Danny moved his head against the smell of spilled beer and stifling sweat. His cheek pushed against bits of glass, cigarette butts, beer, and blood.
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Danny was unconscious for a treacherous five minutes. Before opening his eyes, he touched the side of his face with his twisted right hand. His throbbing temple was gooey wet with blood. A spasm of fear ran through his body, and his eyes jolted open. The jukebox, though lying on its side, continued to spew out a Led Zeppelin tune. For as far as he could see, scalpel-sharp glass shards glistened on the floor. No one was in sight. The bar appeared deserted...but something was wrong. Danny moved his head against the smell of spilled beer and stifling sweat. His cheek pushed against bits of glass, cigarette butts, beer, and blood. Nearby, he heard someone breathing erratically, and gurgling as if his lungs were congested with a terrible cold.
His sticky skull throbbing like a jackhammer, Danny rotated his head in the opposite direction. Two feet away, the small, wiry biker who had fought Eddie lay on his back in a pool of dark liquid. A knife handle protruded from his chest. His mouth opened and shut like a fish out of water, and his bloody hands encircled the carved wooden hilt and brass bolsters. Dazed, Danny stared at the rosewood handle, wiping at his eyes, trying to force them to focus.
The realization hit like a gunshot. A pile driver seemed to hammer his brain, and he groaned, desperately reaching behind his back to his sheath. His knife was gone. With his dying breath, the slight Mexican struggled futilely to release Danny's own blade, buried deeply in his chest. Danny rolled over to assist, bringing himself up on a bruised elbow and wrapping his good hand around the specially-carved grip. At that precise moment, the doorway to the bar burst open and a barrage of flashlight beams entered.
"Police!" a young officer shouted, just as a baton struck the side of Danny's head. "This one ain't going nowhere," another anonymous, uniformed voice boasted.
"Except to trial-for murder," the sergeant commented grimly, looking at the Mexican and the unconscious biker holding the knife.
The young Dago exhaled a final time, and his hands relaxed their death grip around the polished wood and fell to his sides. His last gasp sounded like the final wisp of air escaping from a flat tire. Three Emergency Medical Team members pulled Danny off the body and heaved him onto a waiting gurney.
Danny was one of a kind, a biker to the bone ever since he was a kid. In high school, he had sketched motorcycles and dreamed about the day he'd own one himself. And when he could, he hung out with a biker who lived a few streets away. His folks drove him hard, both at school and on the field. He was good at sports, performed well in the classes that challenged him, and was recognized as a tough guy on campus. But school wasn't his thing. He didn't get along well with his teachers, and he was impatient with required courses. For Danny, the mechanical won over the scholastic. At home, his mom disapproved of the group he hung out with, kids who lowered cars and slicked their hair. His dad, a hard-working machinist and tool designer in the oil fields, enjoyed seeing his son get his hands dirty, and making things work, like when Danny replaced the transmission in the 1948 Nash that was his first car.
Two days later, Danny woke up in the hospital ward of county jail. As he fought to regain his bearings in the fog filling his mind, a nurse disappeared from the room and two uniformed officers entered, one pushing a ramshackle wheelchair.
Danny's head swam as the young officer began. Faintly, Danny heard a disembodied voice, intoning, "You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney."
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"Get in," the older cop ordered. His partner began reading Danny his rights as he struggled out of the bed and stumbled into the rusty, decrepit wheelchair. His head was swollen with a concussion, his side throbbed from a slashing knife wound. Nausea welled up in his stomach.
Danny's head swam as the young officer began. Faintly, Danny heard a disembodied voice, intoning, "You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney." He pitched violently against the armrests as a uniformed officer jerked the wheelchair out of the room and into the brightly lighted hall. Danny passed out again as the cop finished reading his rights, but when the chair came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the glaring hall, consciousness returned. Trying to open his eyes, Danny squinted at the neatly pressed uniforms flanking him, then at the hazy succession of white smocks moving quickly up and down the polished linoleum hall. He was baffled, uncomprehending. His mind refused to function, and every bone in his body ached.
