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"Ya know," Flathead said as we cut through the parking lot, "that's the first time either one of us have left the hospital without a bandage."
"That's true, bro," I said. "Too bad we can't say the same for Tattoo Bob."
"Hey, according to Tattoo Bob, he got off lucky since him and Griz are such good friends. Two broken arms, a busted out kneecap.it's a good thing Grizzly was in a forgiving mood."
Grizzly wasn't a bear, he was a bit bigger than that. At least he must have seemed that way to Tattoo Bob. Ya see, Tattoo Bob was sticking something besides a needle into Grizzly's old lady, a stripper named Peaches. That was her stage name. Her real name was Chastity, but it just didn't fit. Melons would have been a better name, but she preferred Peaches. Nobody knew what Grizzly's real name was, but when you got a guy that big, you call him what ever he wants you to call him.
"I don't know what Tattoo Bob was thinking," Flathead said. "He's known the Griz for years. He's just gone loco since he lost his bike." You'd think we called him Flathead 'cuz of his ride, an ancient rat-bike held together by grease, dirt and a prayer, but no, Flathead had a flat head. You could set four mugs a beer on it and have room for a round of shots.
"I told him to stay away from those lawyers," I said, "but no, he thought he was gonna be rich. He saw that commercial and that was it."
Anybody with a TV on at 4 am had seen that commercial. Or heard it, anyway. Rex "The Boil" Fester, attorney at law. "I'll SUE the bastards for EVERY penny they got - and then I'll wait for them to GET MORE!" Fester shouted while rolling in a pile of twenties. "If YOU have been hurt IN ANY WAY, call me and I'll SUE the bastard!" It went on like that for a full minute, with Fester listing all the people you should sue and how he'd make you rich. Anybody with half a brain ignored him. I guess that's why Tattoo Bob paid so much attention.
"What I don't get," Flathead said, "was why Tattoo Bob ever signed over his bike. His house, yeah, and his shop, ok, but his bike?"
Flathead had a good point. Tattoo Bob had spent the past ten years piecing together his dream bike, and from the looks it got at Sturgis, I guess a lot of other people had the same dream. But Rex "The Boil" Fester convinced Tattoo Bob that when the store clerk short-changed him ten bucks, ol' Bob was 'mentally tortured, emotionally disfigured and psychologically destroyed'. This was pretty much true, but Bob had always been that way. Fester told Bob his case would be worth millions, probably settle out of court in a week, all Bob had to do was provide the upfront expense money. "What's ten thousand dollars now," Fester had said, "when you're looking at millions tomorrow?" But Tattoo Bob didn't have ten grand. It was here that Bob was introduced to the word 'collateral'. A month later, when the case was laughed out of court, Bob learned another new word. Forfeiture.
"Bob may just like it in the hospital," Flathead said as we reached our bikes. "He's always had a thing about chicks in those little black outfits with the white aprons and frills."
"Those are French maids."
"I don't care where they're made," Flathead said, "chicks with big tits look good in 'em. Hey, did you see? He had flowers in his room. I never thought Tattoo Bob was like that."
"Those weren't his idea. From what he mumbled I take it that Peaches dropped them off earlier. She says she feels bad about what happened, but you know Peaches. I think she gets off watching a good fight."
"Well I guess Tattoo Bob let her down there, too. It was pretty much over before it started."
They had a special place for bikes, far enough away from the hospital so that when you fired it up you didn't send some heart attack patient over the edge. They made up for it by posting a "Hogs Only" sign on the shelter. I guess we provided a lot of their business.
"Holy shit," Flathead said, pointing down the row of bikes. "Is that Tattoo Bob's ride?"
Mixed in with the stock the interns drove and the wrecks that guys like me kept on the road were a few custom jobs. On their own they would have attracted a crowd of slack-jawed gawkers, but at the end of the shelter sat a work of art that made the other bikes look like A-cups in a wet tee-shirt contest. From the flame job on the teardrop gas tank - a Slippery Pete original - to the gunslinger seat custom made by Miss Dominique's Bondage and Leather Shoppe, Tattoo Bob's bike set the standard in these parts. There was more chrome on this single down tube chopper than on the next four bikes combined and the pipes alone were worth more than my ride. When the sun caught it right, like it did just then, you swear you saw angels.
"I thought he lost his ride to that guy Fester," Flathead said.
"He did. So if the bike's here, maybe that peckerhead's around here too."
