Duke
Ronnie winced in pain as I maintained my hold.
“I think you owe this young man an apology,” I said, nodding toward Pete. Our scuffle had now gained the full attention of the entire cell’s population, including the Burning Saints, the biker gang I’d spotted when I entered.
“What the fuck for?” Ronnie said, his head, still under my boot.
“For starters, you can apologize for making fun of the way the boy talks. He can’t help that shit.”
“That stuttering prick can go fuck his mo—”
I gave his finger a twist.
“Alright, alright! I’m sorry. I’m fucking sorry, okay?” Ronnie cried out in pain.
“Not to me,” I said. “To Pete.”
“I’m sorry, Pete. I won’t make fun of you no more. Just tell this guy to back off, okay?”
“I f…f…f…f…forgive you, R…R…R…R…R…”
At this point, I wasn’t sure if Pete’s stutter was worse due to adrenaline, or if he was just fucking with Ronnie. Either way, I could tell he was enjoying the moment.
“…Ronnie,” Pete finally finished.
Before I knew it, and with my hands still full with Ronnie, another inmate came up from behind me fast. Pete, God bless him, tried to warn me but only got as far as “L…l…look”
Whoever had Ronnie’s back had gotten the drop on me and I could only hope he didn’t have a shiv.
I barely had time to let go of Ronnie and begin to rotate around when my would-be assailant was tackled by one of the Burning Saints.
A big cornfed looking fella with red hair, a bushy beard, and a checkered shirt on under his kutte.
This ol’ boy looked like Paul Bunyan might if he rode a Harley.
“You got him, Zaius?”
I spun around to see the rest of the Burning Saints standing with their President at the front of the pack. His patch read, “Cutter.”
“He ain’t goin’ anywhere,” the burly man replied.
“Thanks,” I said with a head nod.
“These guys have been assholes all night, and I don’t like dudes who don’t fight fair,” Cutter said, his accent devoid of any trace of the south. I looked at the front of his cut again and saw the Burning Saints rode out of Portland, Oregon.
“You’re a little far from home, ain’t ya?” I asked with a smile.
“Long story,” Cutter replied.
“Long ride,” I said.
The sound of an approaching guard immediately snapped everyone into “act casual” mode, and I backed away from Ronnie, toward my new-found biker friends. Ronnie scrambled with his one good hand, finally rising to his feet just as the guard reached the cell.
“What the fuck happened to you?” the guard asked Ronnie.
“He slipped and fell,” Cutter said before Ronnie could answer.
“Yeah, the county really needs to fix the leaks in this place,” Zaius added.
“I’ll add that to the suggestion box,” the guard replied before asking, “One of you assholes named Hill?”
Surprised to hear my name I called out, “That’s me.”
“You’ve got a phone call. Come with me.”
The cell was awash with sideways glances and head scratches as I made my way to the door. The guard let me out and cuffed me before leading me down the hall to a small grey room that contained a single chair, and a table with a white phone on it.
“Just pick up the receiver and press the red button. You have three minutes.”
“Who the hell’s calling me?”
“Three minutes,” the guard repeated and slammed the door behind him.
I picked up the receiver and pushed the flashing red ‘hold’ button as instructed.
“Hello?”
“Randal. Listen to me closely and don’t say a goddamned word.”
My heart sank the moment I heard my father’s voice.
“Mr. Bird is on his way to get you out. You sit tight and keep your big mouth shut until he gets there.”
I said nothing.
“You understand me, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied reluctantly, and my father abruptly hung up.
Another example of a typical ‘conversation’ with my old man.
Anyone else would be more than happy to be getting out of this dump, but I knew the price I’d have to pay for my freedom, starting with a four-hour car ride with our family Lawyer, Mister-fucking-Bird.
I hung up and rapped on the door to let the guard know I was done with my call.
He returned moments later, but this time he wasn’t alone.
He was accompanied by a man that was the embodiment of Georgia law enforcement.
He was a tall, barrel-chested man wearing a perfectly starched and pressed sheriff’s uniform complete with stark white cowboy boots and hat.
“How are you doing there, Randal? My name is Sheriff Don Early, and this is my jail.”
“Nice place ya got here, Sheriff.”
“You probably don’t remember me, Randal,” the sheriff said.
