CHAPTER 18
Alessio
These new comrades were a trip.
Not only were Hunt and Thymus gay bikers—both were doctors.
Thymus was a cardiologist in a hospital in their hometown, a little place called Rough and Ready.
A midcentury hamlet near the Arizona side of Lake Havasu, it was the center for the Bent Zealots MC.
Dr. Huntington Mountjoy, an astrophysicist, roared up to our trailer on a Dyna Wide Glide chopper with impressive ape hangers, long black curls bouncing in the wind.
“What a trip,” I actually said to Tru. We stood on our front porch to welcome them.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he replied.
Erin said, “Dr. Moog is a little strange, but that Hunt is smoking man candy. And married,” she added, just in case we had menage ideas.
Plenty of half-naked trailer park citizens came out to gape and gawk at the bikers. We welcomed the motorcycle club into our cramped living room, where most of us broke out beers and got settled onto chairs and memory foam divans.
Hunt said, “Thymus and I were talking. If this underground shit becomes public knowledge, Pine Valley is going to get hit with fraud, health code violations, reckless endangerment, maybe even murder. We want out of that investment of course. But we want to make it so that Bridgewater dirtbag doesn’t function ever the fuck again. ”
Thymus nodded. “In other words, kill him.”
That’s when I first spoke up. “We realized that the Undisputed Truth club is standing up for the little guy, but we’re trying to avoid going as far as murder.”
Gunning just had to say, “We murdered that Les Moore skidmark.”
I told the bikers, “He was the underground supplier for Pine Valley.”
“Yeah,” said Truman, “but he sort of committed suicide, hanging from that basketball hoop like the douchebag he was.”
Hunt put his bottle on the coffee table and laced his long fingers between his knees. “How else are we going to save all those poor old memory care patients? Kill the jagov and get someone legitimate to take his place.”
I said, “We’re working with this podcaster who can help expose the assclown. We’re on the run from the law, so we don’t want to appear in front of a camera. But you can.”
Truman added, “Jack Hoffman knows exactly where we are, but we haven’t met him in person yet. We could have him come here and set it all up with you.”
Hunt looked to Thymus. “I guess we could try that first. Before killing him.”
Thymus seemed to want to advance directly to the homicide phase of the plan. He shrugged. “I guess we could try.”
While Truman went into the kitchen to text Jack Hoffman, I asked the bikers, “How many of you are there in this Rough and Ready?”
Hunt said, “Maybe thirty. The town is so small, we pretty much run it. Lots of us own businesses. My husband’s a cook at our Happy Hour clubhouse. We’re both still Prospects since we haven’t inducted anyone new. They let us wear MC patches, but we still have to do Prospect work.”
Was this possibility on the tip of my brain? Of course it was. Hiding in plain sight protected by a club of bikers suddenly seemed like the most sane option for us. I caught Denmark sending me a sharp sideways glance, a slight nod. Were we really thinking the same thing?
As if to ingrain this idea in our brains, Hunt said, “Whose Electra Glide is that out front?”
Thymus added, “And a Road King with a trans flag.”
Denmark’s eyes lit up. “That’s my trans flag!”
I said, “I keep telling him to take it off. Makes us stand out so much.”
Thymus cried, “In a good way! You’re trans and proud! That’s excellent.”
Denmark looked abashed. “I thought so.”
I told Hunt, “That’s my Electra Glide. I swapped out the plates, but couldn’t bring myself to get rid of the ride.”
Hunt nodded. “So you’re already gay bikers.”
Truman came out of the kitchen. “It’s done! Jack Hoffman will be here in—”
“Yo!”
Some guy was already at our screen door.
Even with the screen obscuring, I could tell it was Jack Hoffman in the flesh, dark hair flowing over his sleek eyebrows.
His natural, flashy smile was only darkened when he spoke onscreen of our dead serious journey, but today he was lit like a spider’s silken web.
I was the closest inhabitant to the door, so I leaped to slide it away from him. “Jack Hoffman!” I held my hand out, and he grasped it firmly.
“Man!” he declared. “So great to meet you in the flesh. Alessio Medina! I grew up watching your band play. Saw you a couple times in Berkeley.”
“Well,” I admitted, “it’s been quite a different scene lately.”
“Yeah,” said Jack, “too bad you got strung out. But I’m confident you’re on the right track now. I want to see you make a comeback.”