"I could sue you for that," a voice said behind me. "That's defamation of character, slander and possibly even a hate crime." Rex "The Boil" Fester didn't shout like he did on TV, but he still had that same grating voice, like a tail pipe dragging over old concrete. He was about my height but thinner and he walked as if he was trying to say 'I could kick your ass', a good sign he'd never been in a fight. He had on a leather with some big ol' fancy letters engraved right in - YSL. Must have been some European bike. He was pulling on riding gloves and the way he was doing it you just had to notice his manicure. His shoes had little tassels on 'em.
"And that's my bike you're breathing on. I could call that trespassing but, hey, one fellow biker to another."
Flathead gave me a look and mumbled something about boils on his ass, and I watched as Fester started to strap on a helmet an astronaut would be too embarrassed to wear.
"You're that guy on TV," Flathead said. "The loud one."
"And the rich one. That ad pulls in some of my best business. I still like to get out and drum up my own business, though. Keeps my instincts sharp. Like today. I saw a busload of school kids hit a pothole. Spent a good hour convincing moms and dads that x-rays needed to taken and letting the little darlings know that while they feel fine now, in the morning they could be dead." He smiled this weird looking smile, the kind you see on a rabid puppy. "I see you're admiring my motorcycle."
"This was Tattoo Bob's bike," I said, pointing to the ride.
"Was is the key word in that sentence. He couldn't pay his bills and the wheels of justice intervened. That case had such promise, too. He should have stuck with it."
"I guess he didn't understand your fee structure," I said.
"That's the idea," Fester said, adjusting his gloves. "I can tell you're a man of the world. I could work with a man like you. How'd you like to be rich?"
I shook my head. "A beer's still a buck over at the titty-flap bar and I roll my own. I guess I got plenty 'nuff."
"Think it over," Fester said. "We could start by suing
your hair stylist."
"My old lady cuts my hair," I said.
"Excellent! We can use the public humiliation as grounds for divorce. We could get everything she's got."
"I'm all she's got," I said.
Fester laughed. "Come on now, no one's that bad off. How about your friend there? Somebody should pay for the damage they did to him."
Flathead smiled and nodded. He was proud of his scars and was glad Fester had noticed.
"What'd ya say, big guy? Wanna get rich?"
Flathead looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. "Do I?"
I though for a second and said, "Nah. Where would you keep it? You can't find a place for that old chopped frame you got now."
"I should have known it," Fester said as he swung his leg over Tattoo Bob's bike. "No imagination. Now me, I'm always thinking. Puts me one step ahead of the next guy."
"Maybe," I said. "But someday you're gonna run across a guy who thinks different from you and then you'll be ten steps behind."
Fester struggled with the kickstand and it took him a while to get himself balanced on the bike. Part of me wanted to see him dump it right there, maybe with his leg trapped underneath. But then I thought about Slippery Pete's flame job and just wanted to see the man's leg broken instead.
"Let me tell you something," Fester said when he finally got himself situated. "When opportunity knocks, you have to act. Like right now. I met a hot babe in the hospital an hour ago - blonde, tan, long legs, huge tits."
"She got green eyes? And a half-finished heart tattoo on arm?" I said.
"And a silver chain with a little bear on it?" Flathead added.
"Her name's Peaches," Fester said. "She's in the entertainment industry. See, that's the difference between you and me. I act, you let opportunity slip on by. I'm meeting her right now over at that bar by the docks. She wanted something secluded," he said as he winked. "You know what that means."
Fester started the bike but it just didn't sound the same. You could tell the bike knew what she was carrying. It took him a good two minutes to back the bike out from the shelter and another to get it pointing in the right direction. She fought him for every inch. "If you ever get bright enough to see an opportunity," he said handing Flathead one of his cards. "I'll even pay for the call," he added, flipping him a quarter. He stalled out, started back up and finally pulled away.
I stood there for a minute, wishing a tractor-trailer would suddenly appear in his path. Flathead kept himself busy ripping the card into tiny pieces.
"Do you hear that?" I said, tilting my head to the side. Flathead did the same, listened for a second and shook his head.
"That, Flathead, is the sound of opportunity knocking." We turned and headed back to the hospital. I had spotted a payphone in the lobby. "I think we have the opportunity to help out our good friend Grizzly."
"Here," Flathead said, handing me the quarter Fester had flipped him. "It's on me."
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