Billy Straight

46

The way Motor Moran figured it, if he'd had a good scoot, he'd nevera noticed it.

He was thirty years old and, except for those four months guarding that junkyard in Salinas, had never worked a real job. Arts-and-crafts prison shit didn't count- he'd never been in a real pen, anyway, just local shitholes, DUI, drunk and disorderly, a month here, a month there.

Life owed him something before he died. This could be it.

The kind of scoot his dick was quiverin' for cost. Like a '72 Shovelhead, Zenith carbs, nuclear displacement, polished cases- everything polished, satin chrome. Somethin' chopped, Paughco Fishtails, unleaded valve seats, powder-coated frame with a lot of flake in it. Give the whole thing a nice big stretch with some Kennedy long-forks, or just some wide-glides if you didn't want to hard-on that much. Skirted seat with a backrest, because his back hurt, specially in the mornin'.

A double seat. Chromed passenger pegs, 'cause you had to have a chick in back, holding on for dear life as you took her on a face-blasting putt.

Not Sharla, that stoned-out skank. One of those wenches you saw in Easy Rider. The putt would turn her on, and pulling over at some rest stop, he'd serve her some Motorized pork for lunch.

Oh, man, if he had the dough, he could have it all.

His current scoot was an Abomination Before the Lord, thrown together from corroded spare parts, fastened with Bondo and rewelds and prayer. He'd even snuck some Jap parts in places you couldn't see. H-D emblem on the frame, but for all the Harley parts in there, the fucking thing might've said Slant Special.

At least it made noise. The Jap stuff never made noise.

The day he took the bus into Bakersfield, the bucket o' bolts hadn't started for three days straight. He found the trouble quickly enough. Troubles: starter gear so rotted there was a fucking hole in it; spark coil stone-dead; plugs wasted. The worst thing, the voltage regulator had wires that were coming apart, rattier than Sharla's hair. A hundred bucks minimum, so far, and the belt assembly looked ready to go, another two C's.

All he had left of Sharla's FDIC was sixty bucks, and he took it, left her snoring, and began the painful walk to the Bolsa Chica bus station.

Knowing sixty wouldn't get him far with Spanky, but maybe he could haul trash outta the shop, do some construction work over at Spanky's house- his bitch was always remodeling.

Anything to be rollin' again.

Riding the fuckin' bus, all those greasers staring at him. Those drippy brown eyes askin' the question any retardo would ask: Where's your scoot, man?

'Cause he was a putter, you could tell by lookin' at him he didn't take no bus. If there was a roof on a ride, it sucked.

He looked like a putter, goddamnit. Independent jeans- so oil-soaked they stood by themselves- black XXXL T-shirt with the death's- head Angel insignia- when no Angels were around. Nailheads, steel boots, leather, leather, leather.

Nice bandanna-style ripper cap- fuck the helmet law!

The bus ate twelve of the sixty bucks, came late, made stops along the way to drop greasers off at orchards. Half the day to get to Bandit Cycles and when he arrived at the store it was crowded, weekend warriors glomming the new stuff Spanky had customized. Guys in suits drooling over outrageous '95 Rigids, coupla Softtails, a few antiques that tightened his ball sac. Lookit that Knuckle/Pan- black-cherry lacquer with a dancing chick in pink.

Rich pussies checking out the merchandise like they knew what it was. Spanky pointing out details, kissing ass.

And if a pussy bought one, what would he be? A pussy on a scoot.

Motor cruised around the showroom, examining parts, leafing through the latest Rider-the Fox of the Month was a greaser, but lookit them brown nipples!

Then back to the grease room behind the store, where two mechanics were working on bikes. Bolting away, two assholes he'd never seen before.

More Mexicans! What got into the Spankster?

Finally, the pussies left with brochures and Spanky went back behind the counter, untied his ponytail, and shook out two feeta hair- shit, the guy had gotten gray. No meat on him, face like a skeleton, those rotten teeth, asshole looked like a death's-head. When did he start wearing glasses?

Motor walked up to the counter. Spanky had a bottlea Bud in one hand, his right arm was covered with tattoos from shoulder to fingertips. Not the left one, though, that just had Spanky's old lady's name, Tara, on the bicep. Once Motor had asked him about it and Spanky had said, “Use the left one to wipe my ass. Like the Hindus.”

Weird.

“Hey, man,” said Motor.

Spanky didn't look up. Draining half the Bud, he picked up a flyer about the Chillicothe meet, pretended to read. Motor read the back. Primo putt, Labor Day, all the way to Ohio. Lord, that was one he woulda loved to do, cruise in formation by the penitentiary, brothers behind the fence lifting their fists in solidarity.

Spanky kept reading, paying him no attention.