“He already has,” said Truman, hand on my shoulder.
It was standing room only as I introduced Jack Hoffman to my brothers and sister. I felt embraced by the Bent Zealots, as though I’d worked with them for years, and I trusted them with my life.
Maybe Hunt was right. I was already a gay biker.
After clapping everyone on the shoulder, Jack Hoffman stepped back a few inches. He spread his fingers wide as though framing his own face. “You guys have given me the perfect idea.” He seemed to be addressing Hunt and Thymus. “Let’s take a trip to Pine Valley.”
No one knew what Jack’s plan was, but we were all in agreement with it.
# # #
“I’m right in front of Pine Valley Senior Living.
” Jack spoke with authority into his mic.
He posed directly before the center’s sign as Gunning recorded him on his phone.
Stretching out an arm off-camera, Jack pulled Hunt into the scene.
As an admirable musician himself, Hunt stood tall, confidently displaying his patches, long arms dangling.
Jack continued, “I’m here with a couple of investors in this memory care home.
Dr. Huntington Mountjoy and Dr. Thymus Moog”—he pulled Thymus, still looking pissed he couldn’t kill anyone, into the frame—“dumped a ton of money into this facility, only to find out they’re killing the patients with underground fentanyl and tranq.
A powerful sedative approved only for animals. ”
Thymus grabbed Jack’s wrist to bring the mic to his face. “What fresh hell is this? Murdering the elderly stricken with Alzheimer’s? How many of their children thought they’d died of old age when they were actually annihilated with illegal drugs?”
Jack Hoffman wrestled his mic back. “As you can see, this story is about to explode. These two doctors are understandably enraged to discover how their investments have been put to use. Dr. Mountjoy, how did you become aware of these nefarious doings at Pine Valley?”
Hunt said, “Well, we noticed a large percentage of rooms being cleaned out, dead citizens. When we confronted Mr. Pleasant Bridgewater—not a doctor, by the way—who runs this place, he became extremely nervous and kicked us out.”
“Us too,” said Truman from the corner of his mouth.
We were watching from a safe place across the street under a fig tree.
Viewing the livestream on our phone, it was surreal to see the actual scene playing out before us.
I wore shades and a black leather cap of Hunt’s in a half-assed undercover attempt, but Tru went au natural.
I guess we were giving less shits about being found out.
Or being within the protective arms of the Bent Zealots made us feel more secure.
As more and more visitors gathered round to listen to Jack, he said, “Which brings me to this.” He strode in front of the disgruntled Dr. Moog, spreading his arm to introduce a Pine Valley patient.
“That’s my uncle,” said Truman.
Jack said, “Pickett Yarborough has been living in this hellhole for three years, being doused and drugged with the illegal cheap stuff while the care facility pockets the Medicare money for actual medication. Pickett, show them the bottle from your room.”
Apparently all riled up by the attention, the poor guy who resembled Santa Claus gripped a pill bottle and snarled, “This is speed!” His bare arm showed signs of blackened, tunneling, peeling necrosis, another side effect of fentanyl.
Jack chuckled uneasily. “Well no, Pickett, it’s not really speed. It’s fentanyl laced with tranq, which causes extreme sleepiness.”
“Sedation!” growled Pickett.
Jack put a calming hand on Pickett’s shoulder. “This is what’s making you dizzy and giving you headaches.”
Pickett shook his head, forlorn. “I don’t like headaches.”
“Right. And there are other meds, which Medicare pays for, that can help with memory problems without those awful side effects.”
“Medicare for all!” Pickett bawled.
While Hunt and Thymus escorted Pickett out of the frame, Jack stepped forward with authority.
“There you have it. Pine Valley under the authority of one Pleasant Bridgewater has been committing fraud, health code violations right and left, and recklessly endangering the lives of our elders with his drugs.”
A woman sidestepped up to Jack Hoffman. “This is damned horrifying, but what can we do about it?”
“Well, this podcast is the first step. Get the word out. Do you have a relative here?”
“Yes!” shrieked the gal, fisting her hands. “My dad’s here!”
“Well, get him out immediately,” said Jack.
Truman leaned into me. “Denmark and Erin are in Pickett’s room right now, putting his stuff into our car.”
I lowered the phone to my side and stared Truman directly in the eyes. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go help.”
The flash of joy over his sculpted face lit up my heart. “Yeah, why not? I’m his nephew.”
