malicioussmile that spread slowly across Ace’s lips.

“Hell,” said Ace, “I was riding along, minding my own business. I justwanted to get that tailgater off my ass, and next thing I know someasshole with a badge drags me down into this goddamn tar pit. If I have togo to Canada and lay low, it’ll damn well be for a good reason. Maybe Ican’t get to The Big Man, but I can get that son of a bitch cop!”

“Whatcha got in mind?” Buzzard asked. Ace thought for a minute, then anevil grin spread across his face.

“You still got that camera with the telephoto lens?” Buzzardnodded. “Good,” said Ace. Ignoring Buzzard’s puzzlement, Aceslid out of the booth and walked over to the pay phone near the bathroomsat the back of the bar. He fished around in his pocket, came up with aquarter and jammed it into the slot. He punched in a phone number and,holding the tip of his left finger in his left ear to block out the barnoise, waited impatiently while the phone rang. Presently, he heard thetelltale click of the phone on the other end being lifted out of itscradle, followed by a sexy, female voice, which said, “Hello?”

“Yeah, Nina? It’s Ace. Not too bad… Listen, remember that time I bailedyour brother out of jail? Well, I’m in a bind here, and this time I needyour help…”It was 5:25 a.m. and Ace was hidden in the bushes by the side of the road, not far from the spot where he had originally been stopped. He looked impatiently at his watch, which he had carefully synchronized with Nina’s andBuzzard’s. He slowly flexed and relaxed his leg muscles to relievethe cramps; he had been hidden in the bushes since before Scanlan had comeon duty. I’m gonna owe Scratch and Buzzard for this big time, he thought.Ace looked down at his watch again to see the seconds roll dutifully by:5:29:58, 5:29:59, 5:30:00. Mark.

Nina’s red Mustang came over the ridge right on schedule, 20 mph over the speed limit. She passed the spot where Ace knew Scanlan’s copcruiser was hidden, and within seconds the red and blue lights flared tolife. The cruiser eased out onto the road, ran up behind the red Mustangand blared its siren a few times. The Mustang coasted to a halt bythe side of the road, right near where Ace was hidden.

Scanlan grunted as he heaved his ponderous bulk out of the cruiser. Hewaddled over to the Mustang and motioned for the driver to roll down thewindow. Ace could see Scanlan’s eyes get wide as the window rolled down andhe came face-to-face with Nina’s perfect, round, braless 38 D?s, hardnipples poking through a thin, low-cut Spandex top. He smiled as heimagined the sultry, seductive look that he knew Scanlan was getting fromNina’s gorgeous blue eyes; Ace had been on the receiving end of that lookhimself, and he knew from painful experience what it could make a man do.Nina leaned forward slightly, pushing her ample cleavage into full view.

“License and registration please,” said Scanlan, trying his damnedest tosound professional and nonchalant.

Nina began to whimper softly. “Please, officer,” she begged, “I can’tafford to get another ticket. I’ll lose my license! I’ll do anything.Please!” Her gaze slid downward toward Scanlan’s crotch. Scanlan stoodthere, dumbstruck. Without waiting for an answer, Nina eased the door openand slid down onto her knees in front of the cop in one fluid, catlikemotion. She ran her finger up and down over the growing bulge in his pants,then started to pull his zipper down. This brought him to life again, andhe began to furiously undo his pants. By the time he heard the repetitiveclick-click-click of the camera shutter, it was too late. Scanlan wasstanding on the road with his uniform pants down around his knees and agorgeous blonde kneeling in front of him, his tiny dingus sticking out fromunderneath his massive belly.

On a little dirt road on an abutment overlooking the highway, Buzzardstood up. Scanlan saw the camera with the telephoto lens hanging around thelanky biker’s neck, and his little stick wilted instantly. Buzzard movedquickly out of view, and Scanlan heard the roar of a Harley coming to life.Before he could react, he heard a rustle in the bushes from the other sideof the road. Nearly tripping over his own pants, he whirled around just intime to see Ace climbing out of the bushes and moving quickly around theparked cars.

“That’s a shameful display, that is!” said Ace, grinning ear to ear. Inthe distance, Scanlan could hear the sound of Buzzard’s bike fading away.”Positively disgusting! Why, when I stop to think of a pervert like youtaking advantage of that poor, helpless girl… Why, what would the chiefthink? Hell, what would Mrs. Scanlan think if she saw that picture in themorning paper? It’s more than any taxpaying citizen should have to bear, Itell you!”

Scanlan’s face turned bright red. His nostrils flared with rage and hate,and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. His mind was a congealing mass oflead, paralyzed between conflicting impulses to pull his gun and to shovehis dingus back into his drawers. Fortunately, he chose the latter. Thiswas good; it meant that Ace’s Walther PPK could stay tucked away in theback of his waistband.

“Goddamn son of a bitch!” Scanlan raged. “You set me up! Fuckin asshole!”

Ace grinned triumphantly. “This can go down two ways,” he said. Scanlanwinced as his own words came back to mock him. “First way is I send copiesof that photo to the chief of police, the DA’s office and every newspaperin the city.” Ace waited, but Scanlan said nothing. “Second way is you fuck off and never get in my face again.”

Scanlan looked down at his shoes. His shoulders slumped and he knew he’d been defeated. After a very long pause, he said quietly, “OK.”

“Good,” said Ace. “Now get yer fat ass outta here.” As Scanlan turned to go, Ace said, “Hey Scanlan, one more thing.” Scanlan turned just in time tocatch Ace’s rock hard knuckles in the side of his jaw. His head lashedbackward from the impact and he fell into the dirt like a sack of potatoes.

Ace winced and briefly rubbed his fist. Both he and Scanlan would feel that tomorrow. He looked up to see Nina’s baby blue eyes gazing into his own.Smiling with satisfaction, he slipped his arm around her waist and said,”Come on, beautiful, I’ll take you out someplace nice tonight.” She smiledin return. Ace took one last look back at Scanlan, moaning in the dirt,then he slipped into the Mustang beside Nina. She threw it in gear andstomped on the gas, and within seconds they sped away.

Throughout these gypsy years I’ve been asked many questions. The most common of these is undeniably: “How do you get money and take care of your breakdowns and other mechanical problems?” To these questions I can offer only one answer: There’s an old saying that states:

‘Do what you love to do, because you truly love to do it, and the money will come’.

In other words, trust fate or god or whatever you believe in and simply follow your dream. If one is able to truly apply this philosophy, then the world can most often be one big playground—and less a tedious grind.

To these ideas the reply is most often, “That’s a great philosophy in theory but this is the Real World.”

This statement is very true. It’s often hard to follow such convictions in light of, the Real World. Yet, I personally have no pension, no set means of income, am not a thief, and have been on the road for 13-years and living by only this philosophy and little else. There would seem to be some security in that.

The story that follows is simply one example from a hundred…

Sunshine warmed the formerly frozen pavement of the little South Carolina two-lane as the heavily loaded Electra Glide beat out a constant rhythm against the fine pine-forests that lined either roadside. It was the last day of April. Summer would be upon me soon and I always begin the seasonal migration north in May. For a man who travels by motorcycle, spends most of his nights in camp, and is in a state of perpetual motion, the necessity of basic survival—and simple pleasure—dictate that he must migrate. Summer was coming and with it freedom of motion throughout all of the north!

It was exciting stuff.

A hundred or so miles ahead lay the Myrtle Beach motorcycle rally (an exceptionally large event) and, traveling at this much relaxed, back road pace, I expected to arrive within a day or two. There was no hurry. For a time my mind settled quietly into only this moment and all of its surrounding beauty.

The Boss

Ahead, the South Carolina forest opened up to a dirt lot with one building set back and to the left. A sign at street-side read, BACKSTREET CHOPPERS—a small motorcycle shop. I pulled in to investigate.

A handful of bikes—Twin Cam, Shovel and Pan as well—littered the parking-lot. BACKSTREET had the immediate air of “Old-School.” I entered the building. Inside, many motorcycles lay in different states of repair. Parts, new and mostly used, hung along the walls and rested in boxes among the vice, grinding machine, drill-press, and other tools of the trade. This was a candy store for men. Big Dave, the owner, seemed quite at home in this environment and busied himself with the bike on his lift while engaging in conversation with those who hung around for just this purpose.

Among those sitting out front was a rather wiry cat named Brother Speed. Although I’d later see his face printed in a magazine or two, to date it was the first I’d laid eyes to him in person. While standing beside my heavily loaded Electra Glide I listened as Speed insinuated—or rather stated flat out—that I must be new. Dropping my eyes to the old FL I regarded its features. The bike was 19-years old; had 363,000 rather hard miles on the clock; had never been painted; and offered a fine array of re-weld jobs and duct tape repairs. I wondered what looked new to him. Speed soon showed me to his ancient pick-up that held a just as ancient Shovelhead. I looked closer. The rusty old bike was adorned with so many antique coins and other doodads (lots a glue) that one could scarcely tell a motorcycle still existed beneath. Maybe I was new.

And so we talked.

With truck loaded, Speed was now prepared for his annual trek to work the numerous rallies across the country. His trip would last the summer.

Brother Speed and his ride.

The shared love of bikes, extensive knowledge of their inner workings, and the fact that we both work at rallies was a great catalyst and friendship was soon born. While I’d be working at the Metzeler truck changing motorcycle tires this year, Speed would be employed as head of security for the Broken Spoke Saloon in Myrtle Beach. He’d leave in the morning.

For the last hour clouds had been rolling in. It looked like rain. The afternoon was wearing on as well and it would be dark soon. Speed invited me to stay at his place. He said it was only a few miles away. I graciously excepted then followed his truck.

It was more than a few miles.

