Color of a Weasel

By Pagan Preacher

The low rumble characteristic of an old American motorcycle began in the distance. Most folks shook it off at first, thinking it was heat lightening, or a big truck with unbaffled stacks grunting up a grade. In fact there was only a few people in the busy little town that would recognize that sound for what it was, and only two would know the machine from personal experience. One of them began sharpening his knife, the other put his boots back on.

The rider did not come in fast, nor too slow, and he wore his helmet in accordance to the laws he hated having to obey. The alternative was less desirable, and was the only argument he could come up with. At the Stop sign at the edge of town, he stopped and put his feet down, feeling the heat of the asphalt though the thick soles of his riding boots. He checked all the directions, he knew he needn't be so thorough, but one too many wrecks still ran through his head. Nodding to some unknown thought, as though there was a rider alongside him that had spoken, he let the clutch out an rumbled into town, down Main.

The last time he had been here someone had taken offense to his plain speaking way. Maybe the truth was a little hard to swallow sometimes, lord knows he didn't like to hear it sometimes, but truth is truth. Better to have it on the table than in a closet.

Truth. That was his job today, and the only reason he'd bother to come out this far, away from his usual circuit of roads and haunts. The bike was doing a fine job of announcing his visit. Going to the bar at the far end of town would be too clich‚, so at the end of town, he rolled the other way to the diner. A decent meal suited him better after a long ride than a shot and chase. Backing the bike into a space up front and enjoying the sound of the well tuned engine for a moment he looked about. Deafened by the sudden silence when he tripped the kill switch, he noted very little had changed since his last visit. Locking his helmet to the bike above the left saddlebag, he went inside the diner.

He was greeted the moment he stepped through the doors by a short, somewhat overweight man with large hands and thinning hair who wore a name tag that read Austin, Manager.

"We don't want your kind in here! Go on back to the bar and drink that rot-gut swill until you die on the stool!"

"You'd prefer me to get drunk, ride my motorcycle over innocent pedestrians and groomed poodles, shoot out windows and tear up your town?"

The man took a step back, not knowing how to react to the full life expectation he had of the outlaw biker.

"Now, I've had a long ride, and really, a decent meal sounds a lot better than a couple beers or shots of whisky right now. I don't mind sittin' in the smoking section, and since most folks object to my cigars, I'll refrain from smoking inside your establishment."

I paused in an attempt to allow the manager to speak, but he just stood there, and since I could tell he didn't know how to respond, I continued.

"I'd like a table with seating for three or four. I'm not planning on having unexpected company, but it never hurts to be prepared."

I paused again, because the manager turned his head slightly to look around be, through the widows in the entrance door. I looked over his head without moving mine at the mirror on the wall and saw the black and white city police drive past slowly. Probably getting a good look at the bike, but they can't read the tag without getting out of the car, I'd backed in.

"So, if you don't object to taking my money, may I be seated?"

"Susan will seat you," the manager sniffed.

The woman he indicated wasn't bad on the eyes. She picked up a menu and a set of silverware from the bins near the register and with a come-hither look I knew too well, we walked to the far end of the diner. I could see the bike fairly well from the table she set the menu and silverware on. She paused as most good waitresses did out of habit, in case there were any initial requests by a patron, which I had. I spoke as I pulled my chair out.

"If you don't mind, I'd like a small bowl of vanilla ice-cream. I haven't found anything better at shaking road dust out of a throat. It would save you a lot of walking if when you bring the water, to leave a pitcher, no ice please, just cool from the tap is fine. It has been a hot day."

She left with just a nod. I sat and pondered the menu, really not concerned for the cooling bike outside. The people I needed to talk to knew better than to mess with anyone's ride. Breakfast looked better than most of the options in the menu, and you never knew when you might eat your last meal. Always better to eat well before starting on the longest trip of your unlife, and always better a long trip after breakfast.

Susan came back with the ice cream and water like I asked as I was setting the menu down.

"I'd like to order breakfast."

"That's unusual at this time of day, but there's no problem."

"Great. I'll take four eggs over easy on toast, four links of sausage, two biscuits with sausage gravy, and I saw that three meat homefries. And a tall milk as well, please."

"Thank you, it'll take about fifteen to twenty minutes, I'll be right back with your milk." As she said the word `milk' she raised one eyebrow as though it was the last thing she'd expected me to ask for. She then turned and left.

