Chapter Two Twelve Minutes to Strike Thomas "Snake" Agalini wasn't new to thievery. Out of self-survival, he was forced into stealing bikes and dismantling the bounty before the exhaust pipes cooled. The scrawny, coyote-faced fool sat behind the wheel of his pickup wearing a sweat-soaked T-shirt, denims and narrow sunglasses. He was so obvious that he could have posted a "Thief On Board" sign in the back window and no one would have even flinched. After he stole a Harley, disassembly was handled swiftly, all parts put in a mixing bin with the oil-saturated entrails of other two-wheeled carcasses and stirred until each part became just another number on a shelf. An immediate death blow to any motorcycle's identity, it would never be the same. Although stealing motorcycles, and exclusively Harley-Davidsons, wasn't Thomas's mainstay, he dealt drugs so poorly that he was forced to supplement his topsy-turvy cocaine trade with cash from contraband. Always under duress--usually from having personally snorted the bulk of his inventory--in order to pay a debt or buy a new supply, he hunted down a bike, stalked it, tore it apart and sold its remains in less than a couple of days. Last Saturday Snake had stumbled into his connection. In spite of Thomas's recent difficulties in keeping his account paid up, the dealer had tauntingly announced and pushed a new shipment. Snake couldn't refuse the offer, accepting 2 ounces of the pungent white crystals. By the time he reached his pad he had passed half a gram under his nose and his mind was already loose from its connections and freewheeling in his head. It was noon before he pulled up to his crumbling home and found his girl still in bed. He coaxed her awake with a silver spoon and soon they were flying through brunch in their minds. It wasn't until the next day at high noon that Snake could ponder the sale of what remained of the rapidly disappearing drug. If he sold it right away, before it vanished into the couple's eager nostrils, he might be able to cover what it had cost him. Maybe. Thomas pulled his black, greasy hair back into a ponytail while he sat in his mid-fifties pickup across from Ferris Industries. Bony fingers nervously twisting the black mass into a rubber band returned to drumming the pitted metal dash as he surveyed the employees' parking lot. This was his third time studying Mick's parking and lock-up routine. Thomas was late with his drug payment and substantially short on the amount. Depending on whether or not the tall, wavy-haired biker planned on working late, he would secure the bike in varying degrees. Only when he stayed late at the plant would he slip a massive padlock through the rear disc. He religiously locked the large, steel ignition switch on the fatbob gas tank's shiny, chrome centerpiece. The set of 12-inch channel lock pliers, now lying beside Thomas on the pickup's threadbare seat, would make short order of the chromed switch. Snake got his nickname because of his slippery, narrow appearance. His constant use of drugs caused him to sweat profusely, and his physical appearance, long and narrow, added to the illusion of this slimy, slinking form. While transacting a drug purchase in his early twenties, he sat in a metal folding chair across a makeshift coffee table from two other gangsters. They watched intently as Agalini sat in the chair as though he had no spine, no ass and no waist. When offered a toot from the large mirror on the table, he slithered down, not bending at the waist. His nose leading the way, he slipped out of the chair feet first, to coil in front of the foot-high table. Licking his lips much as a snake's tongue would dart in and out, he savored the smell, then his nostrils flared and he went in for the kill. Simultaneously the two gangsters turned and looked and one another, "He's a fucking snake." The name stuck. The padlock was currently missing, which usually meant that the big man would not be working late. Thomas would have to make his move before 5:00 p.m. Glaring through smudged, narrow sunglasses, his hollow, pock-marked face covered in a sheen of sweat, Thomas shifted anxiously in his seat and glanced at his watch. It was already 4:48. He pulled a soiled vial of coke out of his pocket and took a deep snort. When the rush subsided, he twisted his inflamed nostrils to relieve the twitching. As the drug settled into his brain, he kicked himself for more dipping into the company profits. He was jeopardizing not only his business, but also his life. No foreclosing on a bad drug deal, no escapes through bankruptcy laws. This was the pay, or lay in a shallow grave, school of business. But while the coke worked its magic in his mind, confidence was high. He started to get out of the truck, noticed another vehicle leaving the lot, and hesitated. The second stage of the high, only a handful of minutes after the first, brought intense paranoia. He wanted to move before it struck. Generally, he bagged bikes from behind bars late at night. In this treacherous case, he was running short of time. His reputation with his pushers was frail, fragmented, precarious and nearly non-existent. They would have no qualms leveling a silenced, .22 caliber automatic at his skull and leaving him in a ditch. The thought caused him to drum the dash with new intensity. The last bike he stole was still warm, on its kickstand behind a biker bar at 1:00 a.m. in the morning. The drunk rider dismounted, left the ignition unlocked to grab one more shot before closing time, and went inside. Thomas was on the bike before it stopped vibrating. He rode it home, snorted a gram of coke while dismantling the early '60s Harley, and sold it the next morning. Before noon, he had paid off his time bomb dealer, stopped the clock, and was high again by 3:00 p.m. Where had the time gone? Thomas glanced at the watch and looked for an opening. Something seemed wrong. It was as if the bike belonged on that oil-stained spot of pavement. Generally, he wasn't interested in the machines. They were just a vehicle to a clean drug account. Even as a kid, he had no interest in bicycles. He watched the kids on the block take pride in their bikes, and he'd steal them and trade for cigarettes, but occasionally, like in high school, he picked the wrong bike. A blond athletic type moved into the duplex down the block from his parents. Even then, Thomas was skinny, zitfaced, slicked hair with darting blue eyes. He took on the tough-guy appearance although he lacked fighting skills, so with every heist he became more paranoid and reclusive. More than the kids around him, Thomas suspected himself of being detected. The new kid at the end of the block was the epitome of confidence. He bounded from the duplex to his bike with a light air, and rode it like a pro. Thomas reeked of jealously. But as he stalked the bike, he noticed an attitude in the boy