“Chillicothe,” said Motor. “Only thing better would be Sturgis, right? Or maybe Memorial Day at Laconia, hey?”

Spanky continued to ignore him.

Motor coughed and finally the skinny bastard looked up.

“Hey, man,” he said. “What's happening?”

Spanky waited a while before he muttered, “Buell.”

Using the name Motor hated.

“Hey, Spank.” Motor raised his hand for a high five. Spanky didn't move. Then he slipped a ring through his beard, turned it into a gray horsetail. Finishing the rest of the beer, he tossed the bottle over his shoulder onto a pile of trash.

“No credit, Buell. You're still into me for those switchblade wheels.”

“I paid you, man.”

“Yeah, right- took you two years. Wheels like that, coulda moved 'em in two days. You take two years.”

Which was bullshit- the wheels were used, pulled off a wreck and reshaped, onea them totally skanked where kickback gravel had knocked out a chunka rim.

“Spank-”

“Forget it, Buell.”

“Listen, it's only a few small ones. And I got dough.”

“How much dough?”

Motor peeled off a twenty and a ten. Spanky looked at the money like it was dogshit.

“C'mon, man, you know I'm good for it.”

Spanky sighed and his chest sucked in like a ho's cheeks givin' head. No hair on his chest or his arms, but that gray beard growing up to his eyes was thickern Santa's.

“It's a down payment,” said Motor.

“Yeah, sure- tell you one thing, you ain't gettin' no virgin pieces. If I let you have anything, it'll be off the spares pile.”

“Fine,” said Motor. “Lemme scrounge.”

“Scrounge? You think for thirty bucks you can scrounge?”

“Thirty down, man. Old lady's got a check comin' in next week.” Total lie; Sharla had no income till the enda the month. “First thing the check comes in, you get it- I'll bring it in person.”

“In person?” Spanky smiled and the ringed beard moved around like ten pounds of lint. “Why don't you FedEx it to me, Buell? Everything comes FedEx now- ever use FedEx, Buell?”

“Yeah, sure.” Total lie.

“Got your own FedEx account, do you? We got one. Got a computer, too.” Spanky slapped the register. “Everything's computerized, Buell. Got another computer in back for ordering parts. Got E-mail, too. Know what E-mail is, Buell?”

Motor didn't answer. What an asshole. It dawned on him that Spanky looked… Jewish. Like onea them rabbis with that beard- put a hat on him, send him back to fucking Israel.

“E-mail, Buell. You send messages through the computer, phone calls, doesn't cost. You can get dirty pictures on the computer too, Buell. Amateurs, anals, facials, anything. Or just use your E-mail to write ‘fuck you' to some asshole- anything you want. What I'm saying, Buell, is it's a new world out there, dude's gotta change with the times. Once upon a time a dude could sit on his ass, scrounge himself a scoot, live free. Now you got to have more than gas money.”

Spanky looked at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. What was the asshole getting at?

“Nowadays you gotta produce something, Buell. Goods and services- like making a scoot or tuning it. I get doctors, lawyers, already have the Mercedes, but they're heavy into the putt. People producing something.”

“Lawyers,” said Motor, “produce more shit than a bear with the runs.”

Spanky didn't laugh. Not even a smile. “Right, Buell. That's why they can pay for their parts and you're trying to give me thirty bucks.”

“Hey, man-”

“Yeah, yeah, you wanna scrounge the parts pile, awright, but this is the last time, man. And first you gotta go over to the Bell and get me some grub.” Spanky scratched the interior of his left nostril. “Three tacos- get me the soft ones and a beef burrito, extra guac, extra sauce. And a cheese enchilada. And a jumbo Coke. You pay for my dinner, maybe I'll let you scrounge. At least you're producing something- no goods, but at least it's a service. It's all about economics, Buell.”

The Taco Bell was three blocks away and Motor's heels hurt with each step, all that weight pounding down, the worn-down boots not helping. His thighs chafed through filthy denim. When he got there, he was sweating from exertion. He ordered Spanky's food, scowling at the beaner kid, who said, “Yes, sir?” and stopped smiling when he saw Motor's face.

He was about to leave when he saw it, on one of the tables.

L.A. newspaper. He didn't read newspapers- who gave a shit. But this one, the picture, made him notice.

Fuck if it didn't look like Sharla's rug rat.

He picked it up. It took him a long time to finish the article, and he had to go over it twice to be sure. He'd always had trouble reading, words not making sense, some letters upside down. His old man called him a retard, look who's talkin', fucking unemployed janitor, dead at forty-five from a fucked-up liver. Mom not much better in the booze-slave department, but at least she didn't bug him. She couldn't read good, either.

Finally, he got through it. Was this for real? Witness to a murder? Hollywood?

He studied the picture some more. Looked exactly like the little rat.

