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BLOOD BOUND
CHAPTER TWELVE - Bad News
Hoping that Carm was on duty today so I could show Lance that I knew some barmaids, too, I climbed the steps slowly, turned at the top and strode over to the table he sat at, still with his feet propped up, balanced on the rear legs of his deck chair, nearly empty beer in his left hand, his back to me. Just as I got there, he raised his right arm, hand open, willing to accept a handshake, but not begrudging himself the energy to get up.
"This has got to be the best place in Myrtle Beach to sit and watch the world go by." He explained his reluctance to make any overt moves in greeting. We grasped hands, gave a little shake and I joined him on the railing, noticing another reason why he hadn't made any big moves... five peeled Budweiser labels adorned the table in front of him.
"Ever since I bumped into this place three years ago, I haven't bought a beer anyplace else - and drank quite a few free ones, too!" Referring to the many people whom I've met here on my rides to and through Myrtle Beach. "Hell, I haven't even stopped in Myrtle in two years, I come straight here."
I noticed Lance looked older - although it's only been about 10 months since our little escapade in Winston-Salem where we both nearly got shot. Grey hairs taking hold at the temples is what I noticed most. "How's Petey?" I said, nodding toward his bike.
Strange that the two of us named our bikes with guys names, although I struggle to imagine Ol' Huck, my 1999 Ultra, in the female persuasion. I just prefer it that way.
"The esteemed Peter Pan is doing well", his gaze shifted from an unfocused scan of the old oak trees surrounding this outdoor deck to my face. "And how are you?" I can't explain the shiver that ran down my spine, but it was apparent something was wrong. His eyes were dead, no sparkle, no whimsical gleam like I recall from our first and last meeting, where life was an opportunity for some adventure. No. Something was not right in his world.
My old friend Carmella; at least I think that is her real name, I've been told to call her Carm; bounced down the steps with two frosty Buds and a shit-eating grin from one side of her face to another. "MUTHUUUUUHHHHH". Her long drawled out pronunciation of my handle was a welcome greeting, as I rose to get my customary hug and kiss on the lips, and took the brew from her hands.
"Your buddy here has been filling me in on your last exploits in that biker bar in North Carolina. Don't cause any crap here or Tom'll boot yer ass outta here!" I know she was kidding, Tom'd probably join in the crap if any was to be had. As I sat back down, she caught my eye, and hidden behind Lance's back she mouthed the words, "Is he OK?" with a look of real concern on her face. I shrugged as she brightened back up for Lance's sake and welcomed me back to Bullfeathers. I do enjoy popping in here on off-rally weekends. But it looked like this may not be a raucous reunion after all.
I sat and chit-chatted with Carm - the usual stuff, but she instinctively knew it looked like the boys might need some space and went back into the bar. When she had disappeared into the building, I sat opposite Lance and said very simply, "All right - What is it?"
"Did ya take a close look at Petey?"
Looking for some major scrape or ding that had thrown Lance into this funk, it took me nearly half a minute to focus on the Virginia License Plate... it was a personalized tag. "1YR2LIV"
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With the sun dipping below the trees, casting long shadows that blinked in my eyes unmercifully, the picture of a bull with wings on his shoulders hanging out in front of Bullfeathers was sure a welcomed sight. Lance's '53 Pan was leaning over on its jiffystand next to the outdoor deck. About 5 feet above it, on the deck rail, was a pair of pointy-toed boots, crossed at the ankle. At the other end of the long, lanky body laid back in the chair, one arm held up a Budweiser, the other two fingers, signaling the barmaid to hurry along with fresh suds.