Eventually, a little dirt road brought us to a remote piece of backwoods property. At the right, I took note of the large double-wide trailer (Speed’s place), suspended some distance above the ground. Beside it stood his tiny, free-standing garage while some short distance off was a rather fine home. His folk's house. It was family land. Speed had lived here for 22-years. A fine place to say the least.

Speed parked near the double-wide, and I threw down the kickstand behind his truck. After dismounting, I turned to survey the place. Junk. Lots of it. On display along the front porch, was every worn out sprocket, clutch-cable, tire, chain, etc. that had ever adorned the old Shovel. There were other items too. But rather than simple piles of trash, all seemed arranged in a kind of display. Brother Speed was obviously a memorabilia junkie.

Brother Speed and his stuff.

After covering my bike with a tarp against the rain, we entered the house. I’d seen nothing like it before. From the walls—and ceiling—hung every kind of trinket or poster ever made. This fucking guy had everything he’d ever owned lying around—even his baby teeth I’d bet. Pictures hung from above in paper chains of one taped to another until they were halfway to the floor. STUFF was everywhere and colorful seemed a weak description. This was an experience unlike any I’d enjoyed before.

Seating room was still plentiful though and we soon sat to talk the night away. Speed was a story-teller. No longer a young man, the long years of biking adventure offered him a trove of material from which to draw. It was late when my head finally hit the pillow.

My host seemed as a vampire who cared little for daylight hours. I did not disturb his casket, nor did I see him again the following morning. Instead, I wandered over to the folks’s place to mooch coffee. Both were very old and excessively friendly. Hospitality seemed their finest virtue.

But Myrtle Beach called and in short time I was again on the fine Carolina highways that led to that place.

Although no rain fell, the roads were still wet this morning, and it was only 30-minutes out that I began to smell burning rubber. Wet roads…burning rubber. What the…? A stop to check the bike soon revealed that both rubber swingarm mounts had broken to cock the rear wheel left therefore pushing the tire’s side-wall into a fender bolt. The obvious outcome? Burning rubber. But the damage was still only slight and I soon decided to return—rather gingerly—to Backstreet Choppers.

Upon arrival Dave noted my problem but had no new mounts to sell me. “Got anything used?” I asked. The big man went to check. He soon returned to hand me two used mounts. Both in bad shape. “They’re all I got,” he said. I had no choice but to install ’em.

“Got a jack I can use to lift this tank?” I pointed to the FL. Dave soon returned with one of those red pump-lifts that picks the whole bike up off the ground. He then insisted that I do the work on the cement under his front awning rather than in the dirt yard in case it decided to rain again. I did.

Years of hard use had turned the motorcycle’s underside into a filthy mess and I was all but covered in grease when Brother Speed finally arrived for his courtesy stop before continuing on to Myrtle. My situation brought him cause for concern; for there is an old and unwritten biker law that states: Unless extenuating circumstances exist, no rider shall ever leave another broken down along the road.

Well, I was not at roadside today but was obviously on the road and the fact still remained that, for many Old-School bikers, this idea is simply ingrained into the very fiber of their being. And so it was with Brother Speed and—thankfully—Big Dave as well. And although there was little he could do for me, it was this very thing that compelled Speed to hang around to offer support and advice for some hours to come.

Removing the swingarm axle and rubber-mounters was not an easy job, for there were exhaust pipes and other parts that needed to come off as well. It took time.

So I wrenched diligently beneath the little awning that sat smothered in South Carolina countryside as a plethora of men, some performing smaller tasks to their own bikes in the parking lot, came to bullshit, hang around, and drink beer with the others.

Dave checked on my progress periodically. He gladly offered the loan of any tool needed, and even stuck his own hands in my grease to help with the harder aspects of this job. Bikes break. It happens. But at least help was available and the company was good. I did not complain.

Scotty trimming something that should be left alone.

When the old rubber-mounters finally came out, I held them to Dave beside the ones he’d given me earlier. There was not much difference. He took them and for a moment only frowned at the beat up parts held in his meaty hands. Finally, he pointed to an older FL that sat with the engine removed. “See that bike over there? It’s got the same mounts as yours. Go pull ’em and stick them in your bike.”

“Are you sure?” I eyed the parts-bike thoughtfully.

“Yea. That bike’s mine and it ain't goin’ anywhere for quite a while. Don’t sweat it. Just do it.”

I did.

It was late afternoon by the time the finished product once again held the back wheel in its proper position as the bike now leaned rightly upon its kickstand. The workday was done and the men now relaxed in a semi-circle of metal chairs to drink beer, bullshit, and talk with small amazement at the nature of my long journey. To this topic I answered many questions.

Grease. I was covered in it. “You got a hose I can use Dave?” He pointed. Strangely enough, the spigot was inside the building. I pulled the nozzle end through the bay doors then suspended it from the nearby awning outside. Next, I visited the bathroom for a quick change into shorts. After retrieving a bar of soap from the right saddlebag, I stood under the hose-water and scrubbed vigorously. For a moment the men (a reluctant audience, but I was after all unavoidably in their line of sight) looked confused. I don’t think they knew whether to laugh or call me genius. A change of clothes finalized the task and I was clean and roadworthy once again.

“What do I owe you?” Dave stood in front of me now.

“Did I ask you for money?”

“No. But I don’t expect you to work for free.”

He just turned and walked away.

Again the small highway opened up ahead, and again my thoughts wondered to events of the recent past. If there really are angels, could some of them be rough men who ride Harleys? Regardless of how you see it, and just like 100 times before, fate had once again supplied the mode and the means to keep one man’s journeys free and easy.

A smile crossed my lips as I twisted the wick and settled farther into the saddle.

It was a good day to ride.

Note: I’d offer the number and location of Backstreet here but the shop is now closed and no forwarding address was left. To bad.

Having been summoned by Tinseltown’s latest red-hot director, I grabbed the last of my original script and trudged across the lot to his office. As usual, Lance was behind his desk, eyes glued to the editing machine. He shut it off and looked up. “You do the changes to the ‘See No Evil’ script?”

“No.”

As he started to yell, his face got as red as the shirt he had on. “I warned the producers not to give you that much money up front! What’s the problem now?”

I flopped into the chair by his desk. “Can’t get a handle on it,” I shrugged.

Lance settled back in his chair. “What kind of handle do you need? You got my outline. Just fill in the blanks.”

“Your outline makes filling in the blanks impossible.”

“How so?”

“You want it in twenty-five words or less?”

“That would be a nice change.”

“The average guy is going to have enough trouble just trying to be your hero. You complicate his troubles by making him a James Bond type.”

“That’s twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six what?”

“Twenty-six words. You said twenty-five.”

“So fire me,” I shrugged, leaving the office. “I could use the stress reduction.”

Ten minutes later I lit the wick on on my Softail and headed to the hills for a little head clearing. Four hours later, the head was still clogged, but the body was screaming for sleep.

I called it a night.

 

————-

The phone on the night table beeped.I reached for it and fell out of bed. “Hello.”

A voice from my not-to-distant past said, “Where the hell you been hiding?”

“Lance, it’s three in the morning, what’s so——“

“I’ve been trying all night. 552–“

“553–,” I corrected.

“No kidding? Must have punched–“

“Don’t give me any ideas.”

“A wrong number,” he finished.

I stifled a yawn. “Lance, you are a wrong number.”

There was a pause on his end. “Just called to let you know I”m shutting down production.”

That snapped me awake. “Say what?”

” ‘See No Evil’s’ on the shelf—-heading up to my ranch in Montana. Fresh air helps me think.”

I cleared my throat. “You’re going where?”

“Montana. You know. Big Sky Country.”

“I’ve seen the license plates, Lance. But why?”

“Time’s all wrong.”

“How’s that?”

“According to you, suave isn’t the flavor of the month—–“I was listening to my future paychecks start packing their bags.

“And since I want suave, maybe we’ll get together in a couple years and give it another shot. Ciao.”

The checks just started up the gangplank.

 

—————-

Since misery loves company, Taylore Dane was the first person to get a call. He answered on the fifth ring.

“Jeez, David. You know what time it is?”

I told him I did, that I didn’t think agents slept and about the call from Lance. Taylor made his usual consoling noises. “Hate to lose the money, but hey, that’s life. Let’s grab a bite at Ernie’s around ten tonight. Okay?”

“Why so late?”

“Why not? Gotta eat sometime.”

Taylor’s voice had taken on a suspicious tone. I had a mental picture of him crouched behind his phone. Shooting suspicious glances in several directions.

“Why Ernie’s?”

“Why not Ernie’s? He’s got good food.”

“You’ve never mentioned it.”

“I haven’t? Well, they say it’s really good.”

“Who?”

“Uh—–nobody.”

“Nobody said it was good?”

“No—–no. Somebody did. But they made me promise to keep my mouth shut.”

“Who did?”

“Nobody.”

I looked at the clock again. It was a little late for a Marx Brothers routine. “Okay, Taylor, Ernie’s at ten.”

 

—————

The clock above the entrance at Ernie’s told me it was five to ten when I pulled into the parking lot. The place seemed kinda deserted for one of Hollywood’s supposed ‘in crowd’ hot spots. Guessed the crowd didn’t show till midnight. I padlocked the Softail near the entrance and went in.

The inside of Ernie’s reminded me of that diner in a painting by Edward Hopper—–wooden counter, shiny red leather stools, worn linoleum floor.

As I slipped into a back booth, a woman standing at the bar flashed me a smile. She had a model’s face, auburn hair, and a figure that gave calendars a reason to be printed. As she walked over to my booth, I couldn’t help but notice her black dress showed much more than it covered. Around her neck was a string of pearls. She carried a stole that looked to be purebred and tossed it carelessly on the seat across from me.

“Mind if I join you?” The voice matched the rest of the package. This woman would give great phone.

I glanced up at the clock over the bar. It said 10:05. Taylor was late. And now, he could stay that way.