Had to be the rat- he'd split, what, four months ago?

And kids always split to Hollywood. Motor had ended up there himself, Old Brain Fry kicking his ass after he flunked tenth grade for the third time, finally telling himself, Fuck it, I'm gone.

He took the Greyhound that time, too, stealing bucks out of Brain Fry's jeans. Scared when he got there, the place was huge, but walking tall, letting people know he wouldn't take shit.

Full grown, he looked older than his age, had few problems on the streets of Hollywood, where he strong-armed money from smaller kids, mugged old farts, ripped off a Jap bike from the Roosevelt Hotel parking lot, stripped it, sold the parts, got himself an old hybrid H-D Shovelnose from one of the bikers who drank at the Cave.

Best scoot he'd ever owned. Someone had stolen it from right under him.

He bunked in an abandoned building on- where was it?- Argyle. Yeah, Argyle, big empty apartment fulla junkies, place smelled of puke and shit and he never slept good, always looking out in case someone was out to get him. His size helped; so did beatin' the shit out of anyone smaller who crossed his path. And the nigger he knifed for looking at him the wrong way- that got around, he got himself a street rep.

The black leather jacket he bought at a Van Nuys swap meet got him tight with the bikers at the Cave. Onea them sold him fake ID so he could go inside and drink. Gettin' nice and thick with them, thinking he'd be able to join some club, then they just stopped actin' friendly- he never really understood why.

So kids split to Hollywood for sure.

The rat, too? Why not? The little shit was too small to fight for himself, so he was probably whorin' that skinny little bod, catchin' it backdoor, probably had AIDS.

Gone four months. Sharla still cried once in a while and he had to yell at her to shut the fuck up. Cryin' but not doin' a damn thing to find the rat. Pretendin' to give a shit- what a stupid whore. Once she sat up in bed, middle of the night, shoutin' about sick-eydas, sick-eydas, over and over, him shaking her, saying what the hell is a sick-eydas. Her looking at him, saying, Nuthin', cowboy. I had a bad dream.

It was time to move on, get a real chick.

Twenty-five grand; this could be the way.

He was already ahead of the pack: knew Hollywood, knew the rat.

If he had to fill his scoot with blood, he'd get down there.

It was well after dark by the time he made it back to the trailer.

Sharla was in the kitchen, popping a beer. “Hey, cowboy, whereya been?”

Ignoring her, he found a flashlight, went outside, taped the light to his handlebars, and began installing the scrounged parts. The plugs were brand-new; he'd lifted them when Spanky wasn't watching. Latest Rider, too; the Fox of the Month was Jody from El Paso, Texas; those black nipples. She said she liked to putt without any panties on.

He was doin' good when the trailer door opened. Sharla stood there, T-shirt and shorts, no shoes. Hands on hips, onea those kiss-me smiles.

He said, “Go inside, make me somethin' to eat.”

“How 'bout a kiss?”

“Get me somethin' to eat. Move it.”

She gave that hurt little baby look. “What do ya wannna eat?”

“What I want I can't get, so cook me up twoa those TV dinners. Macaroni and cheese, Salisbury steak- go on, move!”

She obeyed. At least one thing the bitch did good.

By 11 P.M., he'd gotten the scoot humming, filled his gut, had three beers.

Twenty-five g's! Like onea them bounty hunters.

Sharla waited for him to finish, then tried to get romantic. He pushed her head into his lap and finished quickly.

Hoovered, zipped, ready to roll!

She was in the bathroom washing her mouth out when he pawed through her purse, found five more bucks in change.

He was at the door when she came after him, said, “Hey.”

He ignored her, checked his pocket for his keys.

“Where ya goin', cowboy?”

“Out.”

“Again?” That tone of voice he hated- like a trannie about to fail.

She took hold of his arm. “C'mon, cowboy, you just got here.”

“And now I'm splittin'.”

“C'mon, I don't wanna be alone.”

“Watch TV.”

“I don't wanna watch TV, I want company. And hey.” Battin' her lashes, puttin' his hand on her tit. “I made you happy, how 'bout me?”

The feel of her- the way she looked and sounded- made him wanna puke. It was always that way. He'd get horny for her, then he'd finish with her and he'd think she was maggoty meat.

He shook her hand off. She grabbed him again, got into that whining thing.

“You want it so bad,” he said, “go fuck onea them sick-eydas.”

“Huh?” she said. “What're you talkin' about? Bugs?”

That confused Motor, and when he was confused he got mad. He backhanded her across the face, and she fell back against the kitchen counter and lay there- didn't move, didn't argue anymore.

He opened the door- the night was warm- kicked it closed.

Seconds later, he was cruising along the access road to the trailer park. When he got to the highway, he remembered to switch on his headlights.