REUBEN WASN’T USUALLY one to strike out on his own when it came to the teachers’ special projects, but he’d made an exception with Larry’s approval. He’d asked Shorty to arrange a one-on-one sit-down with Zeke the Candy stealer on Wednesday night at the Shaft.
Reuben and Larry considered checking out the local tattoo shops for a lead on Candy’s where-abouts but with one on every corner for a twenty mile radius during the Rally, it seemed a long shot. Besides, they knew who had her. So Reuben moved to his own Plan B.
The primary reason to fly solo was he thought it best to keep Buster as far away from Zeke as possible. Buster was mad enough to do something stupid and sometimes just stupid enough to mess things up without an emotional stimuli prompting him.
The secondary reason was to take a shot at reasoning with the new acting leader of the Black Lords, or, if nothing else, just to get inside his head a little bit and see what if anything was clunking around in there besides used carbuerators.
So it was at 8 p.m. that Reuben sat at his table picking at the label of his Old Mil bottle when the Zekester plopped down in the chair across from him. Reuben was in a tan windbreaker and Nike visor, looking like he’d just come off the golf course, though he’d never in his life been so bored as to actually wander onto one. Though Zeke, looking like he’d just got off a 24-hour shift at Jiffy Lube, made a ruckus getting comfortable, Reuben still hadn’t even lifted his eyes off his beer.
Finally, Reuben’s eyes looked up but his head didn’t move. He wasn’t the least bit of an intimidating figure, but when Reuben got that look about him he could be downright creepy. It’s how Norman Bates looked at his mother.
“I got some disturbing news last night,” Reuben spoke softly so that Zeke had to lean in to listen.
“Your wife pregnant?” Zeke smirked.
Reuben lifted his head for that, his eyes glared and he pounded a fist on the table. Quieter, yet more sternly, he said: “You mention my wife again and I will empty my .45 into those fish painted on your chest.”
It’s about as irate as you will ever find Reuben, and even gang leaders take notice ... well, at least smart ones.
“They’re serpents,” one of the not-so-smart ones corrected.
“So what do you think you’re doing with my friend’s wife? Are you too ugly and smelly to get your own?” Reuben was really pushing the envelope with the thug.
“Listen old man,” said Zeke, who’d been put on edge a bit but not easily intimidated. “We aren’t going to hurt her. We just want a piece of the action.”
“Does Slug know about your idiotic idea?”
“It seems he’s gonna be out of commission for a while, so I’m calling the shots now.”
“That’s too bad,” Reuben said, “for you and for the operation he built. I thought he’d have made a better choice for a successor.”
“I made the choice,” Zeke snarled.
“Figures,” Reuben said. “So what do you want for her?”
“Half of whatever you’re doing.”
“Half of what we’re doing is not as much as you might think it is.”
“I have reason to believe you’ve been involved in some pretty rich schemes in the past,” Zeke said.
Reuben glanced over at Shorty, his prime suspect behind the bar.
“Well this isn’t one of them.”
“How much?”
“500 grand,” Reuben lied.
“For each of us?”
“Total – 250 each, even if I did agree which I’m not inclined to do.”
“Then maybe we’ll make the girl gone for good.”
“And so will you be,” Reuben said between gritted teeth.
“I’ll take my chances against some school teachers.”
“Brains will beat brawn every time,” Reuben reminded.
“Huh?”
“Besides, we’ve always operated on the risk-reward theory. Those who take the risk, get the reward. But you aren’t risking anything. Only threatening.”
“We could help then,” Zeke said.
Reuben leaned back, crossed his arms and pondered the idea – for a full second.
“No,” he shot back. “You are an idiot. We don’t need to start a parade of ‘em.”
“So why did you invite me here?”
“To get you out of a jam,” Reuben said.
“I am in a jam?” Zeke said with an emphasis on the “I.”
“Yes, you are. Gimme the girl and we’ll let bygones be bygones.”
“You’ll see her when we get the 250 grand.”
“Then be gone.”
Chapter 29
THE WEEK WAS flying by quickly, and it was 10:30 p.m. on Thursday night, mere hours before the launch of Operation Harley. “Let me ask you a question,” Larry said to Reuben from their table in the Mine Shaft, while Buster sat sullenly across from them.
“Shoot,” Reuben said, slowly twirling his index finger over the lip of his beer bottle.
“You ever cheated on Rose?”
“Nope,” Reuben said.
“Honestly?”
“Honestly. I’ve cheated on exams. I’ve cheated on cards, on my taxes and even on my driver’s test, but never on Rose.”