“No, sir. Can’t say that I do,” I replied in complete honesty. “And it’s Duke.”
“I suppose you picked up that handle in the service, am I right?” he asked. “I’d heard that you’d enlisted and about how you were wounded over there in Vietnam.”
“I’m sorry, how do I know you?” I asked.
“Of course, you don’t remember. You were no taller than one of my huntin’ dogs last time I saw you,” Sheriff Early said with a grin wider than the brim of his hat. I had no idea who this politician cop was or why he was being so nice to me, but it made me uneasy.
“Your daddy and I are old friends,” Sheriff Early continued and my feeling of uneasiness doubled.
“I remember he once invited me and my kids to go deer hunting on your property one season,” he said, and a flood of memories came rushing to the front of my mind.
While I still didn’t have any recollection of Sheriff Early himself, I remembered that hunting trip and his shithead twin boys very clearly.
They were sadistic monsters who were a few years older than me and got off on seeing animals suffer.
On the first day of our hunt, I took down a beautiful mature doe towards the very end of the day.
I remember my old man telling us three boys to run into the thicket where she fell and make sure she wasn’t suffering.
I was around ten years old, so this wasn’t my first kill, but until this point, my father had always cut the throat of the deer once I’d taken it down.
This minimizes the animal’s suffering and is better for the quality of the game meat.
My father raised me to be respectful and resourceful with every animal that we hunted.
We hunted humanely, legally, and always used every bit of the animal we possibly could.
I was excited because my old man had allowed me to handle the task, but scared shitless to do it.
He probably figured as much which is probably why he sent the older boys with me, but instead of helping me, they thought it would be funnier to hold me down and make me watch the deer die from my bullet wound while they teased and tormented her.
We were out of sight of our fathers and by the time they let me up I ran back to the camp empty-handed.
My father was pissed about the tainted venison, but even more so that I’d returned from the thicket bloodless and crying. I hated those shithead twins for not only fucking with me, but for making the deer suffer needlessly.
“I seem to recall you took down a nice buck that day, Randal,” Sheriff Early said, snapping me back to attention.
“A doe,” I corrected.
“Is that so? I’m sure your memory is a lot better than mine these days young man,” he said in a tone shaped by years of pandering for votes. “Well, my staff knows what good friends me and your daddy are, so the moment your name came across my sergeant’s desk, he called, and I came right down.”
I bet you did.
“I’ve had the chance to catch up with your father on the telephone and apologize for this entire little mix-up.”
The only thing I wanted to mix up was this spineless dipshit’s face.
“Your father is anxious to have you back home in Savannah, so as soon as your lawyer gets here, we’ll go ahead and get you released. Sound good?”
Sound good? These cops wouldn’t have pissed on me if I was on fire when I was brought in, and this guy was treating me more like a hotel concierge than the county sheriff. This could only mean that his campaign for sheriff was bought and paid for by my old man.
“Sounds great, but there’s just one more thing,” I said casually, now knowing that this guy was in my father’s pocket and that I held all the cards.
“What’s that?” Sheriff Early said through an obvious forced smile.
“My friends. I think my father would want my friends, who were also falsely imprisoned, to be released as well.”
“What friends? I was told you were brought in alone on a traffic violation.”
“No, I ride with some of the other gentlemen in the tank. They’re hard to miss. They’re all pretty much dressed like me.”
Sheriff Early’s head snapped toward the deputy guard, who stammered through an attempt at deflecting his heat.
“The other bikers were brought in earlier, sir. We didn’t know Mr. Hill was with them. I—”
“Just get their names and make sure their release paperwork is ready by the time Mr. Hill’s lawyer gets here.”
“Yes, sir,” the deputy replied and turned for the door.
“And my good friend Pete,” I added cheerily.
“Pete?” Sheriff Early asked, his dumb hick face now turning red.
“Yes.”
“What’s Pete’s last name.”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t know his last name and yet you are good friends?”
“Very close,” I replied dryly.
Without turning away, or taking his eyes off me, Sheriff Early said, “Deputy Pine, please find Mister…Pete and have him released along with Mr. Hill and his other associates.”
“Thank you,” I said with a smile, and Deputy Pine led me back to the processing area where I waited for the arrival of Mr. Bird, Esquire.