She sat down. “You’re Elmo Porter.”

I’m not really. My parents call me David Browne. But David got a reputation for being ‘difficult’ a few years back, so a change of alias kept the checks rolling in. Reflecting on the last couple of days, it looked like Elmo would be hitting the bricks.

We looked at each other. She finally said, “The picture of you in ‘Variety’ wasn’t half bad.”

“Picture?”

“That one of you and Lance Robbins. You two were standing with Richard Dreyfuss and Teri Garr. Caption read, ‘Four aces should make for full houses’.”

I remembered the picture, and then I remembered why I was sitting in this booth. “That hand’s been played out.”

“Paper said Robbins is supposed to be another Orson Wells. Is he really?”

“Don’t believe everything you read.”

“They say his pictures shows life the way it really is.”

“You work for this PR machine?”

She took the hint and changed the subject. “Screen writing pay pretty good?”

It has till now.

She continued. “Wish I could write.”

I shrugged. “Take some courses—-read everything you can get your hands on—–rent and watch every old film from the fifties, especially the ‘B’ black and white—–take every form of rejection known to man—–put in a dozen hard years—–“

She raised a seductive eyebrow. “My bedroom window gives a great view of the moon reflecting off the lake.”

This woman changed directions so fast she was giving me whiplash.

“You live near the lake?” I asked.

“Do we really live anywhere?” she said sadly, the smile leaving here face.

Get me a neck brace.

Cold reality had crept in, but just for a second. Her smile returned.

I leaned forward in the booth. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

She returned the lean. “Why’s that?”

“You know who I am. That puts you one jump ahead”.

She leaned back. “Do we really need names?”

Bring on the chiropractors.”Usually helps,” I said.

She looked around. “Looks like I’ve been stood up.”

“He’s blind as well as stupid,” I smiled.

“That’s sweet, ” she said, and picked my hand up in hers.

“Why don’t we go somewehre else and wait?”

“Won’t you be hard to find if you’re someplace else?”

There went that eyebrow again. “That’s the idea.”

 

————-

We crossed the parking lot to a Jaguar convertible.”Yours?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Drive as good as it looks?”

She dangled the keys in front of my face like a bunch of steel carrots. “Want to see for yourself?”

Finally, a question I understood.

I took the keys, held her door open, then walked around and slid behind the wheel. After I turned things on, I reached back to raise the top.

She touched my arm, “Leave it down.”

“It’ll get a chilly.”

“That’s what this is for,” she said, wrapping the stole over her shoulders. “I love to feel the wind in my hair.”

“If you like the wind in your hair, maybe we can take a ride on my bike sometime?”

“Maybe.”She directed me to the road that circled the lake. People in town called it the Million Dollar Mile.Since the entry fee was pretty steep, the road wasn’t well-traveled. It made driving easy.I glanced at my companion in the rearview mirror, and liked the way the wind tossed her hair. “Tell me about yourself,” I said.

She smiled. “Like what?”

“Like a name. Maybe what you do.”

She put her hand on my leg. “Not much when my husband’s in town.”

My eyes caught hers in the rearview mirror, and since I wasn’t getting a name, I asked the other obvious question. “He in town now?”

“No, he’s in Shanghai.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“Right now?” She looked at her watch. “Probably sleeping. He needs a lot at his age.”

“How old is he?”

“Seventy-seven.”

Another obvious question. But this one I asked with my eyes.She gave a little shrug, then subconsciously her hand moved up and stroked the mink.I drove on a while. “Your husband’s rich?”

“Filthy. He makes money.”

“Why’s he in Shanghai?”

“Guess their money’s easier to make than ours. At his age, hard isn’t something he does well.”

“Bet that’s frustrating,” I smiled.

She smiled back. “I have ways of channelling it.” Her hand squeezed my leg.

I glanced at the rearview mirror.

The whisper changed to a scream. “Down! Get down!”

And that’s what she was doing—–sliding down to the floor, arms covering her head.

I didn’t have that lurury. Guiding 3800 pounds of English luxury sports car, I kept firmly planted in the leather seat.A dark-colored BMW pulled alongside. The windows wore the dark privacy tinting of high-priced limousines.The rear passenger window slid down about six inches. I suspected this wasn’t going to be a Grey Poupon commericial. The shiney automatic that poked it’s barrel out confirmed my suspicions.

I didn’t think. Just reacted. Hitting the brakes hard, I jerked the wheel to the right. Over the squawking tires I heard a short pop. The windshield shattered in a spider web around the neat little hole. The Jag was skidding. I freed the brake pedal and turned in the direction of the skid—–my old high school driving instructor would have been proud. Once under control, I scooted to the shoulder and stopped. The BMW wasn’t anywhere.

I reached down and touched the mink. “You okay?”

The mink moved, and came up beside me. She closed her eyes, rubbed her cheeks, and some color started to flow back into that pretty face. “Have they gone?”

“For the time being, I guess. Who are they?”

“Some of Nick’s men.”

“Nick?”

“A man I know—–knew.”

She looked past me into the darkness, the fear now gone from her eyes. I looked at the bullet hole in the winshield. “Why’d they want to kill us?”

“They didn’t.”

“That bullet hole in the windshield sure fooled me.”

“That was just a reminder.”

“A note would have been easier.”

“Nick doesn’t do notes.”

“What’s he reminding you of anyway?”

“An old promise made in days gone by.”

This mess I’d gotten into was getting nothing but messier.Nick has a funny way of remembering the old days,” I said, looking at the windshield. “An inch more to the left and we’d both be just memories.”

She shook her head. “If Nick would have told Shy to kills us, we’d be dead. That bullet hole is right where he wanted it.”

“Us? I don’t think I’m—-“

She squeezed my arm. “You’re guilty by association.”

“Association with whom?”

Her eyes met mine. “Me.”

Who says life doesn’t imitate the movies? You see plots this lame on cable at three in the morning. And I’ve had better rejected. What’s it they say about truth being stranger than fiction?

“Tell me about this Shy character who’s anything but.”

She rested her head on my shoulder. The words came out slow and deliberate. “His name is Tommy Shy. He’s Nick’s right-hand man.”

She seemed to know all the players in this game. Being the rookie, I guessed I’d get the roster later.

I looked up the road, then caught her eyes in the mirror.

“You know, I began, “With Shy somewhere up ahead, it might be better to be heading in the opposite direction.”

The Jaguar’s windshield was distorted, but I could see to drive.She sat up and shook her head. “No—–no. Let’s get to my house. Tommy’s done what he was sent for. He follows orders very well.”

I heard the urgency in her voice, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out if Tommy Shy was good at taking orders. Turning around still seemed the sane thing to do.She must have sensed my apprehension, because she slid her arms around my neck and nuzzled my ear.

Starting the Jag, I hoped my health insurance was paid up.About a mile past the entrance to the Grand Hotel, she nodded at a stone wall and an open iron gate. I turned in, and drove up the long winding driveway. From what I could see, the gardner seemed to lean toward the wild look. Long grass, tall weeds, untrimmed shrubs. Part of the driveway lead off behind the house, presumably to the garage area.

“You want me to put the car away?”

“No circle past the house and park down there. I feel like walking back.

I stopped about 150 feet from the house. On the walk back, I noticed the front porch had four columns big enough to give Samson trouble. She punched a series of buttons on the burglar alarm and the front door inched open.

The main room was as impressive as the front facade had been. Victorian furniture, oriental rugs, and a whole lot of old masters hanging aournd.

She let the stole slip to the floor. “It’s such a nice night. Let’s sit out by the pool.”

Her voice had taken on that seductive quality again. Apparently all was forgotten about the trigger-happy Tommy Shy.

I followed her out the sliding glass doors to a patio overgrown with weeds. She touched a switch, and light spilled out from under the eaves of the house. It wasn’t as romantic as moonlight, but romance wasn’t on my top ten list at the moment.

She might be sure her Shy had clocked out for the night, but I wasn’t.I sat down in one of the chairs. “Tell me about Nick.”

“What’s to tell?” she said, gazing into the trees at the edge of the pool. “He’s somebody I met in Seattle. He hates seafood, you know.”

The shadow was back over her eyes, and she had an odd little smile. “Seemed funny for someone who lived next to the ocean. Never ate anything but steak. Couldn’t get him to touch anything else,” she sighed, “but, that’s in the past.”

I didn’t get the connection. But, what the hell, that’s how it had been all night.

“That bullet hole is in the present”, I said.

“No, that’s in the past, too, compared to now.”

Looking down at me, her face took on that look a beautiful woman only wears in your dreams—-well, my dreams anyway.Next thing I knew, I had a lap full of tan legs and thighs, and her lips were kissing mine. Just as things were getting interesting, I felt her soft weight lift from my lap.She stared back at the house.

I craned my neck over the lounge chair and saw a gorilla wrapped in a monkey suit, scowling by the patio doors.”Ernesto,” she said softly, “you’re back?”

The gorilla muttered something in a low-pitched growl, then shuffled into the house.

I let out the breath I’d been holding. “What’s with him?”

She took my face in her hands, but kept looking at the house. “Ernesto’s a little overprotective. My husband got him out of El Salvador before the Army could kill him.”

“Kill him?”

“That’s what they do to so-called terrorists down there.”

“From what I read in the papers, they do that most everywhere,” I said.

She looked back at me. “It’s different down there. IF you don’t agree with the current government, you’re ‘disappeared’ and called a terrorist.”

“Ernesto tell you that?”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t say much. Not having a tongue makes conversation difficult.”

“What happened to his tongue?”

“It was ripped out.”

“Ripped out? But—–“

She leaned down and kissed my ear. “I think I’ll slip into something less confining. The night’s still young.”

Remember that neck brace? Make it a full body cast.

As she wan’t confined to the dress she was wearing, I sat back and pondered the possibilities.

