Page 48 - Leather Blues

36 Jack Fritscher

“She can take all that meat you’re packing?”
“One way or the other.” Feed Martin enough sex-shit
and he’d let an employee do anything. “The old In and Out.”
“Wowee,” Martin said. “You guys.” He wiped his hands.
“Where’d you finally pick her up?” Martin wouldn’t quit.
“The hardware store. She was looking for a good screw.”
Martin roared and wiped his mouth. “I bet you laid her
on the level and drill-pressed her with that big dick of yours.”
Den looked at his watch. “In fact, that’s where I’m headed
if you’ll cover for me till Wally shows up for the evening.”
“Would I stand in the way of lust?” Martin said. “Go
plug her, boy. Then plug her again for me.”
God, Denny thought, what a fuckin’ idiot. “Thanks,”
he said.
He pulled off the green service-station shirt with his
name on the pocket. Outside his bike leaned in the shade.
It stopped him dead in his tracks. It was beautiful. He gave
it a good hard look. What he saw he liked: lengthened, rein-
forced frame, heavy duty clutch, oversize cam and valves,
teardrop tank, modified gearbox, advanced spark, swinging
arms. Every part of his bike was larger or smaller than its
counterpart on a straight cycle. The afternoon sun caught
shine on the exhaust pipes retreating from the cylinder
heads, flaring up by the back wheel, ending in two trum-
pet bells a little shorter than Denny was tall. Midway up
between the pipes the contoured black-leather seat began its
sky-run descent till it tapered off up front behind the small
gas tank.
“I built me one hot hog,” Denny said. Thanks to some
of the insurance money from his brother killed in action.
“Such a big hurry,” Martin yelled.
“No hurry when I like what I see.”
Den spit on Martin’s scrubbed cement. He hit the kick
starter. The motor blatted eager. Loud. His toe and wrist in
perfect sync, Denny roared out of the station. His bike had

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