Page 12 of Thug

The bike would crush him if he continued. I gave him a serious look. “It’s a five-dollar rubber hose. Cut the son-of-a-bitch. There’s no place in this club for a paraplegic Road Captain, and that’s where you’ll be if that heavy bastard tips over on you.”

Clearly frustrated with the situation, Carp slashed the fuel line with his knife. Gasoline poured out onto the floor at his feet. He looked at the floor as the fuel puddled as if in a trance.

Leaving messes in the garage was a pet peeve. I shook my head in disgust. “One would think this is the first time you’ve done that. Shut off the fuel supply. Jesus Christ, Carp.”

He leaned over the tank and turned the lever. The fuel flow stopped instantly. “Still nursing a hangover,” he said in a weathered voice. “Last night was a shitshow.”

I shrugged. “I thought it went rather well.”

He brushed his hands against the thighs of his jeans. “You drank a couple of beers and fucked the waitress. Tough calling that night anything but a success.”

I gestured to the two-foot wide puddle of fuel. “Put some floor dry on that mess, would ya?”

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I was headed that direction.”

The sound of a fast approaching bike bellowed in the distance. Although we all rode Harleys, each one had a unique sound. I cocked my head to the side and listened intently to the drone of the exhaust and the way the rider was shifting gears.

“Sounds like Brisco,” I said.

Carp glanced over his shoulder. “Hell, let’s make it a party.”

When I searched for the MC’s clubhouse, I knew I didn’t want something typical. A dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of town that would likely be broken into on a monthly basis wasn’t what I was after.

After nearly a year of searching, I happened onto an old—but still operational—full-service gas station. A hand-written “for sale by owner” sign was taped to a window facing the city’s busiest street.

The exterior walls of the stucco 3-bay repair shop were adorned with iconic American Indian paintings that had faded from seven decades of exposure to the Arizona sun. It resembled the Southwestern motif tourist traps that peppered the highways throughout the 1960’s and 1970’s.

Considering my affinity for tacos and pastries, the location was perfect. The building was situated across the street from a locally owned donut shop that was flanked by a taqueria that employed no one who spoke English and a leather repair facility ran by an old man who still hand-stitched his goods.

Eager to strike a deal, I strolled inside the gas station. A lighted glass case filled with arrowheads, vials of fool’s gold, and rabbit’s foot keychains was on one side of the cash register. A rotating display of postcards depicting Arizona’s must-see stops along Highway 10 was on the other. Between the two displays stood the eighty-year-old owner, Manny Lopez.

Manny and I washed down a dozen donuts with a pot of coffee while discussing the changes he’d seen over the years. According to him, Arizona’s new youth rode bicycles and drove battery-powered Japanese cars that simply didn’t break down. As we toured the facility, he explained the need for a few memorable years of retirement before his death.

Following a fish taco and Coca-Cola lunch, we reached an agreement. On nothing more than a handshake, I agreed to a price of twice what the building was worth. Nevertheless, we were both happy with the decision.

Carrying a cup of floor dry, Carp sauntered from one end of the neatly organized garage to the other. Over the years, the building had changed very little. The gas pumps were long gone, but the awning that once covered them remained. It now provided a shady place for the men to park. The club used the three service bays for vehicle and motorcycle repairs. The customer service space became my office. All in all, the building suited us well. Its size allowed any amount of the MC’s members to show up without ever causing me to feel like we needed more space.

Carp sprinkled the cat litter-like substance over the puddle of fuel. “Surprised that thing doesn’t explode, the way Brisco rides it.”

“At least he’s not scared of it.”

He faced me and glared. “I’m not scared of this fucker. I’m just trying to take care of it.”

“Well, the way you ride it, the thing ought to last a lifetime.”

The sound of the accelerating motorcycle came to a halt before the rider was within sight, all but confirming it was Brisco. He rode his motorcycle like a bat out of hell, but always shut off the engine a block north of the clubhouse and coasted into the parking lot silently.

Carp peered beyond me, toward the street. “Hoe-lee-shit.”

“What?”

He laughed out loud. “Look at what he’s wearing.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Brisco’s wrists were draped over his ape hangers and his boots were perched on top of his highway bars. His legs, surprisingly, were completely bare from the tops of his boots to his hips. If I didn’t know better, I’d bet he was wearing nothing but his kutte and a pair of underwear.

He silently crossed the two oncoming lanes and coasted into the parking lot like he was sitting in his living room recliner watching an episode of his current favorite TV show, Barry.

Wearing an ear to ear grin and a backward flat bill cap, he rolled through the parking lot and came to a stop in the garage, ten feet away from where we were standing. He lifted one of his mile-long bare legs over the tank, flipped down his kickstand, and faced us.