Hogwild
Chapter Two: "Anger Like That"
Martin's place, aptly named Hog Heaven—as stated by a faded,hand painted wood sign—was ten miles out of Phoenix at the end of a dusty road hemmed by cactus and a barbed-wire fence. In a wooden corral, a burro grazed on sparse, yellow grass and two cattle dogs lazed in the shade under a rusty car. There were motorcycles and parts strewn everywhere, a death shrine to Harley-Davidsons and Indians of a time long past. The house was a sprawling, one-story shack just a little better than the burro's shed. Two wooden chairs flanked a decrepit bench swing and an ashtray was filled with butts.
Jarod climbed out of Eduardo's truck, fascinated. He shaded his eyes with a hand and looked around. There appeared to be no one home.
"Come on," Eduardo said, "Martin's usually out back in his shop."
Jarod glanced once over his shoulder and just down the road, he saw a black official looking sedan pull to the side and idle under the meager shade of a tall saguaro cactus. Eduardo didn't notice and Jarod didn't tell him.
Over the past week, while waiting for Eduardo's break from work, Jarod had done his own research on the man known as Martin. His real name was Stanley Martinez. He was both an accepted insider and an outsider of the local biker culture. In bikerspeak, he was a lone wolf, one who wasn't a member of any particular game. Partly,this was due to his profession; he maintained the integrity of motorcycles and performed award-winning restorations for a dozen motorcycle gangs from as far away as Texas. Hog Heaven was a sacred no man's land where an unspoken truce meant anyone could comfortably leave their most holiest of possessions. To a biker, a good mechanic was as important as a daycare was to worried parents; one didn't leave their most precious child to just anyone.
Jarod followed Eduardo to the rear of the house and around a large, shady grove of cottonwood. The distant desert hills glimmered through heat waves. The back of the house's property was a surprise. A modern metal garage with two bays sat in a well-swept, cemented area. From inside came the muted soud of a pneumatic wrench. The door was unlocked and they entered the relative coolness of the garage. Four industrial-sized fans whirred overhead and a modern air-conditioning unit hummed in the background. The inside of the garage was as neat as the outside, and contained bikes in various stages of repair or restoration. A paint booth, draped with white plastic, was off to one side. The walls were lined with posters of modified Harley-Davidson motorcycles with half-nude, buxom women sitting on them. One large-breasted, brunette model who suggestively straddled a Harley, wore nothing but a g-string. Jarod raised one eyebrow. She looked a lot like Miss Parker, except Miss Parker had better legs. Irritated at his train of thought, Jarod silently berated himself. She had shown him her mind in the taxi, rejecting him. And their last phone conversation after his escape from the plane, confirmed her dedication to The Centre. That cat couldn't change her stripes. It had been difficult for him to accept.
The pneumatic wrench stopped and Eduardo took the opportunity to hail the as yet unseen owner of Hog Heaven.
"Martin!" he shouted. The sound brought Jarod back to the present and reminded him why he was here.
A tall man stood up. He had a shaved head and a thick mustache. He was shirtless, heavily muscled, and a pair of greasy blue jeans hugged his hips. A winged gold and silver belt buckled was emblazoned with the Harley-Davidson symbol.
"Hang for a bit, there's beer in the fridge!" he shouted, then he saw Eduardo and a grin spread over his stern features. "Hey, what the hell, man! What brings you way out here?"
"Just thought it was time for a visit," Eduardo replied.
Jarod watched with interest their complicated series of handshakes. "Keeping out of trouble?"
"As much as possible." Martin gave Jarod a one-eyed squint. "I've never seen you around. You a cop, too?"
"Not at the moment," Jarod replied.
"Funny guy" Martin grunted, his tone implying the opposite.
"This is Jarod, he's a friend of mine and was a good friend of Juanito's."
Martin crossed to a refrigerator and pulled out three beers, keeping one for himself and tossing the other two to his visitors. "I heard about Juanito." Martin sat on a wooden bench, hung his head and shook it. "Man, that's just too fucking sad."
"Jarod was there," Eduardo said. Jarod found himself under intense scrutiny.
"You must be the guy who took two for Juanito. That was a hell of thing you did," Martin said, and held out his hand and they shook, a symbolic thawing of his attitude toward an outsider. "To Juanito." Martin held up his beer can for the toast and the other two did the same.
The three drank their beers in silence, uncomfortable with their respective thoughts of their own mortality, and of death and dying. Jarod wasn't used to beer, but it felt wonderfully cool after the heat of the afternoon sun.