A wheezing sounded behind me. The little man inside my head told me it was time to hit the deck. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Ernesto complete a follow-through with a fist that would have driven my head into my rib cage. For a big guy, he moved like a bullwhip, but he was no match for the tile around the swimming pool. He slipped, then lurched forward, trying to keep his balance. The dive was a 6.5, but he’d gained points on difficulty.

“Cool it, Ernesto,” she shouted, walking around me. Now I know what she meant by less confining. Her bikini stretched the bounds of anybody’s decency.

As Ernesto shuffled into the house. I caught her staring intently at the far end of the pool. I followed her stare and saw a body floating face down near the filter inlet. It had on a red robe and black pants. Whoever it was hadn’t dressed for a swim.

“I think it’s time we called the cops,” I said.

“I suppose you’re right.” Her look was unmoving. “Tell them it’s the Breakers. But don’t mention Tommy or Ernesto. While you’re calling, I’ll get the body out.”

I was about to mention that she should phone, but there was a slight splash, and she was gliding through the water to the far end.

I watched her, then turned and hurried through the sliding doors into the living room.

I looked around and spotted the phone on a table by an overstuffed armchair. I picked up the receiver, and a phhhht made it fly out of my hand. I crawled behind an armchair when another phhhht sounded. The third phhhht came through the back of the chair and sissed over my head, making a small hole in the wall.

The minutes ticked by, I summoned up what was left of my courage, and sneaked back to the patio.

I found her standing over the body, the handle of an ice pick sticking out of it’s chest. The face belonged to an old gentleman.

“Your husband?”

She nodded.

“Thought he was in Shanghai.”

“Guess not,” she shrugged. “You get through to the cops?”

“Nope. Your friend Shy shot the phone out of my hand.”

“You saw him?”

“Not really. Guess you could say he reached out and touched me. Long distance.”

Her eyes grew hard. “So, they’re settling it tonight.”

Not knowing what she meant, but realizing that this kind of settlement could be hazardous to my health, I suggested the Sheriff’s station over on Route Three.

“No, I’ve got a better idea,” she said, grabbing my hand. “Drive over to the Grand Hotel.”

“Yeah, right. I can call the cops from there.”

“No. Tell the desk clerk with the mustache that there’s trouble at the Breaker’s. He’ll know who to call.”

“Who?”

“Someone who can help.”

“Nick?”

Her voice had that ragged undercurrent of hysteria. “Don’t you get it? The cops are useless. And besides, time’s running out.” She jammed the car keys in my palm.

Her urgency set me in motion. Once out the front door, I sprinted towards the Jag, doing the zig-zag motion soldiers use in those war movies. If Tommy Shy was out here, I wasn’t going to give him an easy target. When I was about 50 feet away from the car, I saw a flash, felt a terrific concussion, and was blown flat on my back.

Raising my head, I saw pieces of Jaguar flying everywhere. Getting up slowly, I checked to make sure that all my pieces, unlike the car, were still attached. They were. Maybe just arranged a little differently.

I ran back through the house, yelling out to the patio, “They blew up the car!” But it was empty except for the lounge chairs.

The phone started to ring. The same phone that had been shot out of my hand. The receiver, complete with bullet hole, was back in it’s cradle.

I watched it.It kept ringing.I picked up the receiver.

A voice on the other end said, “Good-bye.”

I head the phhhht, then felt a sharp pain in the back of my head. To quote Philip Marlowe in ‘Murder My Sweet’: “a black pool opened up and I dived right in.”

When I opened my eyes, a certain dead husband was standing over me. The jacket and pants were the same, but the ice pick was missing. He was dry as a bone and carrying a drink.

“Hey, everybody,” the corpse said, “He’s coming around.”

Then I heard her voice. “You okay, lover?”

As I swung my head around, I saw other faces. These faces belonged to arms and legs that were carrying clipboards, and lugging cables and lights around.

A foot higher than the rest of the faces was Ernesto’s.

“No hard feelings, I hope,” he said.

His tongue must have grown back.

A suspicious voice behind me said, “The man’s a genius. A young Hitchcock.”

It had to be Taylor. My agent could sound suspicious buying brownies from a nun at a Catholic bake sale.

“Lance said you’d fall for it,” he continued.

“But we almost screwed up,” she frowned.

I felt the back of my head. “That’s an understatement.”

“Not that, silly,” she grinned. “The van.”

She was losing me again but what’s new?

“Van?”

“The sound van.”

“Sound?”

“For these,” she said, fingering her pearls.

I blinked at her.

“Made keeping tabs on us pretty easy.”

I wasn’t catching up, but I WAS getting irritated.

“Tabs on us for what?” I asked.

“Call it ‘filling in the blanks’.” The nasal twang sounded way too familiar. I looked around and spotted Lance standing in the corner.

“Blanks?” I asked.

“In our little screenplay,” he grinned.

Since I still didn’t have a clue as to what was going on, I decided the safest bet was to play along. I felt the back of my head. “One of those blanks have a bullet in it?”

Lance shook his head. “We didn’t shoot you. Had Ernie, Ernesto to you, give you a little love tap. Special Effects can work magic, but they draw the line at bodily harm.

“Special effects?” Lance gave me the ‘you can’t be this stupid’ look.Oh, yes, I can.

“We use ’em in the movies. Helps with the visuals,” he sighed. “I know you’ve seen them.

My irritation was slowly turning to curiosity. “What’s that got to do with tonight?”

“Everything. I set you down in the middle of a scene I’d like to see in ‘See No Evil’.”

I looked carefully around the room. Now that Lance mentioned it, it sure did look like a sound stage. But I still couldn’t believe the entire night was produced and directed.

“When did the cameras start rolling?” I asked.

“Ernie’s”

“So the girl—–?”

“Actress.”

“Her pearls———?”

“Directional microphones.”

“The Jag—–BMW—–?

“Props.”

“The bullet in the windshied—–?

“Special effects.”

“Ernesto and the dead—–live body? Tommy Shy…..?”

“Actor. Actor.” A sheepish grin. “Me.”

“You were Tommy Shy?”

Lance bowed. “Hired gun at your service.”

“Why him?”

“He was the only character you wouldn’t be seeing.”

I felt the back of my head again. “And this?”

Lance winked. “Call it stunt work.”

He smiled. “And you weren’t half bad.”

I was catching up. But slowly.

“Why?” I asked.

“Prove a point.”

“What point?”

“That I’m right, and you’re wrong.”

He was losing me again.

“Wrong about what?” I asked.

Lance slapped me on the back. “You sure looked like Mr. James friggin’ Bond to me tonight. Not quite tux-and-champagne smooth, but you weren’t any stumbling doofus either. You came up with some pretty snappy dialogue. Hope you remember some if it.?

Then he paused for what I guessed was dramatic effect.”Sure blows that little ‘average man can’t be a hero’ theory of yours all to hell, doesn’t it?”

I finally caught up.

“All this to prove me wrong?”

Lance nodded, “And to get your back on the script. I like how you write, I just need you to write it my way.”

 

—————-

All this happened a little over a year ago. I filled in Lance’s blanks his way, and ‘See No Evil’ became the blockbuster hit Hollywood expects from me.

I work almost exclusively with Lance now. The money’s good, and Lance covers my butt with the studio execs, so David Browne can cash his checks again.

But the major change is in my attitude. When Lance wants changes, he gets them. My hero days are over.

 

—————

Oh, and one more thing. My nameless date for that evening called herself Linda Cantwell.

A couple of long rides on the Softail, and some even longer nights at her place finally got that little question answered.

 

THE END

Charlie’s Place is one of those old-bar-and-grills you see in antiquated black and white movies. It’s a place where you can get any drink you want as long as it’s a shot, a beer, or a shot and a beer.

Charlie’s Place won the war against the changes, time and the outside world, rammed down our throats. But a few of the old regulars were still fighting the battle.

Take Emil Ford for instance. He hit the skids when his old lady ran off with a trucker from Portland. One day he was getting home cooked meals, his clothes washed and ironed, and his crank polished. The next day cold beans, wrinkle city and a little five finger lovin’.

He still had his Knuckle. The bike, like him, was in need of loving care. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen the Knuckle washed or Emil sober and with a woman.

Then there’s old Lefty Slater. He lost his job and most of the use of his right leg after an accident down at the mill.

The Mill claimed he was drunk on the job.

Lefty claimed he wasn’t.

The Mill won. So they pensioned him off and showed him the door. But Lefty still rolls up at that same Mill door every morning straddling his 1948 Indian, cussing and swearing at the white collar drones till the 9:15 plant whistle blows. Then he idles the old Indian over here and parks next to Emil’s Knuckle at the end of the lot. He does his gimp shuffle inside to join Emil in finding the bottom of a Jack Daniels bottle.

Even Charlie has changed some. He used to be here morning, noon and nite. But now, he’s here mid-morning, noon and night.

I was glad Charlie’s Place had won the battle. It felt like my favorite leathers, a bit wore around the edges but comfortable just the same–until last Tuesday.

That morning started like any other morning. I was doing the usual white-towel-once-over-lightly, when I heard the rumble of the Knuckle’s pipes and Emil came in and perched on his honorary stool.

As always, he waited impatiently for me to stop cleaning and start pouring.

Just as I finished pouring the drink I heard a screeching of tires out front.

Through the stained front window, I saw a cloud of dust in the shape of chopper slide to a stop. It was one of those generic ones you see in the ads in biker rags.

It made enough noise and carried enough rake to get pretty little skirts wet in anticipation and the law reachin’ for their ticket books.

The old guy, getting off the machine, must have bought his riding outfit to coordinate with the bike. I hadn’t seen that many zippers in one place, since I worked as a bouncer at a strip joint in Miami.

