The Mayan Codex

29

Skip Dearborn had been grand master of the Skunks chapter of the Birmingham Hells Angels for nearly twenty years now. In that time he had raped, killed, tortured, stolen, grafted, skimmed, blackmailed, and kidnapped his way through the better part of Southern Alabama, without ever having done any prison time to speak of. Others had suffered in his place. As far as Skip was concerned, that was only just.

He was the smartest and the meanest looking sonofabitch on the block – why shouldn’t he benefit from his smartness and his meanness? There would come a time when someone else stole his crown, but that time wasn’t looming anytime soon. And in the meanwhile Skip exercised droit de seigneur over any women stupid enough to want to associate themselves with his chapter, and had pick of the crop as far as loot, drug money, and any passing pussy was concerned.

Heck, he was like a lion in charge of his pride. He had the shiniest bike, the most patches (he sported Red Wings, Black Wings, the Dequiallo, and even an ultra-rare Filthy Few shoulder blaze), the smoothest leathers, and the foulest body odour of any of the males in his war party. What did he care? Who was going to argue with him? Who was going to cause him any grief? He had a steel plate in his skull, a rivet in one arm, a punctured lung, scars on his back, shoulder, and neck, a perforated eardrum, and occasional tinnitus, which made him very irritable indeed.

Tonight, the tinnitus was real bad. And the only thing that made the tinnitus halfway bearable was either a fight, or pussy, or both. That way, he was able to forget about the hissing in his ears for a pleasurable hour or two.

This particular Friday night he was surrounded by an assorted mob of what the Hells Angels termed hang-arounds, associates, and prospects. Wannabes, in other words, amenable to just about whatever Skip chose to throw at them. A lot of the main chapter members had taken to avoiding Skip’s company on a Friday night, either because they were getting too old, or too comfortable, or didn’t want their women outraged by anyone other than themselves. This pissed Skip off, and he was prone to take his revenge in unexpected and inventive ways.

Running the hang-arounds was one of his neatest tricks. Most of them were so desperate to join the One Percenters (the 99 per cent of remaining bikers being considered law-abiding – what the Angels sarcastically called ‘Citizens’), that Skip could just about do what he wanted with them. Aim a hang-around at a bunch of Citizens and let him loose – that was Skip’s motto. Then he’d stand back and watch the mayhem. Get in a lick here or there with a sawn-off pool cue. Smash a few knife-hands. All good fun and games. No one got killed. No one got seriously hurt – unless you called a few lost teeth, a broken nose or two, and maybe a cracked rib, pain.

Skip’s newest trick consisted of spraying people with triple-action pepper spray when they least expected it. One shot in the eyes, and you could do what the hell you wanted without any danger of a comeback. Tonight, Skip had a can of pepper spray, a sawn-off pool cue, a Kau Sin Ke Chinese fighting chain, and a switchblade in his armoury. The tinnitus was getting so bad that he had to grind his teeth together to counteract the sound – it was like being tied underneath a damned waterfall in Yellowstone Park. He desperately needed an outlet – some way of switching his attention to outside his head.

He flung Alabama Mama’s main door wide open, and strode in, followed by his little coterie of hangers-on. It was early yet. Far too early for any real fun. So Skip intended to hit the mescal for an hour or two, and then take whatever happened in through the door. What he wasn’t expecting was that his evening’s entertainment would already be in situ.

Skip allowed his eyes to trail lazily across the dance floor. Sweet Jesus. Who were the bunch of freaks huddling together around a far-off table? He was so surprised at the sight of them that he even stopped for a moment to stare as if in wonder. As if he’d witnessed some minor sort of miracle. Then he saw Aldinach at the bar.

‘She’s mine,’ he said to the hang-around nearest him. ‘Go fetch.’

The barman came hurrying over towards the assembled Angels. ‘Skip, no trouble tonight. You hear me? Last time around you almost got me canned. Drinks on the house, huh? Tequilas all round. How’s about that?’

‘Mescal. And beer chasers.’

‘Sure, Skip. Anything you say.’

The Angels sat down. Skip watched the hang-around angling towards the woman at the bar. Asshole. What was he doing? Fishing for cut-throats?

‘You. Miss. Care to have a drink with us?’ Skip’s voice was loud – stentorian even. As if he was shouting orders down a communications tube.

Aldinach stood up. She looked around with her head canted to one side, as if she wasn’t quite sure the yell had really come from Skip’s table. ‘That would be very nice.’

The hang-around had only just reached her. Now he drew back in horror. What was the slit thinking of? Was she blind? He had anticipated a little local difficulty in persuading her to come across to the Angels’ table. A straight no, maybe, followed by a ‘fuck off’. He had then intended to try a little wheedling, upon which he would have headed disconsolately back and left the whole thing up to Skip. Let the motherfucker harvest his own pussy.

Instead, the woman gathered up her drink from the bar and accompanied the hang-around voluntarily across the floor.

The barman met them halfway. He raised his eyebrows dramatically when he caught Aldinach’s eye, and then shook his head, as though abrogating all further responsibility for his former client. He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t have a death wish.

Skip got up and offered Aldinach a chair. His manner was studiously polite. Rather like a man who intends to lull a companion into a false sense of security, before snatching the chair away just as they sit down.

He could scarcely believe his luck. What was the slit thinking of? Did she like rough trade, maybe? Was she out for a Friday night she would never forget? And what did he care?

‘You want a shot of mescal?’

‘No. I’d like another margarita.’

‘Coming up.’ Skip yelled across at the barman, who waved a hand in weary acknowledgement.

Aldinach looked around at the table of Angels. ‘You’re all dressed alike. Are you members of some club, perhaps?’

Skip grinned. ‘You could call it that. The “share and share alike” club.’

‘Oh, really? I have never heard of that.’

‘My name’s Skip. What your name, sweetheart?’

‘You can call me Desiree.’

‘You French or something?’

‘I’m from Louisiana. Lake Charles.’

‘Should have guessed.’ Skip hesitated. ‘By the way you dress.’

‘Do you like the way I dress?’

‘Jesus Christ. Do you get this dame?’ Skip glanced around at his hangers-on. He was beginning to look ever so slightly nonplussed.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘Sure. I like the way you dress. I like it fine.’

Aldinach stood up. ‘I must go to the powder room. You’ll wait for me, won’t you? You won’t go away?’

Skip nearly let his chair tilt all the way over. He could hardly feel his tinnitus any more. There was no way on earth he was going to pass up on this broad. ‘You go right ahead, honey. We’ll all be here when you get back.’

Aldinach weaved her way amongst the tables. As she passed close to her brothers and sisters she smiled, and raised one questioning eyebrow. Oni glanced quickly across to the Angels’ table and shrugged.

‘Those freaks bothering you, sister?’ Skip was standing up now. He could feel a sudden knot in the pit of his stomach.

‘Yes.’ Aldinach turned around. ‘They have said a disgusting thing to me. And that you Angels are pussies.’

Oni sighed. He looked across at his brothers and sisters. ‘Abi will be angry with us if we do this.’

Berith shrugged. ‘Who cares?’

Oni glanced across at Rudra, Alastor, and Asson. ‘You three on?’

Nawal nudged him. ‘What about us girls?’

Oni smiled. ‘You can mop up after us.’ He stood up and turned towards the Angels.

‘Hey boys,’ Skip said. ‘The fucking circus just came to town.’