"So what brings you out here, Ed?" Martin broke the silence.
"Need your help," Eduardo replied. "Don't know who else to ask."
"You know I owe you a few, but I can't say I like the sound of this. It's too serious." He finished off his beer in one gulp, belched loudly and thumped his chest with a fist. He crushed the can in one big hand, threw it in a recycle bin and took another beer from the fridge.
"Serious. Yeah." Eduardo scratched the back of his head. "It's like this, man…"
Eduardo explained and throughout the monologue, Martin said nothing; he finished his second beer, fished a tobacco pouch and rolling papers out of a back pocket and proceeded to roll himself a cigarette. Martin smoked silently for a moment, staring hard at the smoke rings he made. After Eduardo finished, silence descended on the trio for a few long minutes until Martin finally spoke, his voice level.
"Let me repeat what you said just so's I get it right. You want me to help him," he pointed at Jarod, "become a biker so he can infiltrate the Demons and expose a gun running ring." Martin took a long drag off the cigarette. "You know what I think? I think you're both fucking nuts," he mumbled through his lips wrapped around the cigarette. He braced his hands on his thighs and rose off the bench. "I owe you one, but no way can I take sides, amigo. You know what would happen to me if Crossfire found out."
"I know what I'm asking," Eduardo said, anguish making him look older than his thirty-two years. "I can't trust anyone else. You haven't seen Connie, it's like she's a zombie. I have to do something."
"Why isn't the department investigating?" Martin asked.
"There is an investigation, but nothing will come of it. Dead leads, closed mouths. I think there's a leak in the department; Crossfire's paying someone off to look the other way and make certain everyone else does, as well."
Martin straddled a black motorcycle and took a long drag off his cigarette. "I'm not surprised."
"Do this for Juanito."
"Jesus H. Christ, Ed, that ain't fair." His brows came down over his eyes. "You know I loved that boy like he were my own."
"All you have to do is help me in. After that, I can make it on my own," Jarod finally spoke.
Martin stared at Jarod like he'd sprouted two head. "I have to give it to you stright, dude, there aint' no fucking way you're going to pass for a biker. My grand pappy looks more like a biker than you do, and he's probably meaner, too."
"I'm a quick study, and no one else can do it. He doesn't know me." Jarod was reluctant to play the trump card he'd brought along. Going into a pretend as dangerous as this, it was vital that he gain this man's trust.
Martin shook his head. "No man, I won't do it."
Jarod had no choice. He took his wallet out of his pocket, and held out an identification card. "You don't understand, Martin, aka Stanley Martinez, you don't have a choice."
Martin stared at the ID. "Jarod Ness, FBI? God damn, he's a fed! Fuck, Ed." The biker glared at his friend. "What the hell you doing bringing a fed here?"
"I didn't know!" Eduardo returned. He looked ready to run. Jarod had guessed that Eduardo knew about the shady side of Hog Heaven, and it wouldn't be good for his career. "Why didn't you tell me, Jarod?"
"You didn't ask." Out of the back pocket of his black slacks, Jarod pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Martin. "I have hard evidence that this is a chop shop for stolen motorcycles and vehicles."
Martin snatched the paper out of Jarod's hand and read it, his mustache emphasizing his frown. "Damn." His eyes were bright and there was more than just a little fear.
"With the evidence that I believe I'll find here, you'll be living out your next ten years in the federal pen." Martin was white under his tan. Jarod hated to do this, but it was necessary. He continued: "I've found that you wanted to start your own legitimate motorcycle shop down in Phoenix, but you can't get a business loan, not with two counts of grand theft auto, resisting arrest and the fact that the Demons, and its leader Crossfire, won't allow you to leave, not alive anyway."
Martin's shoulders slumped. "I wasn't given much choice." He crossed to a trashcan and dropped the paper inside. "If I don't go along with Crossfire's business proposition, I'm dead. He delivers motorcycles, and occasionally a car, and I do what he tells me."
"That can end," Jarod said quietly. "If we get Crossfire, my organization will give you the money to start your own legitimate business." Money from the Centre, Jarod thought. Martin didn't have to know that. "The burden of his control will be lifted."
"This is not going to be easy." His expression was a mixture of trepidation and hope. "If I get killed, I'm coming back to haunt both yer asses, and I ain't gonna be no Casper the friendly fucking ghost. You hear?"
"Who's Casper?" Jarod asked.
"Where the hell did you say you found this guy? Under a rock?" Martin fingered his mustache. "Feds think they're too good to watch cartoons?"