I picked up the bowl of ice cream, it was French vanilla, and quite good. I took my time and washed it down with a couple glasses of the citified water. I always tipped well, so I set a five under the empty bowl. That way too, if something "unexpected" did occur, the tab is paid. I knew there were two men in this town, one I'd rather not see. And that was the one I needed to talk to. I had some more truth for him, and he didn't like it the last time. This time however, I have something more convincing.

Across town a brown boot came down hard, kicking a somewhat newer motorcycle to life. Coughing dryly as those year of engines were known for, it carried it's small, but hard faced rider through town. It had been a couple years since he'd heard the engine that had woke him up on it's one and only pass through town. He'd thought the nightmares were over, but his pleasant dream had changed back to knives in the dark and blood stained walls and the gurgling wail of a baby drowning. The gurgling had gotten slower and slower and merged into the staccato of the passing bike as he had jerked out of sleep in a cold sweat. Now he was heading to the bar he and that man knew so well, to end the nightmares.

He had seen the bike rumble through town. It was an old friend, a very good old friend. In years past they had swapped women, bottles, fought back to back, and gotten through more scrapes than he wanted to try and count. He sat back and fingered the edge of his knife. It was the same knife he had all those years ago. The two men may as well have been brothers, they were nearly inseparable, there was even a time when they knew each other so well, folks swore they could read each other's minds. It was a tragedy that had separated them so violently. It had made the local papers, the woman, the mother washing her baby in the bathtub, attacked from behind with a knife, the apartment looted and the baby left to drown in four inches of water. They never found the murderer and thief, but he knew, or thought he knew who was responsible. The woman had been his, and never in his wildest dreams had the thought occur to him that his "bro" would take her behind his back. She had often spoken of him, each time saying she was happy and wanted to spend her life right where she was at, but when she got pregnant he knew the child wasn't his. An industrial accident had resulted in him being sterile. He would not have been able to give her a child had he wanted to, and only one other man alive knew about the accident, and that was his "bro." Just thinking about it again left him seeing red. The knife was sharp, he looked through the window at the setting sun, and left to get some breakfast.

Susan was just clearing the table when I heard the familiar sound of old iron coming down the road. I gave her the money for my meal plus a nice tip.

"I think that may be my not unexpected company."

"Oh?" She was trying to count me back change and I wasn't taking it.

"Yes, be sure to point me out, and try to stay out of his way."

She paled slightly, and quickly finished her job. Once the table was cleared I laid the first of several official looking manila envelopes on the table. It had taken a good bit of time to find out exactly who to talk to, but I had all the evidence I needed, and a good bit more. I had found out the details of the murder that had eluded the police for the last several years. There was a special motive for me to be so exhaustive and thorough in gathering this information. The people that were involved were very dear to me, and I had been blamed for something I'd never have done. And the person that blamed me for it had just come in. He hadn't changed much. A little paler, a little heavier. Must be drinking more than riding, and who can blame him for that?

"You sorry bastard, came back to finish what you started?"

"Nope," I kicked a chair out for my old `bro,' "and you can cuss me after you see this two reports." No matter how much the man wanted to kill me on the spot, I knew there was just enough doubt in his clouded mind, that he'd want to make sure things were really *done* this time around, no loose ends. He sat down with his back to the door.

"What the fuck is this?"

"DNA samples, same as the police use."

"This one's yours, but who is Charles?"

"Do any of the bars line up between them?"

"No, now who the fuck is Charles?"

"Charlene and Tommy's baby."

"Tommy. . ."

I could see his thoughts going a mile a minute. Tommy was a local street tough who'd gotten too far in over his head. He had a thing for Charlene, and she had a thing for his drugs. I knew what was going on and had held my tongue, while trying to show him his "angel can do no wrong" girl was screwing behind his back in exchange for some of the best drugs on the coast. Drugs Tommy had access to. Drugs Tommy was supposed to be moving, not selling. One of Tommy's deals went sour and he forgot to take care of business away from public eye. Fortunately there was only one set of eyes that saw it, unfortunately it was a nine month pregnant Charlene. Tommy killing the NARC was horrifying enough to her to snap her out of the idea of drugs altogether, it also made her go into labor a couple weeks early.

