CHAPTER 14
Alessio
“Score!” shouted Gunning, fist pumping.
Erin screeched, “You guys nailed it!”
Denmark had exchanged his Village People visor for a morbid balaclava, which he now tucked beneath his chin.
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he nearly sobbed, his voice twisting in his throat.
“I knew there was a higher reason you helped me leave the hole behind. I’m part of something bigger, bettering mankind. ”
“And,” Truman pointed out, “helping others get off drugs.”
Denmark wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “That too.”
We were eating our grocery store grub at a picnic table at the Tehachapi Depot Museum.
After parking the Charger down the street so no one associated us with these bikers, our club had met up again.
Denmark had swapped his LGBTQ flag for a trans flag, and I wasn’t sure if that was any less conspicuous.
Consistent with his history, Denmark just couldn’t stop making statements right and left.
Now we ate liverwurst smashed onto raw sourdough, green grapes and tangerines.
Someone had bought a case of carbonated sodas, and I swear I felt like one of the milling screaming kids nearby, playing on the little trains.
Brain refreshed by lack of drugs, I’d been sleeping the sleep of the just. Nightmares seemed to have evaporated, and some dreams now were even humorous, teasing.
Former bandmates popped up right and left in the least logical places.
I did miss them. They must’ve been populating my subconscious.
I could plainly see Truman was proud. Proud of the viral post, the posing with the gun, but especially proud of me. He gazed at me with nearly tearful eyes, the overwhelmed grin never fading from his sculpted face. “I wonder how long until those assholes report the Charger stolen?”
Denmark waved a dismissive hand, using his other palm to smash a slice of liverwurst onto the bread. “Ahh. Awhile, I’m sure, since they were at an illegal event.”
Gunning pointed out, “You can steal Les Moore’s car. He’ll never report it missing.”
Erin thumbed her phone. “Jack Hoffman is getting restacked and reposted all over. You guys are modern cultural heroes.”
“We need to send him a new photo,” suggested Truman. “Keep ‘em coming. Fresh content.”
Erin frowned. “Yeah, but you don’t want to leave a clue where you are.”
I thought. “We can leave a tiny clue…After all, Hoffman said he wanted to meet us.”
“How do you know he’s not going to turn us in?” Truman asked.
I said, “That would make him the most unpopular newscaster to ever breathe.”
“If he kept breathing,” added Denmark, spitting crumbs.
“Here.” Erin handed Truman a napkin she’d been writing on, and I read it over his shoulder.
Alessio and Truman are the Undisputed Truth Club
And I’m sure you all have read
How they rob and steal and those who squeal
Are always found dying or dead.
She said, “We have to let them know you’re willing to shoot it out if they try and capture you.”
“You need to send him a new photo,” said Gunning.
Truman stood, tucking Erin’s napkin into his back pocket. He lifted his chin in the direction of the train. “Let me show you.”
Leaving our liverwurst, we all took the few steps up to the playground. The train was about two feet tall with boxcars and rails for children to grab onto.
“Hey kids,” Truman called out. “We need to use the train for a couple of selfies.”
He wasn’t fucking kidding. Clambering into a boxcar, he kicked back with his arms flung over the sides. Closing his eyes, his tongue stuck from his mouth, and I got the idea. I did the same in the boxcar in front of him while kids squealed with delight.
“You got run over by the train!” one cried.
Denmark got in on the act, pulling his balaclava over his nose.
“I’m going to take this toy gun,” he explained to the kids, “and pretend like I shot them.” Taking his real pistol from his back belt loop, he posed dramatically next to the caboose, one foot in front of the other, while Gunning and Erin clicked away with their cameras.
Kids were howling with joy at our antics, but when some parents started wondering what we were doing, we decided to take our leave.
We bumped fists while declaring, “Econo Lodge, Barstow.”
Erin added, “I’ll get this to Jack Hoffman right away.”