Jarod walked outside, and the two men followed him. He took out his cell phone and made a call to the driver in the black car. The black car pulled up into the cement drive in front of the garage and Jarod spoke in low tones to the passenger. They two men were actually strangers he'd hired to drive the black car and look official. It was enough to impress Martin and Eduardo. If they had any doubts to his ID, it was dispelled.
Martin had retired to the ramshackle porch and sat in a chair. Jarod walked up, Eduardo hovering nervously behind.
"What did yer people tell you about the Demons," Martin asked, his eyes narrowed on Jarod.
"The Demons are a motorcycle gang. Their leader is Anthony Noonan, AKA Crossfire. His first lieutenant is Shane Murray, AKA Blackbeard. There was a federal investigation into their activities last year, two Phoenix police dead, nothing that could be traced back to any of the Demon members. Without sufficient evidence, the were charges dropped."
"Okay G-man, you got some of it. Even I didn't know Crossfire's real name. For this plan to have any freakin' chance in hell ofworking, you will have to change yer appearance. If you try to even talk to Crossfire lookin' like that he'll put a bullet between yer eyes then dump yer dumb ass in the desert. Yer body won't be found until long after the buzzards pick yer bones clean." Martin grunted. "Grow a beard, and your hair needs to be longer, scruffier. And get rid of them city clothes. You look like yer posing for freakin' pussy GQ magazine or something."
Jarod stroked his chin and nodded, although he was hesitant to mention that he'd never seen a GQ magazine.
"And all that's just the easiest part, G-man. You gotta change yer attitude. You gotta be a mean motherfucker. A one-percenter."
"One-percenter?" Jarod wasn't certain he liked the sound of that.
"We're going to fucking die," Martin mumbled to himself. Exasperated he continued: "A one-percenter is like Crossfire, he represents the worst 1 percent of the population. The nastiest of the outlaw bikers, answers to no one, and no law. You gotta be that to be a Demon, one of the gang. Act like it, walk it, live it and most of all you gotta believe it! And never for a second forget that yer the meanest motherfucker on two wheels, because if Crossfire gets a feeling that something about you ain't right, yer dead and I'm dead. I can't stress it enough."
"Yeah I know, bullet between the eyes, body in the desert, buzzards picking my bones."
"At least you learn fast. Maybe there's hope for us both." He rolled another cigarette but didn't light it. "You need a new name. A street name."
"What's wrong with Jarod?" Jarod asked.
"No, you'll need something new, something that will get you into the frame of mind. And you're going to be my cousin. A few buds of mine know I have some cousins back east, that way no one will ask a lot of questions. Crossfire can be real paranoid, that's why he's stayed in business so long."
"How about Syke," Eduardo spoke up. "I had an old biker pal who was a psycho bastard, we called him Syke for short."
Martin lifted one eyebrow. "Well, at least it'll be a name for the G-man to live up to. And that means yer attitude needs a major adjustment." Martin scrutinized him with that one-eyed squint again. "Your problem is that yer too… friendly. You don't have that edge. I think yer parents were too nice to you or something, they didn't slap you around enough."
"No one slapped me around, and I never knew my parents." Jarod lifted an eyebrow, and the anger that simmered made the desert heat seem chilly .
Martin pointed a greasy finger at Jarod; he stood up and walked down the stairs. "There! Right there! You had it for an instance. That was the anger. Bring it back and magnify it tenfold."
"No."
"Wrong answer!" He shaped his fingers into a gun and held it toward Jarod's forehead. "Ka-pow! Right through the brainpan."
Frustrated, Jarod knew he was failing the test. He'd pretended so many times, so many things. He couldn't fail at this, he failed Juanito once, and the injustice of it consumed him. Still a part of him balked, an inner voice warned him that the anger would devour him if he let it out. "I don't know if I can control it."
"That's the idea, man," Martin said with a funny smile. "So what's the deal with yer parents that gets you cross-eyed? Yo' momma have too much of a good time with some jack in the back of a car, had you, then done run off and left you?"
"No." The rage strained to claw free from its cage. Jarod's hands clenched. He forced them to relax; he forced the anger away.
"Well something about yo' momma's got you all screwed up."
"The situation is complicated and it's not a subject I talk about. I think we should find another way." Jarod was pleased with his mild replied.
Martin whistled and raised an eyebrow. He folded one hand into the palm of the other and cracked his knuckles, the gleam in his eyes predatory. "So talkin' about yer momma pisses you off, doesn't it?"
"Something like that."
Martin nodded. "Sounds to me yer parents up and left your ass, and you still have a few issues with it."