He lit up one of those half cigars that look like they were stubbed out in an ashtray before he bought ’em.

“Look at this shit, Emil, ” I grinned. But Emil was engaged to his shot glass, and wasn’t about to break off the relationship.

The old guy snapped open the screen door and eyeballed the room, like he was a process server. Then sauntered over to the bar, and grabbed the stool right in front of me.

The cigar was emitting smoke signals, but since I’m not an Indian, the word “coffee” found it’s way through.

As I turned to grab the steaming pot, he asked, “This establishment belong to a Charles Henry Thurston from St. Louis?”

Shit, he talked like he dressed.

No sense lying to him, since Charlie’s full name was on the liquor license above my head.

“Sure does,” I replied, pouring the coffee.

Through the cloud of smoke I saw a satisfied smile light up his face.

“It’s about goddamned time”.

“What is?”

He stubbed out the cigar. The face became serious. “I’ve been cruising every little small berg west of South Dakota looking for him. Knew he had a bar called Charlie’s something”.

He stared at me.

“You got any idea how many bars called Charlie’s I’ve been in?”

I shook my head.

“One hundred and forty-seven… forty-eight now”.

“That’s a lot of bars”.

He nodded. “That’s a hellava lot of Charlies too”.

“Popular name.”

“Yeah, for shithole bars in shithole bergs. And this shithole berg is called what?”

“Trenton.”

He lit up another cigar. “Charlie ever mention me?”

I shrugged. “He mentions a lot of people. Some even smoke cigars. But a name might help narrow it down some.”

He let the sarcasm slide. “Cecil Treadwell.”

I shook my head. “Nope, I can honestly say I’ve never heard him mention that name. That’s one I’d remember”.

“That figures. He gonna be in today?”

“Might–”

“Surprised he isn’t here already counting last nights take. He was always raiding the till first thing in the morning in the old days.”

“Man, you do know Charlie, ‘ I grinned.

He nodded. “Like the crack of my ass.”

I reached for the phone under the bar. “I’ll give him a holler. Tell him an old friend is here.”

Cecil reached inside his coat and pulled out a stainless S&W .357. The two inch barrel was just the right length for what is referred to as a ‘face’ gun. That, and the fact it was pointing at MY face brought me to that conclusion.

“I say anything about him being a friend?” Cecil hissed.

“Well no,” I stuttered, eye to barrel with the Magnum. “I assumed–”

Cecil pointed the pistol at my forehead. “What’s it they say? Never jump to assumptions? Makes an ass out you and somethin’.”

“That’s assume,” I corrected.

The magnum dropped to my nose. “Then we’ll assume the bastard will be in sometime today,” he hissed again. “Right?”

The 9:15 whistle blew at the mill.

My eyes had crossed watching the barrel of the magnum. “There some special reason—-?”

Cecil pointed the gun at Emil. “Who’s that?”

My eyes uncrossed. “Emil.”

“Hey, Emil,” Cecil shouted, “keep your ass planted on that stool and it won’t get shot.”

Emil raised his half empty glass and stared straight ahead. If he had any idea what was going on, he hadn’t shown it.

The magnum was back pointing at my nose. “And your name?”

“Charlie. Just like the sign says.”

He grimaced. “Think I’ll call you Chuck. I’ve had my fill of Charlies to last me my lifetime.”

I shrugged. “You got the gun. You can call me late for dinner if you want.”

I put both hands on the bar. “This some new kind of high-class hold-up? You don’t want to deal with the hired help?”

“You always this smartassed with a gun pointed at you?”

“Don’t get many opportunities.”

“To be smartassed?”

“To have a gun pointed at me.”

He lowered the gun a little. “Then I guess you should relish this moment, eh, Chuck?”

I pointed to the bottle, and glanced at Emil. Cecil nodded.

After I had filled Emil’s glass, I came back and stood off to one side of the gun.

“Mind if I ask a dumb question?”

“No question’s dumb, Chuck. Least not one I’ve ever heard.”

“There some special reason,” I started again, “you have a beef with Charlie? Or you just pissed off it took you this long to find him?”

The Magnum rose back to my forehead. “You had to go and ruin my perfect record, Chuck. That second question was dumb.”

“So just answer the first one then.”

Cecil’s face twisted into a mask of hatred. “The bastard ruined my life,” he hissed. “That a special enough reason?”

Normally, I’d have agreed. But this time I needed more answers. “And just how did he do that?”

“Some shit he pulled on me back in St. Louis.”

“Man, that’s a long time to hold hold a grudge. Charlie hasn’t been there in thirty years.”

“Thirty-five to be exact.”

“Thirty-five’s even longer. You sure you remember what it is he did to ruin your life?”

He pointed to his empty cup. “Like it was yesterday, Chuck.”

I considered splashing him with the hot coffee, but that Magnum, and the way it was pointed, helped me just fill his cup.

“Boy, that must have been some fucked-up yesterday.”

Cecil nodded. “Oh it was, Chuck, it was.”

I refilled Emil’s glass.

Cecil sipped his coffee and began with his story.

“You see Chuck, back in St. Louis, in Charlie’s and my neighborhood, I was just starting to be the Big Dog in the kennel. I was getting the right connections, had a Harley, and the money was starting to roll in. Even had the prettiest girl in the neighborhood too.”

He took a sip of his coffee. “By the way? Charlie still married to Ellen?”

“Ellen was Charlie’s wife.”

“Was? She run off on him?”

I shook my head.

His face softened a bit. “Dead?”

I nodded.

The face twisted back to hate. “Good. That makes me feel a little better. Now he knows what it feels like to live without her.”

“I’m not quite sure I’m following this.”

“Ellen and I were going together. We were going to be married. Then Charlie entered the picture—riding that damn stripped down bike of his. I saw the way she looked at him. Between that bike and Charlie’s outlaw attitude, it was clear that even though I had a bike, and a goddamn fancy one, I didn’t have a chance. Told her to go. Told her there’d plenty of women out there who’d just love my money.”

He lit his cigar again. “I got alimony checks proving the love part.”

I lit a cigarette. “Must have been some bike Charlie had.”

“Oh it was. You ever heard of a Vincent Black Shadow, Chuck?”

I blew smoke at the barrel of the Magnum. “Who hasn’t. Charlie even had one up until a couple years ago. I got it now.”

Hate turned to surprise. “You mean he doesn’t have the Shadow anymore either? He always said he’d be buried on the damn thing.”

“He almost was,” I replied. “It did bury Ellen.”

The gun started to drop a little. “Accident?”

I nodded. “Rear tire blew, and he lost it out on Route 18. He nailed those barrels they put in front of them concrete pillars that holdup the overpass. Ellen was thrown off the bike and broke her neck. Happened about five years ago.”

“What happened to Charlie?”

“He drags his left foot now, and his right arm doesn’t do what it used to, but he gets around. He just does it a whole lot slower these days.”

Cecil smirked. “Good. That’ll make him a little easier to shoot.”

The sweat was forming a pool where my belt and the small of my back met. Maybe a little reasoning was in order.

“I don’t get this grudge shit,” I began, “You told Ellen to go. Seems it should be you you’re pissed off at.”

“Oh I am, Chuck, I am,” he sneered. “Right after I take care of Charlie, I’m jumpin’ on that Bourget out front and letting that big S&S wind out till its pumpin’ blood. Then I’ll hit the twin NOS system and find that overpass pillar that took my beloved Ellen.”

His last remark sent chills down my spine. It was said flat, without feeling or emotion. He’d made his decision, and now, he was going to die with it.

I heard the footsteps outside. Not really footsteps, more like a shuffle.

I looked out the window. I could see his cowlick and the orange vest.

He saw me looking, waved, and pointed behind the bar.

I shot a quick glance a Emil. He was buried in his shot glass.

The screen door opened.

Cecil spun the Magnum in that direction.

“Duck Charlie!” I yelled.

But he didn’t duck. He just stood there dumb-founded, as the six bullets struck him in the face and chest.

Cecil turned and stared straight at me. His eyes went flat, and a little smile crossed his lips as he put the empty Magnum on the bar and swaggered out, giving the lifeless body a swift kick as he stepped over it and mounted the Bourget.

My shirt was drenched in sweat. And even though my ears were ringing, I could still make out the roar of the exhaust as he turned the wick up on that big S&S.

I glanced at Emil, but he hadn’t stopped hibernating in his shot glass.

I heard a voice outside the screen door.

“Good lord!”

I looked out and saw the bearded man bent over the body, his hand patting the down the gray cowlick. He stared up at me through the half open screen door.

“Lefty Slater,” he stammered, “Why?”

The explosion was faint in the distance, and the smoke rose lazily from the direction of the overpass.

He looked up from Lefty. “What the hell was that?”

“Just someone payin’ his dues,” I said, rubbing my ears.

He stared toward the overpass. “For what?”

“Guess it’s gonna be for Lefty now.”

He looked down at Lefty’s lifeless body. “And this someone was?”

I shrugged. “Never saw him before today.”

“But why’d he shoot Lefty?”, he repeated.

I picked up the JD and filled Emil’s glass. “Guess that’s something we’ll never know, Dad.”

The End

In loving memory of Woofer: 11/22/50 – 3/13/03

I don’t know what time it is, and I carefully avoid letting my eyes wander to the glowing numerals on the bedside clock. I should be asleep. I have to be at work in a couple of hours. Whatever woke me is silent now, and I hear your slow, rhythmic breathing beside me as you sleep. The vague light of false dawn creeps in through the open window to fall like a translucent blanket across your hair and shoulders.

I tentatively reach out to pull a wayward lock of hair back from across your lips. I’m glad you’re a sound sleeper. You always have been, and I thank the ancestors who lent that quirk to your genetic makeup.

Thirty-two years together, and you still excite me as no other ever has.