One of the cops stepped directly in front of Danny, then, in a loud voice, announced, "Danny Lonsdale, you are under arrest for the murder of 24-year-old Sancho Gomez. Do you understand? Do you understand? " The cop was shouting, startling everyone in the hall, and causing many to turn and stare at the young ruffian, his form bent and twisted in the chair, confused and in pain. Nurses shook their heads in disgust; doctors shrugged, returning to their work. Danny's body shook, and he slumped down in the wheelchair, his eyes closing involuntarily.
Danny had graduated from high school primarily because his mom was hell-bent on his getting an education. But immediately after getting his diploma, he joined the army to study helicopter mechanics, spending the next two years flying operations in and out of Vietnam jungles. The service affected him much like high school-he hated every restrictive moment and pointless routine, longing for the freedom of the open road. Wounded, decorated, and disliked by his superiors at the age of 22, he left southeast Asia for home, already beginning to grow a beard before the plane lifted off for San Francisco.
To straight citizens, Danny's life appeared to go directly into the toilet. But to Danny's way of thinking, the next couple of years were the best of his life. The G.I. Bill paid his tuition for classes at the local community college, as well as for welding training at Trade Tech, in Long Beach. His hair was long, and his untrimmed beard grew down to his chest. He tore an old cop bike to the ground and rebuilt it. He spent his days working on bikes and going to school. He spent his nights in the wind, alone, searching the midnight hour for loose women and action.
Danny found plenty of both.
Danny awoke when the two officers rolled the wheel chair into a tiny, 5-by-7-foot cell and dumped him on the bunk. His knees smacked against the hard, metal frame, jarring him awake.
"Whenever you come around, scumbag," the younger cop hissed, leaning close to Danny's blinking eyes, "you'll wish it was you that died. In case you hadn't heard, that Mexican kid croaked with your knife stuck in his chest."
Danny blinked, then stared unbelievingly with wide-open eyes. "I didn't kill him!" he gasped, before passing out again on the thin cotton mattress.
Danny slept for 18 hours. When he awoke, he rubbed his eyes groggily, struggling to sit up on the sagging, spring-supported mattress held by the angle-iron frame. Surveying his bleak surroundings, he realized he was alone with his thoughts, fears, and confusion. Barely 25, and with no record except for being known as a member of the notorious Night Hawks, he had never been in jail before. Nonetheless, he was well aware that his patch was an automatic two strikes against his sorry ass.
The cell made Danny claustrophobic and depressed. Its cramped confines held no TV, no chair, no shelves-just the stainless steel commode, sink, and dingy bunk.
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"Lonsdale, your girlfriend is here to see you," an officer shouted down the line of holding cells. Danny got up, stretched his 6 ft., 1 in. frame, splashed water on his face, and did what he could to make himself presentable. Dejectedly, he tugged at the bandages on his head, elbow and side, all of which were beginning to fall off. Looking at his reflection in the polished stainless steel sheet bolted to the wall, he didn't know what to make of anything. Except that he was sure he hadn't killed that Dago, and that he had no business being in jail. Still, he knew instinctively that things looked bad, and that the Man was looking for someone to take the fall. Facing this sort of crisis for the first time, he was scared, as well as concerned about his club brothers. He felt isolated, out of the loop.
The cell made Danny claustrophobic and depressed. Its cramped confines held no TV, no chair, no shelves-just the stainless steel commode, sink, and dingy bunk. The heavy, steel door slowly opened, and Danny stepped into the long, concrete hall. At the end of the corridor, another iron door opened, and he was led into a small concrete room whose only furnishings were three chairs, and a large, rectangular oak table with a low partition down the center.