As more relatives of inmates mobbed Jack Hoffman, we strode directly behind him, no doubt getting into the frame. Who gave a shit anymore? This quest was far more important than robbing some tranq dealer or a sideshow driver.
I grabbed Hunt by the arm. “Cumon. Let’s get this poor guy out of here.”
“I’m with you.”
We made sort of a human chain as I dragged Hunt, who dragged Pickett, who dragged his nephew Truman.
Inside, pandemonium had already overtaken the beleaguered receptionist, so it was easy to slip on by unnoticed.
Sons and daughters slapped palms on the counter demanding answers.
In the hallway to Pickett’s room patients stumbled over a bag that contained, believe it or fucking not, an actual mummy.
By now it’d been stomped on so many times the shriveled pieces of charcoal limbs were scattered across the carpet.
“This place is a shitshow,” said Hunt.
Poor Pickett’s room was somehow worse than the mummy.
I knew from my own experience that men living on the edge without a partner to help can literally become mired in garbage.
It was totally evident no one had come to clean his room in weeks.
Half-empty microwave food containers were piled three feet high on the kitchen counter.
Who knew what that moldy green stuff was in the microwave?
And yes, something that looked like another mummy was propped up on the couch.
I later found out it was his car racing uniform from back in the day.
“Good God,” said Hunt. “Let’s just get the important shit and get out of here.”
Thank Sisyphus for Erin. Actually for her, Gunning, and Truman, founder of the Establishment Club, for having learned to keep things neat.
Most of Pickett’s wearable clothing and personal bathroom items were already in the Beemer.
Hunt, Thymus, and I just peeked underneath trash to see if anything else was salvageable.
I told Thymus, “Take a look at Pickett’s arm.”
“Yes, it’s definitely necrosis from fentanyl when mixed with tranq. I noticed several other patients with necrosis.”
Hunt said, “You could smell some of them.”
Thymus nodded. “A few need amputations, or at least debridement.”
“How the fuck can people let things get this far?” queried Hunt. “You know, Gudrun McGill, Slushy’s daughter, runs a memory care facility in Pure and Easy.” He looked at me. “The Bare Bones MC turf, our brother charter.”
“Not gay,” Thymus pointed out.
I nodded. “Or. My man Truman here as you know ran an addiction recovery facility in San Francisco. Maybe…”
I sort of drifted off, afraid to put a concrete idea on the table.
But Hunt must’ve sensed where I was going, because he quickly cut in.
“We talked about that. You guys are already gay bikers on the run. You need a place to shelter. Our club offers that. It’s only an hour southwest from here, near Havasu Lake.
You don’t need to join up if you don’t want.
You’re our friends. We protect our friends. ”
My heart actually ached with elation. I think I even put my hand over my chest, as if about to sob with gratification, or quote the Bible. “Wow,” I intoned. “Such a considerate offer.”
Our heartfelt moment was broken with a fresh round of blubbering from the sliding glass door. We cranked our heads to see Pickett, out on his patio, face screwed up over what looked like a CD.
Music in my blood, I was the first to stride—or pick my way through piles of crap—to reach Pickett’s side. Now his shoulders shook soundlessly, hands trembling gripping the CD.
“Look,” said Truman, trying to pry the thing from Pickett’s fingers. “It’s you.”
It sure fucking was. My most popular album, in fact, a Moist Division recording, myself wearing pigtails on the cover, what looked like wet oily asphalt covering my face. Who knew what went through our minds back then?
Placing my hand behind Pickett’s neck, I asked, “Why does this make you sad?”
He gasped in a strangled voice. “We loved this band! We used to go see them at the Greek Theater all the time.”
I smiled widely. “Well, I’m standing right here. I’m a friend of your nephew. I’ll play again soon for you, once we leave here.”
Truman looked anxious. “No. Don’t…”
Truman was right. Pickett looked from the CD to me, now confused. “But…”
I slid the CD from his fingers. “Do you want to come back to our house? We’ve got all your things in our car.”
Erin piped up from the patio gate. “I can ride two up with Hunt.”
Truman’s mouth curled up. “I’m sure you can.”
“Don’t worry,” she said petulantly. “I know he’s gay.”
Hunt’s offer flickered through my brain. “Let’s bundle this guy into the car. I’ve got something important to tell you, Truman.”