I lay my hand lightly on the firm mound of your ass. Your nightgown has worked its way up to your waist again, like it always does when you sleep on your side, facing away from me. The years haven’t changed one thing. You still have a beautiful ass.

I slide my hand down between the firm globes and run a finger along the smooth folds of flesh where your thighs meet. Even asleep, you quickly become wet as I stroke you softly.

I can feel the warmth of your body as I slide quietly against you, my hardness pressing against your yielding flesh. I know if I move too fast, you’ll awaken. Though I know you won’t stop me from having my way, I want you to remain innocently unaware of what is happening. Though I’ve always tried to make sure you were satisfied, There are times when my selfish nature demands that I have some time that is mine alone: just for me. I’ll make it up to you later, as I always do.

You stir in your sleep, and I pause, waiting until your breathing becomes regular once more before reaching down to guide the head of my throbbing cock against the warm, wet lips of your pussy. It’s amazing how tight you still are, even after two children.

Careful not to wake you, I slip my hardness inside you a fraction of an inch at a time. Each time you start to awaken, I stop again, enjoying the ripples that seem to search the object that invades you, exploring my shaft as it stretches the tender flesh inside you.

I can feel every ruffle and crease as the tight sheath of your sex engulfs me ever so slowly. When my full length is inside you, I lay still for long minutes, savoring the heat and the throb of your heartbeat. Your eyes dart beneath their lids as you dream. I wonder what they see.

My hand slowly finds its way under your gown and up, until I feel the softness of a breast beneath my fingers. I gently brush my fingertips across your nipple and feel it harden under my touch. The darker aureole that surrounds it shrinking, pushing it against my palm. Full, firm breasts, not the products of implant technology.

Gently taking the fleshy bud between my thumb and finger, I roll it and feel your pulse quicken, your breathing slightly faster, and I stop until you’re sleeping soundly again. I can’t help but smile; it won’t be the first time I’ve left a mess for you to clean up in the morning!

When I can no longer stand the waiting, I start to slide my throbbing member slowly in and out. Though I didn’t think it possible, I’ve grown even harder.

You stir again, a sigh muffled by your pillow where your lips press against it. I stop, but you just shift your hips farther back against me, allowing me even deeper into your intimate recesses. I feel the head of my cock touch bottom, and I pull back slightly when you moan low in your throat. I don’t want to wake you. This is my time to be selfish, and I am going to enjoy it for as long as I want.

I spend the next half hour moving slowly inside you, savoring the wet heat of you. Your lips form a small smile, and I wonder what thoughts and vivid images consume your dreams. Are you with me, or some faceless stranger who invades your tender flesh, forcing you to tend his every need. His every whim? Perhaps you’re his sex slave, unable to refuse his will. Is he doing all the things I do to set your passion ablaze, or is he just taking you by force. Sometimes you like me to force you to use your tongue, your lips and fingers to please me? Perhaps he’s an old flame, come back to take you in his arms again, the way he did so long ago. I don’t care, as long as you enjoy the dream as much as I’m enjoying your sleeping body.

As hard as I try, I can’t last any longer, and I feel my seed start to boil inside me. I thrust as deep as I can inside your clasping pussy, the head of my cock pressed tightly against your yielding depths, and you move back against me in fitful slumber as I thrust harder.

My semen seems to take forever to reach its goal. I can feel it work its way up the shaft of my pulsing cock, the delicious tickle seeming to take forever until it finally shoots into you, coating the throbbing walls of your pussy, and squeezing back in waves, along my turgid shaft.

I reach around you, drawing you tighter against me to better feel the last drops of my hot, sticky cum fill you as you wake. You try to roll away, but I hold you tight, not wanting to slip out of your warmth just yet.

You brush back a wayward lock of hair from your face as you turn your jade green eyes toward me, still drowsy with sleep. I feel a slight pang of guilt for waking you in the wee hours before dawn, but any guilt is quickly erased by the ecstasy of my release.

You reach a delicate finger down to stroke the bud of your clit where it rests against my softening cock, and continue to stroke yourself until I feel the muscles inside you pulse against my shaft. I know you’ve brought yourself to orgasm quickly. Were you awake longer than I suspected? Were you aware of what I was doing to you? If so, thank you for not letting on.

You give me a sleepy smile as I stroke a delicately soft breast, cupping its firmness. “Why didn’t you wake me?” you whisper.

Your fingers trace the length of my rapidly deflating manhood as it starts to slip out of you, coated with the slickness of our combined juices. A coy smile stretches the corners of your lips as you raise your fingers from your pussy, making a show of running your talented tongue over their glistening tips. I know that hot little tongue will be licking me clean in minutes, then urging me to give you another orgasm as soon as I’m hard again.

“Because,” I answer, my lips against the softness of your throat. “Some things are just too good to share.”

–Buckshot

The lamp rested on a glass shelf amid delicate porcelain figurines, Capodimonte roses, and glimmering gold sorcerers and dragons. Although the other, flashier items were arranged in the forefront to attract the most attention, it was the little golden lamp that drew his eyes like iron filings to a magnet. Surrounded by more glamorous and expensive treasures, its simple, graceful lines still exuded a sensuality that made it far more appealing, and of greater interest and value to him.

As he gazed at the slightly tarnished surface, he felt an excitement stirring in his soul that he thought had been lost along the many winding paths his life had taken. He knew beyond doubt that with a bit of attention, the little lamp could once again shine like the priceless treasure he knew it to be. Without hesitation, he purchased the lamp and tucked it discretely inside his shirt to protect it for the trip home. He was surprised at the comfort he felt with the cool surface pressed against his skin, and how quickly it warmed as it jostled against his body.

Once home, he took his time, gently stroking the lamp with tentative fingers, allowing them to linger lovingly on each blemish and scar. All were evidence of how the little lamp had seen both gentle and rough times. Rather than detracting from its value, they seemed to add to its character and mystery, making it more appealing than ever.

Strange, he thought, as he caressed the smooth surface. Such a strong attraction is out of character for me. Why do I take such comfort from its presence? He gently set the lamp on a small table next to his bed, and prepared himself for another night of dreamless sleep, the new dawn marking one more uneventful day in his unremarkable life. As he slipped naked under the sheets, he reached out to touch the lamp one more time before surrendering himself to the serenity of sleep.

He struggled to awaken, suddenly aware of the silent presence of another in the inky blackness. Even as he tried to free himself from the grasp of sleep, he realized that he could not. As in a dream within a dream, he was powerless to open his eyes, or to react. The faint scent of wildflowers, like an alpine meadow after a spring shower seemed to fill the edges of his senses. A vagrant gust of wind blew the sheets from his body, gently caressing his nakedness as he slept. His eyes flitted beneath closed lids as the breeze became the touch of silken fingers. Their touch, soft as a butterfly?s wing, sent waves of pleasure through him as they gently rubbed and stroked his flesh, exploring the secrets of his sleeping body.

He lay, sentient but immobile, without the need for sight. Like the memory of tiny, intimate pictures, his mind brought forth the image of eyes alight with passionate fire–pale eyes, the color of the blue cornflowers that filled the meadows of his childhood in their profusion, of hair the color of wild honey, the flaxen strands seeming to pulse with life as they moved over his longing, quivering flesh, barely touching? tantalizing.

His mind?s eye showed him full, soft lips, even as they moved to engulf his throbbing erection with their burning softness. He felt his hands caress the warm, silken nakedness of her, guiding her to him, though he knew his hands were actually still at his sides, captive to the immobility of his deep sleep.

As she moved with his guiding hands, his lips unerringly found the fragrant heart of her femininity, while her lips held his rigid member, and her tongue swirled and danced along the length of the shaft. Her golden hair fell across his stomach and thighs. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the searing touch of her was gone, along with the sweet, moist flesh he?d been devouring so greedily.

Once again, he struggled to awaken. The gentle touch of her fingers calmed him, and he moaned softly as she mounted him, lowering herself with agonizing slowness until his entire length was buried in the depths of her burning, clutching wetness. Lost in ecstasy, she leaned forward, her firm, full breasts brushing his chest, her nipples hard with arousal. He sucked first one, then the other into his mouth, gently brushing his tongue across them, swirling the tip around the puckered areolas that surrounded them.

Her teeth found the soft flesh at the curve of his throat, then his lower lip, biting gently as her body rocked back and forth on his shaft. He could taste the sweetness of her breath as a sigh escaped her lips. Her thighs squeezed him tightly as she neared her release, triggering his own. He felt his semen boil up his shaft, drawn from him by the spasms of her orgasm. She moaned as his seed flooded out to splash her burning inner walls as she milked every drop from his turgid cock.

Spent, she collapsed onto his chest, his rapidly softening member slipping from her, releasing a hot, sticky cascade that flooded from her secret recesses over his balls and thighs. She tried to rise, but he wrapped her in his arms, struggling to hold the dream for a last few precious moments. As his eyes slowly opened, he found her gone like a wisp of dandelion fluff borne away on a playful summer breeze.

He lay still and silent for long moments, shocked by the intensity of the dream. Was it a dream? he wondered. He savored the taste of her that still lingered on his lips, sweet and musky. A gentle breeze through the open window chilled his naked body, and he reached down with a trembling hand, his tentative fingers finding the wetness from their coupling. Senses reeling, he looked to the small bedside table where the lovely little lamp sat amid an ethereal glow. He reached out to stroke its sensuous curves with his fingertips.

“Magic,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, even to his own ears. “You’re my little magic lamp!”

We’re riding on a narrow, twisting mountain road. Themorning sun is warm on our faces, and your body ispressed tightly against my back. I can feel your fullbreasts against me, your nipples hard from the coolmorning air. Your hair flows out from under yourhelmet in our slipstream like molten honey.