Sissy sat on the far side of the table, her baby face trembling slightly. She was a petite, 5 ft., 1 in. tall, with round features and straight red hair. Sissy had eyes that could melt a battleship, and a pair of soft, pouting lips. As Danny entered the room, she jumped to her feet and ran around the table to hug him. For an instant, he felt her warmth against his body, and her full tits pressed against his chest. Then, just as quickly, a guard burst into the room and separated them.
"Sit down, damnit, on the other side of the table," the guard barked. "No contact. You've got five minutes to talk, then you gotta leave." He paused dramatically, then slammed the door.
But Sissy's charms had their effect on the guard. Even as the last words blurted from his mouth, his expression softened as her moist eyes and terror-ridden features began to melt his cold demeanor.
"How are you, baby?" Danny asked.
"I miss you so much," Sissy said, whimpering.
"Can you bail me out?" Danny asked.
"You're going to be arraigned for murder today," she replied, bursting into tears. "They may not give you bail."
"But, goddamnit, I didn't do it!" Danny shouted, slamming his fist down hard on the grimy wooden tabletop.
"I know, honey," Sissy murmured soothingly. "But they found your knife in the Dago's chest. It's starting a war between the clubs."
For the briefest instant, Danny sensed a hint of treachery, along with mingled, confused, feelings of fear, uncertainty, and resolve. He looked down at his hands clenched on the table's oak surface. Feeling strength returning to his soul as he healed, Danny stared at the young, street-savvy girl sitting across from him, and wondered what was next. It was all he could handle just to process what was happening to and around him as he sat quietly in his concrete and iron cell.
"Honey, said Sissy, lowering her voice, "the guys want you to know that, if you hold your mud...well, you know."
"There's nothing to hold my mud about!" Danny shouted, pressing his sweating palms against the worn grain of the tabletop. "I didn't kill the guy, and I don't know who did!"
"Keep to that, and you'll be okay," Sissy whispered, leaning forward, so that his tired eyes could explore her cleavage.
Nevertheless, from time to time, he wondered if the innocent-looking sweetie wearing those cute, farmer overalls, and sporting her ever-present dazzling smile, was all peaches and cream.
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Danny loved Sissy's melt-in-your-mouth lips, the delicate, child-like softness of her skin, her guileless immaturity, and the kid-like glee she usually displayed. She was born to party, and had done just that. At night, she played, availing herself of whatever drugs were available. During the day, she pored over the classified ads, looking for neglected animals. She would adopt rabbits, chickens, ducks, cats, dogs-anything that was being given away. Their half- acre plot of land had evolved into a menagerie of homeless animals, but she cared for each one with tremendous love.
In spite of Sissy's genuine affection for animals, there had always been a hint of larceny in her eyes. She seemed to relish being involved in dangerous drug deals, and shoplifting thrilled her. For the most part, Danny regarded her eccentricities as merely signs of a good-hearted, ready-to-party, biker woman. Nevertheless, from time to time, he wondered if the innocent-looking sweetie wearing those cute, farmer overalls, and sporting her ever-present dazzling smile, was all peaches and cream.
"I love you, baby," Sissy said, reaching across the counter and bending lower to reveal her braless chest. "I'll be here for you until they cut you loose."
"Are all the others all right?" Danny inquired.
"They're fine, except for a few cuts and bruises," Sissy replied, brightening, "It was all over the papers."
"Who's coming down to see me?" Danny asked, wondering when his brothers would show up.
"They're all lying low right now," Sissy muttered, averting her eyes. "Did I tell you that the Devils Own have come to their aid?"
"No. Whattaya mean?" Danny asked, puzzled.
"Some of the Devils Own don't like the Dagos either," the girl replied, softly. "A few of them came to the meeting the other night."
Danny scratched his unshaven chin and reflected. The Devils Own were the most notorious club of all, with the most sought-after patch on the planet. Everyone who had ever straddled a Harley longed to be a Wildcat sometime in his life. As a Night Hawk, Danny enjoyed his one-chapter club, but he was still strongly attracted to that embroidered flamed skull. There was always the hope in the ranks that the Hawks would be absorbed by the Devils Own, but it was more a dream than anything. For a fleeting moment, Danny's thoughts escaped his prison predicament, his mind returning to his life in the club, as if he was still on the streets. Undeniably, he enjoyed the tough intrigue, the close calls with the cops, the fist fights and the empty city streets late at night. Bitterly, he ached to be free.
