I think for a while. How much do they pay kids to flip burgers at McDonald's? I don't know. I really don't know. “Two dollars an hour.”
“Two dollars an hour? Minimum wage is over five. You don't think you're minimum wage?”
“Okay, six.”
“Five-fifty.”
“Fine!” I shout, and it surprises me.
“I'm not deaf,” he says. “Five-fifty an hour, and I figure you've got, what, eight, nine hours- let's say fifty bucks total. Here's an advance.”
Out comes his wallet and suddenly there're two ten-dollar bills in my hand and, not believing my good luck, I stick them in my pocket.
“The rest you'll get when you finish- I'll come by in a few hours to check.”
He moves closer again, stops. “One more thing: This is a cash deal, no withholding for taxes, Social Security. So don't report me to the government, okay?”
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.”