Page 50 - Leather Blues

38 Jack Fritscher

Den handed them to him. “How’s your chain supply,” the
guy asked.
“Need some.”
“Have the dude in back cut you two eight-foot sections
like I got here. Less than eight’s too little. More’s too heavy to
tote.” He reached into a bin and pulled a dozen hooks. Each
had a clipsnap at each end. “Once you make connections,”
he smiled. Again easy.
Outside at the curbing, the biker waited for Den. “Some
chopper there,” he said.
“Thanks.” Denny looked straight into the cool blue eyes
What he looked for was there. “Where’s yours?”
“Around back. Smoke?”
“Pass,” Den said.
The biker lit up with an easy motion. Den judged him to
be five or six years older: twenty-three, twenty-four maybe.
His face looked lived in. Good-looking. He’d been places.
Those eyes had seen things they weren’t fast to tell. He
handed Den a small package. “Collars for your other two
dogs. They must be big mothers.”
“You like leather,” Den said.
“I am leather.”
“Games?”
“Reality. I live it, eat it, sleep it.”
Den stowed his purchases on his bike.
“I got equipment you wouldn’t believe.”
“Try me.”
“You want to see it or you want to use it?”
“Depends.”
“We got to talk, man. Nothing’s worse in the leather
scene than for two unmatched types to pick each other up,
get home and find they’re both top men or, worse, both
bottom.”
“Top?” Den said.
“S,” the guy said. “Sadist. Master.”

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