The road narrows, forcing me to drop the big Harleydown a gear. The rpm and vibrations increase, the bigV-twin engine throbbing between our legs like thepounding heart of a huge, wild beast. The roughsurface of the road causes your crotch to move againstmy back, and I hear you moan softly against myshoulder as we lean into a turn. The vibrations travelup through the seat to caress your most intimaterecesses.

Soon, I can feel you press tighter against me, yourthighs squeezing my hips, as your hands move over mylegs like velvet fire. My every sense is awakened byyour touch, my flesh begging for your caress. As theroad straightens slightly, I chance a quick glance inmy rear-view mirror. The sunshine caressing yourwind-blown hair turns it into a saffron halo. Yourface is turned toward the sun, and I can see youreyes, partially closed behind the dark lenses of yourriding glasses. Your lower lip trembles slightly,trapped gently between your teeth. My sweaty hands areslick on the controls as my own excitement builds fromwatching you, from feeling the heat of your body sonear me.

I feel your legs squeeze me harder, and I reach downwith my left hand. I gently take your hand, and guideit back to the waistband of your Levi’s, where itdisappears from view beneath the sheltering cloth.

I feel your fingers working against my back, and Iknow you’re rubbing your clit, and pushing yourfingers deep into the steamy wetness of your sweetpussy. Seeming to read my thoughts, you pull your handfree, pressing your fingers to my lips so I can lickand suck your sweet nectar from them before you returnthem to their task.

I savor the taste of you, licking the last traces frommy lips as your body begins to shudder with yourclimax, the fingers of your right hand fiercelyclutching the soft flesh of my inner thigh. You throwyour head back, leaning into the wind, eyes tightlyclosed as a low moan escapes your parted lips. You cupyour fingers, trapping as much of your sweet, muskyjuices as you can, and bring them to my lips again. Ihold them on my tongue, savoring the taste of you,even as I suck your fingers dry.

I slow the Harley and pull off the road onto the sandyshoulder at the forest’s edge, no longer trusting myshaking hands to control the heavy machine. We sit,engine idling, beneath the shade of the overhangingpines to let our senses return. Your cheek is pressedgently to my shoulder, your arms wrapped around mychest, your long fingers kneading my flesh gently. Iturn and pull you against me, kissing you softly,sharing the enticing and magical taste of you.

The ponds are shrouded in inky blackness as I make myway slowly down the levies between them. I know youhear me coming, the staccato rumble of the Harley’sengine echoes out across the calm surface of thewater, and my headlight carves an erratic path throughthe darkness as I search for you. I know you workedlate; your truck is parked just inside the gate in theshadows. I guess I shouldn’t be here, but I can’t helpmyself. I miss you.

The equipment is parked in the back, and I ease theHarley to a stop in the deeper shadows near them,hanging my helmet from the mirror as I always do. Thebig V-twin engine starts to make ticking noises as itcools in the warm night air. I sit quietly for severalminutes, listening for any sound that will tell mewhere you are. Frogs and night creatures serenade me,as my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness.

The moonlight flickers across the black surface of thenext pond, and I hear a small splash from the nearcorner. I step away from the bike and toward thesound, my boots crunching in the gravel as I make myway toward you. I kneel at the water’s edge, andseconds later your head breaks the surface near me,your honey blonde hair dripping water, the silkenstrands sticking to your forehead and cheeks.

I thought I might find you here,” I whisper, reachingout to move the flaxen hair away from your eyes with afingertip. I see your eyes shift to the small pile ofclothing on the sandy shore next to me, your shouldersbarely above the water, your skin pearl white in themoonlight. “Don’t be shy with me, girl,” I tell you.”I’ve seen you before, remember?”

I can see the color creep into your cheeks as youremember the tiny pictures that will always becaptured in my memory. “That’s not me,” you whisper.”I’m not that way.” I hope my smile will put you moreat ease. “It’s you, all right,” I assure you. “Just apart of you that you keep hidden because you’reembarrassed. A lovely part of a sensuous lady that fewmen are ever lucky enough to see. I’ m glad thatyou’ve shared that part of you with me.” You reach foryour shirt, your breasts breaking the surface, nippleshard from the cold water, but I move your clothes backout of your reach.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, as I sit back onthe ground, starting to remove my boots and socks.”Nice night for a swim,” I answer. I slip my shirtover my head, and tug my Levi’s and underwear down,and off. I watch your eyes as I step into the water infront of you. I knew you couldn’t help but look. Hopeyou’re not disappointed.

The ripples on the water move out and away as I slipbeneath the cool surface. I can’t see you in thewatery blackness, but I sense your body before me, andI reach out to touch you as my head breaks free. I seeyour face in the light of the sliver of moon, youreyes wide, as I appear before you. I stand and takeyou in my arms and pull you against me, your breastspressed to my chest, nipples like tiny pebbles. Youtry to push me away, but I can tell that the effort ishalf-hearted at best, so I hold you close, feeling thewarmth of your body take the chill of the water fromme.

I bend to take the soft flesh at the curve of yourthroat between my lips, tasting the sweet, salty sweatthat the water has not washed away. You let your headfall back, allowing yourself to enjoy the sensationsas I move my tongue slowly toward your ear. I hear youbreath in suddenly as the tip of my tongue finds yourearlobe, guiding it between my lips, where I suck onit gently, but greedily.

I feel your fingers moving down my stomachtentatively, almost against their will, finallywrapping around my rigid cock, feeling the hardnessyou’ve caused. I pull you tighter against me as yourfingers squeeze me, exploring my length. I reachbehind you to wrap my fingers in your dripping hair,pulling your lips to mine. You try to pull away, but Ihold you firm, and the tip of your tongue comes out todance with mine as our lips press together.

You no longer try to pull away, and I drop my hands tothe swell of your lovely ass, just below the water’ssurface. I cup the firm cheeks in my fingers, pullingyou tighter against my throbbing member, and I canfeel you moving against me, pressing your bodyhungrily to mine. I guide you a step into shallowerwater, and drop to my knees on the muddy bottom. Itake a dripping nipple between my lips, sucking awaythe droplets of water that cling to it, feeling thehardness on my tongue as I squeeze the other nipplegently, rolling it between my thumb and fingers. Ihear you moan softly, and I know your eyes are closed,savoring the sensations of icy water, and warm lips.

I let my tongue drop slowly lower, leaving warm trailsdown your stomach, lingering to circle, then dip intoyour navel before dropping inexorably toward the heartof your sexuality. Before I reach your sweet pussy, Istop, and turn you until you’re facing away from me asI rise to my feet behind you. I wrap my left arm underyours and cup a soft breast in my hand. My right handdrops to the softness on your stomach. Fingerssplayed, my thumb just below your navel, my fingertipsbrush the light stubble where the tawny curls haverecently been shorn.

I pull you to me, my hardness pressed tightly againstyour lovely ass. I feel you grind your hips against meas I drop slowly to my knees again. I press my faceinto the firm globes of your ass, my tongue runningslowly down the cleft until it finds the tight ring ofyour nether orifice. I feel you shudder as it stops tocircle the puckered flesh, probing deeper and deeperinside you. I reach up to press on your back, bendingyou forward, your hands on your knees. I love the wayyou moan softly as my tongue worms its way deeperinside you. You start to press back against my face,urging me deeper as my tongue twists and probes inyour tight little hole. I feel you squeeze my probingtongue with little spasmodic shivers, and I knowyou’ve cum. I love to make you cum this way!

You stand and turn, grabbing me roughly by the hair,and pulling my face tightly against your crotch. Thejuices flow from the depths of you almost as fast as Ican lick them up. I pause to look up at your face. Younever look as sexy as when you’re about to cum. Yourhead thrown back, soft lips slightly parted, I almostcum myself just looking at you, but I won’t let myselfdo that. Tonight, there’s only one place I want mycum.

I bend you over, and enter you from behind, my hardcock slamming all the way into you in one stroke.Locked together, we move in rhythm, the watersplashing around our thighs as I stroke faster intoyour clasping pussy. I can’t help but smile as analmost silent scream escapes your lips. I feel themuscles inside you squeeze me, rippling as your climaxwashes over you. This triggers my own release, and Ifeel my hot, sticky cum pump out inside you, my cockso far in that my load is forced out against yourcervix, bathing your inner walls. I wrap my armstightly around you, holding you until the last dropsof my seed fill you.

After my cock softens, I release you, and kneel behindyou. Once again, I probe your tight anus with mytongue as I splash icy water up, washing away thesticky trails of my cum that trickle down your thighs.When you’re washed clean, I kiss the sweet folds ofyour pussy before I let you pull your clothes on, thematerial sticking to your wet skin.

I dress, and kick the Harley into reluctant life. Idrop the rear pegs, and you slide on behind me,pressing your body tightly against me as you alwaysdo. I reach back with my left hand, stroking your warmpussy through the rough denim of your Levi’s before weroar off into the night.

“Dago” Red sat on the bottom bunk and watched a roachscurry across the toes of his county issued slippers.He had sat, elbows on knees, his chin resting in hispalms for the last two hours waiting for his attorneyto show up. The arrogant bastard. Red reached outsuddenly, squashing the roach with the sole of hisright foot, leaving a greasy smear on the smoothconcrete floor. He’s got my last nickel, my Harley,and my shack, for what it’s worth, and he still actslike I’m a freeloader. The thought made him long foranother roach to smash, but none ventured withinreach.

“He’ll be along in his own good time, Red.” CharlieNewsome, Red’s cellmate swung his feet over the edgeof the top bunk, slid to the floor, and sat next toRed. “Damn attorneys are all the same. Take yourmoney, and treat ya like you’re shit on their shoes.””Yeah. Well, he better get here pretty damn soon, orI’ll find me a new shyster,” Red groused, tapping hisfoot on the smear of deceased roach. Charlie laughed.”And what’ll you pay the new shyster with if thisshyster has everything you own?” “Shit.” Red smackedhis balled right fist into his left palm. “He’s got meby the short-?n’-curlies and he knows it.”

