Page 69 - Leather Blues

Leather Blues 57

“You get your equipment ready and I’ll deliver us an M
at eleven o’clock.”
“You said there was no such animal in this town.”
“Until this week. A new guy’s moved in. Transferred
here from San Francisco. At least I got that impression.”
“That’s a hot impression to get.” Chuck said. “Be here at
eleven. I’ll set the scene.”
The two men walked to the porch of the cabin. This time
Den took Chuck’s thumb in tight grip. “We made it, man,”
Den said.
Chuck looked straight at him. “I never doubted but that
we would.”
Den stepped off the porch, tossed his quarter-full beer
can high off into the moonlight. Beer streamed down from
it as it sailed silver out into the bushes.
“Keeping America beautiful,” Chuck said. His beer can
hung from his right hand down by his thigh. His other hand
rubbed back and forth on the grease-matted hair of his high
chest.
Den knocked down his bike, straddled it, and kicked it
alive. For a moment he stood holding it roaring between his
legs. “You okay?” he yelled at the leatherman on the porch.
Chuck said nothing. But Den could see his large smile
in the dark. Then the man’s arm came out of porchshadow:
flexed, graceful, thumbs-up. That was enough for Den. He
roared around in a circle before the cabin. Once, twice, roil-
ing up clouds of dust in the moonlight. Then he gunned
down the lane. Chuck watched the headlight beam of the
bike jump crazily over the bumps in the path. For a moment
the bike hesitated where the lane met the shoulder of the
highway. Then came a loud roar as Den gunned the bike
and cut into the traffic speeding down the concrete ribbon
into the small city.
Later that same night, Denny’s father wanted to know
where he had been. Denny refused to answer. His mother

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