Lead Belly
By
David Donaghe
Lead Belly By
David Donaghe
Copy Right 2012 David Donaghe
This short story, Lead Belly is a work of fiction. Names characters, places, organizations, or any motorcycle club mentioned in this story are either a product of the authors imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity between any of the characters, events or organizations in this book is purely coincidental.
Chico hit the breaks, backed off the throttle and, pulled his Fat Boy off the main road and onto a gravel dirt driveway on the outskirts of Harlem Springs Arizona. Tiny and Dirty Dan followed. They slowed down, not wanting their tires to slide out from under them on the gravel, and pulled up to an old mobile home at the end of the driveway.
Lead Belly took a pull from a bottle of Jack while he sat on the front porch watching them approach. His 1984 Harley Davison Shovel Head set parked next to a beat up 1968 Ford pickup truck. A halfway grin crossed Lead Belly’s face when he saw his bros from the Road Dogs motorcycle club pull up and park their scooters.
“I figured you all would show up this morning. You guys want a drink?” he said standing to his feet. Chico climbed the steps onto the porch; Tiny, and Dirty Dan stepped up behind him.
“You knew we weren’t going to let you go through this alone. We wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Chico said.
They did some backslapping and a tear tracked down Lead Belly’s face. “I’m fine bro.”
“You know we’re here for you,” Dirty Dan said.
“I know man. Here, you guys have a shot while I go inside and get a few more chairs,” Lead Belly said, handing them the bottle of Jack. He stepped inside the trailer.
“Do you think he knew?” Tiny asked, after Lead Belly went inside.
“What? That Cheri was on the shit? Of course, he knew, with all those trips she was making to Phoenix, he had to know. You can’t get that shit here. There will be no Crystal Meth in Harlem Springs as long as I’m the president of the Road Dogs.”
“The walls of this trailer are paper thin,” Lead Belly said, when he stepped out onto the front porch with three more chairs.
“I’m sorry bro,” Tiny, a massive biker, built like a refrigerator with a long scruffy beard, said, “We didn’t mean nothing by it.”
Lead Belly waved them off. “No problem bro. Have a seat.”
They sat down and passed the bottle back and forth. “Yeah, I knew. We fought about it all the time. You know my history. I don’t know how I had the strength to resist. She used to do lines right in front of me on the kitchen table. It was everything I could do, to say no.”
“You should have told us. We could have done something to help,” Chico said.
“I thought that if you knew, you’d kick me out of the club. I thought, you’d think I was back on the shit again.”
“No, if you were back on the shit, I’d know, but we could of done something about Cheri. We could have forced her to go to rehab or something,” Chico said.
“She wouldn’t have gone. I should have cut her loose along time ago, but I was afraid too,” Lead Belly replied.
“You loved her man. That would have been a hard thing to do,” Dirty Dan, a short grubby looking biker with a gray beard said.
“Yeah, well it’s too late now. She’s dead.”
“Don’t worry about the services or anything. The club will cover everything,” Chico said and stood to his feet. “Why don’t you climb on that scooter and ride down to the clubhouse with us. We’ll do some partying. I know there’s some women down there that would love to help you keep your mind off your sorrows.”
“There’s never a shortage of women hanging around the clubhouse,” Tiny said.
“There’s that girl Janet from Subway. I swear that girl has a thing for you,” Dirty Dan replied.
Lead Belly laughed. “No, you guys go. I don’t feel up to it.”
Chico stood on the front porch with his right hand in his pants pocket. A concerned look crossed his face. “All right bro, just don’t do anything stupid.”
Lead Belly waved good-bye and watched his club brothers climb on their scooters and ride away. Once they pulled onto the main road and roared away, he pulled a 357 Magnum Ruger Blackhawk handgun from his vest. He took a bullet from the box, setting next to his chair, popped out the revolving cylinder put a bullet into the cylinder, popped the cylinder closed and then gave it a spin. Putting the barrel of the weapon up against his temple, he cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger.