“Why not?” Larry asked, genuinely interested in the novelty of chivalry.
“Because I promised her I wouldn’t.”
“As simple as that?”
“Yup,” Reuben affirmed. “Life’s difficult enough without making your gal angry at you. I try to do everything I can to keep her happy, especially considering marrying me made her name Rose Rose. Why, you got a problem?”
“Ah, no. Nothing to worry about.”
Reuben cast him a skeptical eye but didn’t push it. “Good. We have enough on our plate without an extra helping of steamed girlfriend.”
“I have a question,” Buster piped up after an unusual quiet spell which had been par for the course for him over the past couple days.
“You’re awake!” Larry said.
“What’s your question?” Reuben asked.
“How the hell did you cheat on your driver’s test?”
“Simple. I paid the guy next to me 20 bucks to fill in the answers on my written test while he did his own too.”
“But you’re the smartest guy I know,” Buster said. “Why did you even need him to take it for you?”
“It was my way of stickin’ it to The Man.”
“Here! Here!” Larry exclaimed, raising his glass. “Here’s to sticking it to The Man!”
Reuben clinked his bottle to Larry’s glass and Buster shoved his coffee mug into the midst sloshing hot java over the table.”
Larry swore. “Way to go Buster.”
“Hey, it’s your guys’ fault for making me drink coffee for the past two days.”
“It’s our service to society,” Larry said.
“Besides, we need you to be of sound mind for tomorrow,” Reuben added.
“Or as sound as it gets,” Larry chimed, and Buster flipped him off.
“So everyone’s set for the morning?” Reuben asked.
Both nodded affirmatively.
“Ok then. We’ll see everyone at their posts at 9. Let’s get us some Harleys.”
“And Candy,” Buster said.
“And Candy,” Reuben sighed.
Chapter 30
THE CROWD BEGAN to gather about 8:30 on Friday morning in and around a big party tent set up outside the Sturgis Community Center. It contained about as eclectic of a mix of people as you’d ever seen brought together – as only a good old-fashioned motorcycle rally can. They shared only one thing in common, a love of motorcycles.
There were rich bankers and lawyers hob-knobbing with the real bad-asses, the 1 percenters of society, who were there to admire the shiny cycles of yesteryear that gave birth to their love of hogs, leather and anti-social behavior. There were postal workers decked in blue, highway patrolmen packing heat, rent-a-cops packing spare tires around their midsections, a couple U.S. Senators flanked by the Department of Interior Secretary. A couple of undercover ATF agents mingled in the crowd, forcing smiles, trying to act like they were having fun.
The Sturgis mayor was on hand to emcee the festivities, and the governor was the last to show, his bike having been trailered in and unloaded by a pair of aides in the nearby parking lot. The governor would lead the first leg of the ride after the new stamps were unveiled with the likenesses of the antique bikes, which were all proudly on display at the front of the tent near the VIP stage.
Other dignitaries would ride a short portion of the trip on the vintage bikes. Nobody really recognized these dignitaries as dignitaries except for the dignitaries. We’re talking suits from the Postal Service in Washington, D.C., and aides to actual dignitaries in D.C. Nobody cared who they were. People were more interested in the motorcycles, some even more so than others.
All four bikes were shined with a lover’s touch. All were mint condition - exquisite fare for the two-wheeled set. The Cleveland was a single-cyclinder,2.5 horsepower motor, with advertisements back in that day claiming it could get 75 miles per gallon and reach the lofty speed of 40 miles per hour. The Indian was a deluxe, four-cylinder from the Indian motorcycle brand known as the Four. It was infamous in the 1940s for its trademark design of skirted fenders that partially covered the wheels. The 1965 Harley featured a push-button electric starter, fiberglass saddlebags, whitewall tires and tons of chrome. The chopper was famous for its stripped down design, stretched frame, raised handlebars and long forks to the front wheel. All were also drivable, even for amateurs.
Reuben’s original plan called for a pretty significant role to be played by Candy. In retrospect he recognized it was a rare major mistake in tactical planning on his part, over estimating her reliability. She was charged with causing a diversion, a large noisy one a block away – probably starting a fight or shooting off some M-80s. That would have required the attention of all the badge-wearing visitors to the ceremony. As they were to rush to the scene, Reuben and the boys were to rush the motorcycles into a nearby postal truck and drive away in victory – another blow struck to The Man. But that would’ve been too easy. That’ll teach him to ever trust somebody named Candy.
So it was on to Plan B, which he thought sounded more fun anyway. And isn’t that what life is all about?
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