Sissy left in a shower of tears, and within an hour, Danny had showered, donned a pair of fluorescent orange, prison overalls, and stood in front of the walnut counter of the arraignment judge. He sat shackled, his wrists and ankles chained to the heavy leather belt encircling his waist. The courtroom was almost empty, and as quiet as a coffin. Still disoriented, Danny shivered, feeling numb and sleepy in the chill of the cold room. He was startled back to wakefulness by the bailiff's announcement of the judge's entrance.
"All rise," the officer boomed to the empty room. "Court is now in session, the honorable Judge Ray Ralston, presiding."
A grim-faced, humorless-looking elderly man mounted the steps up to the desk and tossed a file on his blotter. "You may as well remain standing, Mr. Lonsdale," the imposing judge said, sitting back and peering scornfully over the top of the half-lens reading glasses perched low on his nose. "I have a first-degree murder felony complaint against you, Mr. Lonsdale. How do you plead?"
"Not guilty," Danny mumbled, his knees weakening. The reality of his predicament was truly beginning to hit home.
"Do you have legal representation?" the judge barked, seeming to imply that Danny deserved none.
"No, sir," Danny responded.
Then the court will assign a public defender for you," the judge stated, curtly. "Any questions?"
"Thousands," Danny said. "But this isn't the time to ask them, I guess. Any hope of bail?"
"No bail in a murder complaint," the judge spat down at the accused, "unless there are extenuating circumstances."
"How 'bout if I'm innocent?" Danny snapped back.
Danny felt a freezing chill penetrate all the way to the marrow of his bones. Listening to his fate declared from the pinched-face, gray-haired judge, he felt more vulnerable than ever before in his entire life, more apprehensive than on a Vietnam mission.
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The judge cut the biker off sharply. "That will do, Mr. Lonsdale," he said sternly, glaring over his reading glasses like a vulture eyeing its prey. "A public defender will contact you within 24 hours. He will have 10 days to prepare for your preliminary hearing, although in your case, I don't anticipate any extensive investigation. At that hearing, the judge will determine whether this complaint is reasonable, then you have 14 days to prepare for rearraignment in Superior Court."
"But when do we get down to the trial?" Danny asked, uncertainly.
"After your hearing in Superior Court, your attorney has 60 days to prepare for trial, or request a continuance. Thank you, Mr. Lonsdale," the judge concluded, abruptly, standing up and leaving the room.
Danny felt a freezing chill penetrate all the way to the marrow of his bones. Listening to his fate declared from the pinched-face, gray-haired judge, he felt more vulnerable than ever before in his entire life, more apprehensive than on a Vietnam mission. Even while his helicopter was under fire and he was trying to rescue fellow grunts caught in a crossfire in a burning village, Danny hadn't been this fearful of a disastrous outcome. Even as the fuselage lifted from the smoke, carrying too much weight, with guys dangling by their armpits from the landing gear while the enemy sprayed them with automatic rifle fire, Danny wasn't this scared. In combat, his efforts may have seemed hopeless at the moment, but at least he had been able to move, to take whatever action he could. Stymied in the confines of the courtroom, Danny felt terrified and helpless. He couldn't make a move.
Glumly, Danny realized he was stuck, his hands tied, separated his brothers by a wall of hostile, unfeeling, opposition. As the judge pronounced the crime for which he would be tried, Danny's heart sank. He knew, the D.A, knew-and his public defender would soon discover-that he was in very deep shit indeed. He had no defense, no money, no witnesses, and little or no hope.
In the simplistic view of the law and the public, Danny was an outlaw biker. And bikers deserved the worst.
End of Chapter Two
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