Truman agreed to let me drive the Charger in order to even out the power struggle.
It was too bad I couldn’t speed. Back in the day I used to enjoy racing my friends.
Truman looked at his phone to see that Jack Hoffman’s post about the Will -o’-the-Wisp bandit was now at 73k likes.
He purred, licking and sucking on my earlobe, causing me to veer into oncoming traffic.
“Whoa,” I said, though I didn’t really want him to stop. “Now remember. We’re not murdering Les Moore. We just want the name of the tranq supplier.”
I was pleasantly surprised when Truman said, “But yeah, rob him blind and take all his drugs.”
“Oh, that too. After we get the name.”
As we left town and I reached the 70-speed limit, Truman melted back in his seat. I couldn’t see his eyes due to his shades, but his luscious lips curled into a satisfied grin. “We can’t keep doing this forever, you know.”
“I know. I can never be Alessio Messina again, but I can start a new band wherever we wind up. Just go undercover.” I liked that idea. It was the most dramatic of all our ideas.
Tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth, Truman was scrolling. “Wow. Listen to these comments. ‘These guys are the true heroes.’ ‘Makes being an outlaw seem so glamorous. They must be staying in the swankest hotels.’ ‘Don’t anyone dare turn them in!’”
I had to chuckle at that. “We’re crashing in creeks and barns, and they’re thinking swank hotels.”
“Don’t dissuade them of that idea. And if it comes down to a shootout, let’s do the sane thing. Run.”
I had to agree. As much of a recovering addict as I was, I’d never really gotten much into guns. There was lots of steel in my house thanks to the dodgy people staying there. But I never got one ‘til I broke Denmark out of prison.
When we found Les Moore’s Econo Lodge, we sent Erin in to inquire.
A lush Australian Hindu, she could talk the stuffing out of anyone.
We clustered in front of a liquor store a block away, probably all wishing we could go inside and buy cigarettes.
That’s how nervous we were. This was going to be the turning point for the Undisputed Truth Club.
And as Gunning scrolled, we realized it might come sooner than expected.
He frowned. “There are some assholes on here. Sounds like they’re banding up to find us. Like it’s some kind of a test, a contest. Who can find us the fastest?”
Truman gaped. “They want to turn us in?”
“Why?” Denmark added.
“Just to be assholes, sounds like! You know how these idiotic viral things get started. Like the ice bucket challenge.”
“No Nut November,” I said, referring to the challenge to go a month without jacking off.
Truman said, “Sunburn art.”
Denmark quipped, “Nyquil chicken.”
We all paused. I finally asked, “Seriously?”
“You don’t remember that? You drenched raw chicken in Nyquil and boiled it. Made the medication even stronger.”
“Well,” said Gunning. “Looks like Jack Hoffman plans to delete comments like that. But it won’t stop them from doing it.”
Erin returned, fairly cooing with her sexy success at finding Les Moore.
“He’s playing basketball at a high school nearby. He plays every day with his cohorts.”
I nodded. “Erin, why don’t you see if you can get the motel guy to let you into his room. See what you can find about his source. The rest of us, let’s all pile into the Charger so no one’s tipped off by the bikes.”
“Or the trans flag,” said Truman.
“Hey!” protested Denmark, his voice muffled by his balaclava. “I was assigned female at birth.”
Truman was the only one with balls to convince Denmark to be more undercover. “Yeah. But it’s just one more thing these trolls can use to track us down.”
Denmark pouted under the mask. “Okay. If it’s a difference between living and dying.”
“It is,” said Truman.
When we arrived at the school, we could see the basketball court from the car.
About eight guys wearing baggy hoodies and pants sliding down over their asses bounced around the court, an oldfangled type with a brick backdrop.
These rude dudes all wore expensive sneakers they probably stole from stores and shades that must’ve made it harder to see the ball.
Yelling joyously, they shoved and elbowed each other to get at the ball.