After leaving Lead Belly’s mobile home, Chico and his bros headed to the main road, turned left and headed toward town. Another motorcycle, an older ratty looking Pan Head passed them by going the opposite direction. The rider, an older bearded dude wearing worn out jeans and a scruffy denim vest waved as he went by. Chico glanced in his rearview mirror looking at the patch on the guy’s back. Hitting his brake, Chico pulled into a Seven Eleven and pulled into a parking space. Tiny and Dirty Dan pulled in next to him. They killed the motors and climbed off the bikes.
“Who was that guy? He looked familiar. Is he one of ours?” Dirty Dan asked.
“I never seen him, but I seen his picture. This is some strange shit man, but he looked like someone from The Book of The Dead,” Tiny replied. The Book Of The Dead was a leather bound photo album that they kept pictures of their fallen brothers.
“It looked like he was heading toward Lead Belly’s place. Did you see that box of bullets under Lead Belly’s chair? I think he’s gonna eat his piece. We’d better go back,” Dirty Dan said.
Chico let out a sigh. “You’re right. This is some strange shit. I’ve seen that guy before and I seen that patch. It’s the Halo patch. Remember that time when we had that trouble with the Hell Raisers in The Devil’s Punch Bowl? That guy showed up then.”
“That’s right. I remember now. I must have blocked that shit out, and remember when Sonny passed? We were outside of the clubhouse talking when he and Sonny appeared out of nowhere on their scooters like a couple of ghost. This is weird man,” Tiny said.
“That guy’s name is Cave Man. He died back in sixty-eight. If he’s here, then he’s here for a reason,” Chico said.
“Yeah, I remember him. He and Big Mike used to be tight. Big Mike was down in Florida visiting his mom when Cave Man died. We’d better go back man,” Dirty Dan replied.
Chico lit a smoke. “If Lead Belly wants to take himself out there’s no way we could talk him out of it. Maybe that dude can. Let’s ride.” He tossed his smoke to the ground, climbed back onto his bike, fired it up and hit the highway. Tiny and Dirty Dan pulled in behind him and they roared down the highway heading to the Road Dogs clubhouse.
I touched down on the highway one hundred miles West of Harlem Springs Arizona. My radiant steed of dazzling light shimmered when I touched ground loosing is brilliance and changed into an older Pan Head Harley Davidson Motorcycle. My name is John Brown, but my bros call me Cave Man and I’m a troubleshooter from beyond. When they told me in Biker Heaven that one of the bros was in trouble and needed a little help, I volunteered for the job. Whenever I get the chance to come back and be mortal for a while, I take it, but it was more than that. When they patched me into the club, those long years ago when I was still alive, I swore an oath: Road Dogs in life and Road Dogs in death. I take my word seriously and when a bro’s in trouble, I’ll do whatever I can to help.
I rolled past the old oak tree that I hit at over one-hundred and ten miles an hour, back in 1968 after a flesh-eating zombie bit me. That crash bought me a one-way ticket to Biker Heaven. After I partied for what seemed like eternity, the powers that be asked me to join up with a group of troubleshooters that wear the halo patch. Whenever there is trouble in t
he biker world and they need help from the other side, they send us. Cranking the throttle, I headed east passing a dirt trail leading back to an old cabin that Sonny used to own. Sonny, a former chapter president, is now living it up in Biker Heaven after cancer took him out. Sonny left the cabin to the club after he passed and the bros still partied there sometimes. It felt good to feel the breeze blowing through my hair and the wind in my face as I motored down a lonely desert highway heading toward Harlem Springs.
When I hit the edge of town, I passed the Road Dogs clubhouse, a bar known as The High Noon Saloon, and continued east. The bros were at the clubhouse like usual, but my mission wasn’t there, I needed to have a talk with Lead Belly. A feeling of nostalgia shot through me when I passed Honey Suckle Court, the street where I grew up. I turned right onto an outlying road and headed south. Three motorcycles passed going the