Page 43 - Leather Blues

Leather Blues 31

pure hardon show for him. He tooled the local A&W drive-
in where he’d eaten lunch. Kids hung in and out of cars.
They watched the steady stream of custom cars and pick-up
trucks circle through the lots. They tossed used prophylactics
into the windows of unsuspecting cars. They called it “scum-
bagging.” Denny passed a couple of his occasional bike bud-
dies laid back on their cycles, feet on the handlebars, smok-
ing cool and indifferent to the younger scum-baggers. He
signaled them as he passed.
The clock on the Menu Billboard said 10:34 the third
time Den looped the drive-in. He figured he’d made his john
wait long enough and cut out into the street.
“Better quiet your rig down before you bring it back,”
the cop directing traffic in and out of the lot said. Den could
tell he didn’t mean it. He wore his tan uniform too tight in
the crotch and the ass. His shoulders were broad as his blond
smile. His police knee-high boots were spit-shined. Den had
cruised the officer more than once. Sometime soon they’d
get it on.
“Anything you say, Officer,” Den said. “Keep after the
scum-baggers!”
The young cop laughed. Den accelerated. He left him in
a roaring blue cloud. Four minutes later, he kicked his bike
up outside a row of new condos. The landscaping wasn’t even
in. He buzzed the name on the card, waited, ran his fingers
through his hair.
“That you?” the voice from lunch said.
“Yeah.”
The door lock buzzed. Den ignored the small elevator.
His oily boots took the stairs two at a time. The door to the
apartment hung partway open. He pushed on in. Immacu-
late. Everything in its place. Up against one wall hung a
sheet where furniture had been precisely pushed aside. Cam-
eras lay ready. The man was kneeling in the middle of his
equipment.

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