I said, “I’ll play ball with them. I look the most like them.”
“Me too!” protested Denmark.
“Okay. Let’s go ask to join. Then Truman and Gunning? You stick all of us up.”
But we didn’t need to go that far. When my road dog and I approached the court, Denmark shouted, “Les Moore? We heard you’re an amazing baller. We want to see with our own eyes.”
Giggling hysterically, the players stopped playing and approached us. “You serious?” “Les is the best!” “No one tops Les.” Les himself yelled, “Dood! I’m gonna crush you!”
That’s how we figured out who he was. Much younger than we’d envisioned, Les was the goofiest, most pleasant homie.
Spiked hair obviously bleached blond, his shirtless, untoned torso revealed wall-to-wall ink.
Ridiculous and crude drawings, words like MOORE, Shaolin, Wobbly, and Goon.
Cartoons of Winnie-the-Pooh, sharks, and what looked like mushrooms in birdcages.
“Oh yeah?” he yelled, and shot the ball directly at Denmark.
Denmark, to his credit, caught it like the speed of light.
“Oh yeah!” Groover asserted, and shot it directly back to Les.
Les giggled, looked to his teammates for agreement, and bellowed, “It’s on!”
We leaped right in. Our tighter jeans gave us a leg up, although Les’ team didn’t play by any rules.
These guys were intent on knocking us over and we spent most of the time dodging them.
I kept looking back to see where Truman and Gunning were headed, but they’d vanished.
A few of the guys took granny shots to make buckets, uncaring which side of the court they were on.
The fun and competition seemed to be the important thing.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” everyone bawled at each other, confusion reigning. I got the ball a couple of times and was allowed to make some rim shots. Denmark actually sank a few.
Then Les got the ball.
It seemed like everyone held back to let him race forward for a rim shot. Guys danced on their tiptoes in anticipation, clearly sucking up to Les. “Go for it, Les!” “You got this!” “You don’t miss!”
When Les reached for the sky to drop the ball, I saw his phone in a holster on his belt. When Gunning and Truman arrived to stick everyone up, I’d grab that phone. But my chance came much sooner.
Deciding to be even cooler, if that was possible, Les slam-dunked the ball and hung off the rim. If I whipped his phone off him right then, his cohorts would rush me.
But as Les whooped and hollered his success, the most unexpected thing happened. Bricks that formed the midcentury backboard began to crumble. Inch-long chunks of cement mortar showered down onto the court.
“Les! Watch out!” someone shouted.
But Les’s goofy grin threatened to split his face in two.
Interested in watching only his adoring audience, he didn’t even let go when the hoop itself gave way a few inches.
Now entire bricks shattered onto the court, flooding like a waterfall.
Being so short, Les’s Dior shoes dangled in the air as he cried out,
“I did it! I aced the game!”
With that, the wall came crashing down.
The dopey grin vanished beneath a barrage of faded garnet bricks.
Most guys stood with their mouths open. Les’ limbs wriggled like a vat of vipers as he clutched the rim and subsequent backboard that smashed him even deeper into the blacktop.
Within a couple of seconds, all you could see was his hand on the rim, the rest of him layered in bricks.
I rushed forward as if to help, tossing bricks right and left.
Denmark did too, but I was the one who snatched the phone and yanked Les’ keys from his pocket, tucking them inside my waistband.
“Let’s get outta here!” I hissed.
And we ran.
None of Les’ friends made a move to uncover him.
By the time we zipped by Les’ Beemer in the parking lot, Truman and Gunning were coming forward with their pieces. As I opened the driver’s door, I shouted, “Let’s get Erin and get the fuck outta here!”
Truman said, “I think I know where to go.”
He briefly showed me his phone. Erin had texted him a photo of a pill bottle. I grinned my reassurance at my lover as a few henchmen started pounding their way toward us. I peeled out to the sounds of Nickelback blaring from Les’ speakers.