King Suckerman

It was hot out in the sun. Maryland in the summer, it was as hot and still as Carolina in July. Walking across the field toward the house, with the bugs buzzing in his ears, the sweat making the rayon shirt underneath the hunting vest stick to his back, Clagget had a feeling that he was a boy again, his stepfather yelling at him from the house as he walked along the plow lines of his mother’s farm.

They came near the shirtless guy polishing his bike. The guy had stood up and was watching them approach with a wary but cool eye. Clagget checked out the bikes sitting in the row: small-saddled, customized Harleys, all of them, their forks stretched and raked, Twin and Big Twin Knucklehead engines, one newer model sporting the AMF logo, a Panhead on the end. Shritless’s bike was a Panhead as well. Growing up in the south, Clagget knew something about bikes; he had taken apart and put back together a street Yamaha his stepfather had won at cards just a few years back. He’d have something to talk about with the guy in the yard.

They stopped in front of the biker. Clagget noticed his very blue, almost Chinese eyes, and the twin SS stickers on the Prussian helmet pushed back on his head. An awful scrape ran from shoulder to elbow on the biker’s right arm. The sound of a bluesy guitar came from the bungalow’s screen door.

“How do,” said Cooper, smiling broadly. “Larry around?”

“Inside,” said the man. “You got—”

“An appointment? Sure do. And what’s your name?”

“They call me Poor Boy.”

“Tell you what, Poor Boy. I’m gonna go on in, have my meeting with Larry. Anyone else in there with him?”

Poor Boy looked at the .45s slung loosely under Cooper’s arms. He looked at Clagget’s shotgun. “Well... there’s Deborah, Larry’s lady. Dude named Charlie, goes by the name of Slo Ride. Another dude named Albert.”

“This Albert got another name?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Okay. So I’m gonna go on in. This here’s my young friend B.R. He’s gonna stay out here, keep you company. That sound good to you?”

“Sure,” said Poor Boy, his hands fluttering nervously.

Without another word, Cooper stepped up onto the bungalow’s porch, touching one of four pillars that held up the overhanging roof, and went to the screen door. Clagget watched him open the door, step inside without stopping to knock or even announce himself. Yeah, Cooper was one genuine bad-ass dude.

Clagget looked at Poor Boy’s scraped arm. “Where’d you get the road rash?”

“Dropped my bike on Six Ninety-five.”

“You didn’t hardly scratch the bike.”

“Saved it with my arm and leg. Leg’s worse.”

Clagget chin-nodded at Poor Boy’s Harley. “It sure is nice.”

“Thanks.”

“Panhead, right? Got those fishtail pipes. Like Peter Fonda’s Captain America.”

“Huh?”

“Easy Rider.”

“Peter Fonda. That all you know? You know movies, but what you know about bikes?”

“Broke down a Yamaha once.”

“Fuck a Yamaha.”

“Bike’s a bike.”

Poor Boy said, “Rice rocket ain’t no bike.”

“If you say,” said Clagget.

Poor Boy stared at the kid, the khaki hunting vest over the disco shirt, a tick-tack-toe design, rust on yellow; rust-colored baggies, cuffed at the ends, breaking low on the stacks. Even with the shotgun in Disco Boy’s hand, Poor Boy had to know.

“Say, man,” said Poor Boy. “You mind if I ask you somethin’?”

“Go ahead.”

“What’s a natural-born white boy like you doin’ hangin’ out with a bunch of niggers?”

“Just fortunate, I guess.”

Both of them turned at the sound of a monster bike coming down the gravel road. The rider was fat and uglier than a pig’s ass, and he clutched the ape-hanger handlebars in the crucifix position as he went around the Challenger and blew in toward the house. He sat way low in the saddle and leaned back against the sissy bar with his feet high on the pegs. He came to a stop near Clagget and Poor Boy, cut the engine, got off the bike.

The guy towered over Clagget by a head, outweighed him by a hundred and fifty pounds. He wore black boots with heel-wrapped chains, fingerless gloves, and Red Baron — style goggles. His arms were tattooed wrist to shoulder, and there were teardrop tats coming down behind the goggle of his right eye.

The big biker looked Clagget over thoroughly. “What the fuck are you supposed to be?” he said.

Poor Boy chuckled. With the big guy around, he had gotten back some of his courage. “He’s with some rugheads came to make a buy from Larry.”

“That a fact.”

“Name’s B.R.,” offered Clagget. “Didn’t catch yours.”

The big man hesitated. Disco had the shotgun — he’d play Disco’s game.

“Lucer,” said the big man.

“Loser?” said Clagget.

The big man sighed. “Not Loser. Lucer. Billy Lucer. It’s my name.”

Clagget looked at Lucer’s bike. “Old Shovelhead, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Boss tubes,” said Clagget, pointing to the pipes on Lucer’s bike. “You slash ’em like that your own self?”