"I don't know… I don't remember."
"Were you adopted?"
"No," Jarod growled. "Leave it."
**They led him from a car, and he had a black bag over his head. He couldn't see where he was going. He didn't know where his parents were. He was frightened but he was brave. They put him in a room by himself. Where were his parents? Why didn't they come for him? He ran his hands through his hair and tried to remember. **
**They call him Jarod.****Who called him Jarod? His parents? Was it a Centre name? Was it his real name?**
"So speak, G-man, let me know that behind them fancy street clothes and mild façade that you're as fucked up as the rest of us."
"I
don't know the truth!" The words were torn from him, and he grappled with
an inward hot core that began to unfurl, fury with a face of hot anger. His
sense of self raped, his inside torn open and exploited. His path set forever
and too late to set it back. A marked man. Forever. Even if he found his
parents, the past would never be set right. Would not be erased. Too many years
lost. He pressed his hands to the side of his head. "I grew up in a
research center. My parents didn't know where I'd gone."
"Maybe that's just what they wanted you to think," said Martin's voice, sounding like it came from a long way away and through a tunnel. "Have they ever tried to find you, or is the search one-sided?"
One sided, an inner voice told Jarod. Never doubt them… but I do. My life is filled with uncertainty.
"Jarod, you know what," that voice continued to taunt him, "I think it sounds like there are other things you don't know, like, the fucking bitch you call yer momma up and left yer ass!"
"NO!" Jarod raged, he spun and leapt toward his tormenter, all sanity gone, a shimmer of madness in his eyes. Martin dodged, feinted to the left and jumped off the porch into the dusty yard. The dogs lying under the car jumped up and began barking, frantic, adding to the voices in Jarod's head.
**He misses his parents.**
**He'll forget them.**
He never did.
"You don't know what you're talking about," Jarod said, voice low and hoarse.
"It's easy to guess, dude," Martin replied, moving back and forth, staying out of Jarod's reach. "Just look at you. I think all the family you have right now is some dysfunctional motherfuckers that made you their bitch."
Jarod roared and closed the steps separating him and Martin tried to feint again, but Jarod was ready for him. He'd seen Martin pull that trick once, and once was enough. Jarod's fist connected with Martin's jaw. The large biker, a veteran of many bar brawls and bare-knuckled fights, staggered back and quickly recovered. Jarod and Martin were of the same height, but the biker had a good fifty pounds over Jarod, however, Jarod had the advantage of speed and anger.
Martin
sidestepped, ducked and threw in a jab, catching Jarod in the stomach. The air
whooshed from his lungs. It felt like someone had struck him with a steel
girder. He tried to retreat to gain his breath but Martin stayed with him.
Jarod dropped his guard and let Martin come at him. At the last second, he
feinted with right and came in with a left hook that cracked Martin in the side
of the cheek and jaw. The skin split and the blood flew outward in an
arc. Martin's legs wobbled. Jarod drove in a follow-up right hook and
Martin went down. Jarod was after him, down on his knees straddling him, his
right cocked back. Eduardo ran up, leapt on Jarod's back and tried to pull him
off. Jarod twisted, using his elbow to hook Eduardo and send him backward. He
immediately jumped back up and wrapped an arm around Jarod's throat in a
chokehold.
"Jarod! Stop! Esta loco como una cabra!
Jarod shook off Eduardo like a big dog shaking off a small one. He stood up, looking down at Martin, his breathing heavy and angered.
Martin looked up at Jarod. "Jesus fucking Christ, G-man, you've got it in you, all you needed was a little push." The biker spat out a long string of spit and blood into the dirt. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and worked his jaw back and forth. "At least you didn't break it, though it feels like you did. I haven't had a good thumpin' like that in a few years. Guess I was due."
Some of the anger drained out of Jarod, but he held onto a portion of it. His voice was rough when he spoke: "You did this on purpose."
"Hell yeah. Had to." He held up a hand, Jarod hesitated, then helped the man to his feet. "You'll need to embrace that inferno, you remember that anger and when the time comes you be that one-percenter and maybe we'll both live through this." Martin touched the back of his hand to his bleeding forehead. "Shit, that hurts like a mother. Let's go get a beer and we can find you a sled."
"Sled?" asked Jarod, the rage making him dizzy as he tried to fight it down. He wasn't quite ready to forgive.
"A ride, you know, a motorcycle. You can't ride a moped and join a biker gang." Martin walked a little unsteady back into the shop. "And by the way Jarod."
"What?"
"You've
got some serious issues about yer momma."
End of Chapter 2