My bro wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but we both knew the kid wasn't his. When he found out she was pregnant he stopped hanging around. I figured he thought I had nailed the girl on the side, but he should have known me better than that. I knew he was playing father as best as how could, and changed jobs to something fairly steady. I stayed out the way figuring he might get it straight. For all I knew Charlene didn't know about his sterility and got careless with Tommy. He didn't talk about it much, if ever. But I had proof the kid was Tommy's, and proof of the murder of the NARC he'd killed and I'd figured out who the extra DNA belonged to.

I'd bumped into Tommy on a mule run, everyone that knew him was calling him Weasel, and he was very changed. If I hadn't known him as a boy, I'd never connected the two. He wouldn't hang when I was around, and when his new "bros" came after me with the steel, I started putting things together. I finished my run and started making calls. Then I had to come back here, where I had to leave very hastily. I wasn't gonna fight my bro, not when it was lose-lose, and not over Tommy's bullshit.

"You ready to sit and talk?"

"You're not the father? You didn't bump Charlene?"

"You know better than that. You know the Laws as well as I do and you'd think I'd break them?" I tossed the second manila envelope on the table. The baby's medical write up at birth, and the autopsy report on the heroin found in Charlene's bloodstream. Charles was born addicted. Charlene had attempted to clean up her act, but the call of the drug was strong, and Tommy had pushed her harder, in an attempt to keep her under his thumb. She'd reached a breaking point, and Tommy broke another Law, he shot up some of what he dealt and broke in while she was giving the baby a bath.

My old bro looked through the papers in disbelief.

"It was all there in front of me. . ."

"Sometimes you can't see the forest for the trees. Shit happens, and it sucks. Shit also makes shit happen and that sucks too."

The sound of another American motorcycle, dry sounding as compared to wet sounding, older iron, came rapidly up the road. It was Tommy's bike and we both knew it. I knew it better as I had ridden with Weasel for a time before that mule run, and I knew why he was called Weasel. I also knew about his Blood Wings, and a peculiar detail about them. Seems he couldn't get it up unless someone was bleeding, and if he saw blood flow in a fight it was instant wood. That marked him as a crazy quickly and no-one wanted a crazy around, they were a loose cannon.

Tommy, aka Weasel burst into the diner, hair disheveled, with a wild look behind his eyes. Dark rings circled his eyes and his arms were streaked under the skin. I looked him dead in the eye.

"Red Wing Weasel come in to get some wood?"

"Asshole!" He spat.

"No thanks, not my trick. I think the two of you need to have a talk though."

Weasel looked at Jake as though seeing him for the first time. "I have no complaint with him."

"But I have one with you." Jake stood up and drew the knife he'd been honing since I pulled in town. The next action Weasel took was to look at the knife sticking from his chest. Weasel crumpled to the floor. I knew why Weasel was called that. Possum was a better name.

Jake was trying to bearhug me and apologize for thinking the way he did. I was busy trying to get loose, and in the scuffle we got turned around and I felt a sharp pain in my back. Possum was a better name, but two could play. I went limp and let my eyes unfocus as horror and rage filled Jake's eyes. Weasel pulled the knife out of my back and tried to poke the unarmed Jake. Jake howled like his old namesake Bear, but Weasel was good with a knife and kept him back. Once Weasel was fully focused on Jake, I peeled myself off the floor and picked up the partially empty, heavy glass water pitcher off my table. I walked calmly up behind Weasel and brought the pitcher down on his head. It shattered, sending a shock up my arm hard enough to rattle my teeth. Weasel went down again. Jake looked at me in disbelief.

I pulled my jacket off and showed him the hole in my t-shirt and the shark suit under it. I poked my finger through the hole the knife had made in the letter O in my rocker. His eyes read what the patch meant and his eyes fell to the floor.

"I am my brother's keeper" I whispered.

"I shall not take from my brother unless he cries of the burden," whispered Jake.

I pulled the final envelope from my jacket and tossed it to Jake. Jake caught it.

"I don't know the man named Jake this belongs to, but I do know a brother of mine called Bear I haven't seen in years. He did something to loose my respect for him, and I haven't spoken to him since. If you know the man tell him he can earn it back, and he knows where to find me."

I stepped over the unconscious Weasel and set another twenty on the counter. Susan was the only staff member that didn't run, the other patrons, of which there were not many, were sitting stunned. I donned my jacket and put on my shades before stepping outside. There was still enough sunlight to need the glasses and I had some miles to put on before the day was through. I put my lid on, started the bike and rode on down the road, tame and easy, it was after all just another day. The police thought the same as I did as I rode by and left that busy little town for the last time.