Charlie stood and walked to the barred cell door.”Yep. That’s how they work. Then they spend the timeyou’re payin’ for chasing women and playin’ golf, andto hell with your case until the last minute.” Redstarted to agree when a burly guard appeared at thedoor. “Back away from the door, Charlie,” the guardordered. “You know the rules by now.” Charlie returnedto the bunk, where he sat with an exaggerated sigh ofdisgust.

“Purnell Lombretti?” he asked, looking at Red. “Comewith me. You’ve got a visitor.” Red stood and walkedto the door, turning to Charlie as the guard unlockedit. “‘Bout damn time he showed up. Maybe he can get methe hell outta here!” Charlie just laughed. “See ya inten, my friend!”

Red took a seat behind the reinforced glass window,and picked up the telephone receiver. “Any good news,Renfreau?” he asked, his six-foot-three-inch frameslumped in the chair. “Well, Mr. Lombretti,” theattorney said, tapping his manicured nails on thechipped Formica counter, “I’m still appealing the nobail stipulation. That’s unusual for this type ofcase. The judge should announce his ruling thisafternoon.” “Look, Renfreau,” Red straightened in thechair, his face so close to the glass that his breathfogged its cool surface, “the son-of-a-bitch stole myscooter, and I went over to get it back. He pulled theknife, I didn’t. It was clear-cut self-defense, andyou damn-well know it!”

Renfreau leaned back in his chair, almost tipping itover, though the glass separated him from Red. “I knowthat, Red,” he agreed. “But the judge thinks you’re aflight risk. And besides, you have about exhausted allyour resources.” “All my, resources?” Red stammered,his face turning red, the veins in his foreheadthrobbing visibly beneath the tanned skin. “You’ve goteverything I fuckin’ own, damn you!” Renfreaushrugged. “My services have to be paid for, you know.Or, you could ask for a public defender.” “Yeah,” Redgrumbled, “somebody’s kid brother in a cheap suit. Nothanks. Maybe I can hit my ex-wife up for a loan.””Well,” Renfreau stood, brushing imaginary dirt fromthe seat of his suit pants, “maybe this afternoonwe’ll have good news for one another, Red.”

Red stood and turned his back without a word, theguard walking him back to his cell. “Hell, Red,” thevoice in his ear said, disgust evident from her tone,”I’ll do what I can. You’re still getting yourself inthese fixes that are never your fault, I see.””Damnit, Brenda, this time it wasn’t. I only went overthere to find my Harley. You know how much it means tome!” “Yeah, Red,” she sighed. “I guess I found thatout, didn’t I?” “Aww, baby. I never wanted you toleave,” he said, his lips close to the phone. “But younever asked me to stay, either.”

Red sighed, waiting several heartbeats before hereplied. “Guess it doesn’t do us any good to argueabout it at this stage of the game, does it? Can Icount on you for the money?” “Shit,” she said, almostunder her breath, “after all these years, I stillcan’t tell you no.” “Thanks, baby,” Red said, hangingthe receiver back on the pay phone.

The following afternoon, Red walked out the wide glassdoors into the sunlight for the first time in two longmonths. With no money, and no wheels, he had beenforced to impose on Brenda once again to pick him up.He slid into the passenger seat of her faded blueToyota, and sat hunched over, his head against theroof. “All comfy?” she teased, seeing his discomfort.”Just dandy,” he chuckled. “Why are you still drivin’this piece of shit?” She brushed a strand of dark hairback behind her ear, the smile disappearing from herfull lips. “Because I bailed you out with my new carfund, asshole!” “Damn. I’m sorry, baby.” He shook hishead. “Seems like I’m always sayin’ that to you.” Shelooked over in silence that lasted the rest of theride to Red’s house. No, he corrected himself,Renfreau’s house.

At nine the next morning, Red stood towering over thereception desk in the downtown office of Renfreau,Renfreau, and Hacker, Attorneys at Law. “I’m sorry,sir, Mr. Renfreau is with a client,” the perkyreceptionist said, looking up at Red. “May I give hima message?” “Uh, yeah,” Red answered, his eyes lockedon the short skirt that rode higher up her thighs withevery movement. “Tell him I’ve got the witnesses linedup and ready to go. I just need to know when he cantalk to ?em.” “I’ll ask him, sir. Is there a numberwhere he can reach you?”

Red was about to give her Brenda’s number, since hisphone had been disconnected, when a voice from thedoorway stopped him. “Perhaps I can be of assistance,Mr.?” “Dag uh, Red Lombretti,” he stammered, reachingout to take the proffered hand in his, the daintymanicured fingers engulfed by his huge hand. “NicoleRenfreau,” she said, shaking his hand. She looked himup and down with no hint of subtlety, her steel grayeyes moving from his long, red ponytail, down therippling muscles in his chest and arms, stopping onlywhen they reached his scuffed engineer boots. “Whydon’t we step into my office where we can talk?”

Red followed her swaying hips as she walked into theoffice. He only gave a cursory glance to the dark oakpaneling, and the opulence of the brocade furniture,preferring to concentrate on the promise of sensualdelights barely contained by the tight black dress,and the raven hair framing the hard, yet lovely face.”So, Red,” she began, half sitting on the edge of themassive teak desk, the slit in the side of her dressopen almost to her waist. “May I call you Red?” “Ofcourse,” he answered, his eyes locked on the milkywhite skin of her thigh. You can call me to dinnerdown there, if you want, he thought.

“My husband tells be that you’re a biker,” she said,toying with a crystal sculpture, her eyes turnedtoward the sparkling, phallic looking toy. “I’ve nevermet a biker, though I’ve seen some documentaries onPBS.” Red chuckled, bringing a flush to her cheeks.”You can’t believe everything you hear, and only halfof what you see.”

She rose from the desk, not bothering to pull the hemof her skirt down, and opened the door a crack,peering out into the deserted office. “You always looklike such bad boys,” she purred, walking so close toRed that he could smell the subtle perfume she hadtouched to her throat that morning. What the hell, Redthought. It’s her game. I’ll play along.

“Well, Nicole, I guess that depends on what you’d callbad,” he said. “Peter told me you killed a thief,” shesaid, stepping so close she had to tilt her head backto see his face. Red shrugged. “Wasn’t my idea. Hepulled a knife on me, so I took it away from him, andshowed him how to use it.” He reached down, running abig hand down her back, his splayed fingers puttingslight pressure on her trim ass, pressing her flatstomach against him, while the fingers of his otherhand tangled in her raven hair. He pulled it out ofthe jeweled clip that held it, so the silken lockstumbled over her shoulders like black water, thenleaned down and kissed her.

Her full lips parted, greedily drawing his tongueinside, while her slim fingers reached down to strokethe growing bulge in his Levi’s. “My,” she whispered,her small hand searching the length of his member.”You are a bad boy!” He roughly pulled her skirt up,then cupped her firm buttocks, pulling her up untilshe wrapped her long legs around his waist. Hisfingers found the zipper of his jeans, tugging it downto free his throbbing manhood, then pulled her sheerthong panties aside and entered her in one stroke.

She gasped as his full 10 inches found unusedterritory in her steamy depths. Her lips found his,her darting tongue dancing with his as she rocked withabandon. Backing her against the wall, Red continuedto plunge into her tight little pussy. Her whimperingbecame so loud, he reached down and ripped the thinlace panties from her, and pressed them between herteeth to silence her cries.

Within moments, he felt her shudder against him, herinner walls pulsing, driving him over the edge. Healmost dropped her as his seed spilled into herdepths, running down her smooth ass cheeks to stainthe deep, white carpet. “Mmmm,” she murmured, hercheek against his black Harley T-shirt, her firm bodynow limp in his arms. “Nice!” He lowered her slowly tothe floor. Her legs still shaky, she leaned againsthim for support while he zipped his fly.

“You know,” she mused, almost to herself, “I’m goingon a business trip to the Mexican Riviera in threeweeks.” She picked an envelope up from the desk andwaved it in front of his face. “Two tickets toparadise,” she laughed. “Would you like to come withme?” Red laid his big hands on her shoulders, “I’dlove to, Nicole, but I can’t. Your husband wants moremoney before he’ll get me off the hook, and I have totry to get the pink slip on my Harley back from him.”A sly smile spread across her lovely lips. “The pinkslip is no problem, and I’m sure I can persuade him toget this case resolved as quickly as possible,” shesaid, her tongue snaking out sensuously to moisten herruby lips. “I always get what I want, if you know whatI mean,” she winked. Red smiled. “Yeah, I think I do,”he said, pulling her into his arms.

Reaching behind her back, he picked the envelope upfrom the desk, and slipped it into his back pocket.She reached for the envelope, but he caught her hand,bringing her fingers to his lips. “Never hurts to havea little insurance,” he told her. As he started forthe door, he stooped to pick up her torn panties. Hepressed them to his nose, then stuffed them into hispocket. “You really are a bad boy,” she laughed, as heclosed the door behind him.

Two weeks later, Red pulled up to Brenda’s door on hisshovelhead, the staccato rumble bringing her out thedoor. “Open the garage door,” he shouted above theroar of the shotgun straights. She pulled the door upand he rode inside, shutting the big V-twin enginedown.

“What do you want now, Red?” she asked. “I don’t haveany more money.” Red grabbed her and pulled her tohim, holding her tight, as the rumble of his laughterrolled through the silent morning streets. He pulledan envelope from his pocket and pressed it into herhand. “Just a little thank you, baby! I’m a free man,and we’re going to Ol’ Mehico!” “Where did you getthese?” she asked, pulling out two first-class airlinetickets. “Oh!” he chuckled, “let’s just say I usedpower of attorney!”