and a connection with the bike he hadn't seen in the other kids. The blond kid lived with his mother, no father. Just before his father passed away, he gave the 10-speed to his son. The tall, muscular boy polished the bike incessantly, worked over the chrome and cables with thin soft strips of towels and carefully took any unnecessary accessories off the bike, wrapped and stored them. When he was through with his project, the light European model was slim, sleek and compact. The machine was carefully stored in the small back yard and covered with a heavy canvas protection. Thomas watched with awe as the boy reveled in the pride of ownership, the form and function of each spoke, and when he rode he appeared to be one with the machine flowing into the corner at the end of the block. The image was alien to Thomas, who watched the bike like a cat watches someone throw out a half-empty tuna can. Two weeks later, Thomas scaled the 10-foot fence behind the Spanish-style duplex and uncovered the bike. As the canvas pulled free and he looked at the carefully maintained detail and deep, polished, metallic blue paint and soft leather seat, a chill ran up his spine. He pulled the front of the bike away from the wood fence, and as he did, something moved. A small piece of clear, monofilament fishing line, 10-lb test, was tied to the front wheel. It led to an empty gallon wine bottle on the ledge of the second-story balcony. Thomas turned, then jumped back as the bottle crashed to the cement walkway in the center of the yard. It exploded, showering Thomas with glass. Immediately, a light went on in the house. Thomas stepped back in shock and listened as a sound like a herd of thundering horses came clamoring down the stairs. Thomas turned to run, but the gate was padlocked heavily from the inside. He leaped for the edge of the fence and was pulling with all his might when the blond kid grabbed his ankle. That night, Thomas learned that, to some, their vehicles meant more than just simple transportation. That same chill was rolling up Snake's spine as he looked at the immaculate Panhead waiting for its owner. Thomas snorted another rounded capful of coke from a small vial duct taped beneath the dash. His fear was overshadowed by the glistening crystals, and his confidence momentarily returned. In order to strike with deadly precision, he knew from experience that he had to lose any tentative feelings which could lead to fear or hesitation. He looked at his watch again: 4:50. Desperately trying to shake off the paranoid effect of the coke he had ingested, Thomas wiped his face with a stained handkerchief. He was hooked on the stuff. He needed it to answer the craving, but no sooner did the drug reach the sensitive areas in his sinus membranes, but paranoia would return. He spent entire days bouncing from paranoia to craving and back. Thomas could barely drive the rickety pickup from stoplight to stoplight without dipping into his stash or sneaking a quick blast. He tried to convince himself daily that he still had control over his addiction, but he instinctively knew that somewhere along the way a line had been crossed and that his crutch now owned him. Thomas quickly decided that the strange delusion that this bike was somehow different from the others he had stolen, butchered, and cannibalized was nothing more than his own drug-induced paranoia playing tricks on him. The delusion had to be smashed. An easy mark meant easy cash, he reassured himself, and this bike was just a pile of metal and rubber like the rest. He had no more time to waste on hesitating about such a ripe target--not with less than ten minutes to get the job done. Leaning forward on the dash for a better view through dark sunglasses, he dabbed his beaded forehead with the sweat-soaked bandanna reeking of everything from gasoline to piss. He shook it out before stuffing it back in his pants pocket. Thomas pushed open the rusty truck door. It creaked like the hinges on a heavy jail cell door. Startled by the sound, he turned, pondered and twisted his black goatee, then kicked himself. He didn't like any aspect of this caper--the daylight, the noises, the employees. But he especially didn't like the threat of death that loomed over him like a hammer's head poised over a 16-penny nail. Thomas stepped out from the truck and tugged at the waistband on his Levi's to keep them from sliding down his scrawny ass. He looked more like a derelict than a thief. His protein-starved skeleton was over six feet tall, and was bent over at the shoulders. The bones of his angular frame protruded against his tattered T-shirt. Trying to pump up his less than confident act, Thomas forced his slouching shoulders upright. As he slowly closed the door, it let out a sudden shrill squeak, causing him to flinch. The sidewalk seemed wider than a football field and his knees shook as if he were standing under the scrutiny of a prison yard spotlight. The truck was parked just out of sight of the building's windows, and the Harley was less than one hundred feet away. Thomas slipped the wrench under his T-shirt as he put one dusty engineer boot in front of the other. It was 4:55 when Thomas reached the center of Ferris Industries' driveway. He could see the profile of someone sitting behind a desk in the small construction trailer parked in the carport adjacent to the motorcycle. The man seemed preoccupied with blueprints spread out before him. He looked over almost directly at Thomas before closing the trailer's blinds. Thomas felt relieved by the man's apparent lack of interest and continued on with his eyes cast downward. When he glanced up, he felt a surge of adrenaline throbbing in his lower back as he watched a hot-looking young receptionist flounce out of the administrative building and make her way down concrete steps directly into his path. The complex was built originally with one long office/industrial building constructed with carports underneath. To the right of the building was a narrow parking lot. Recently, the owner, Mr. Ferris, constructed an adjacent facility, forming two parallel, rectangular stucco buildings with the parking lot in the center. To reach the cycle, Thomas had to cross the open ground of the lot without shelter to conceal himself. Thomas froze, although the young girl's tender curves accentuated by long tan legs extending from beneath her mini-skirt strangely helped to dilute his fear. He questioned the sanity of fantasizing about getting laid with only a couple of minutes to pull off a felony that, if mishandled, could send him back into a four-by-six steel hellhole for the third time. As she proceeded toward him, he tried to avoid eye contact and appear as casual and innocent as possible, assuming the look of an overworked courier on a routine delivery. "Hi," she said, breezing past him before he could respond. He stood with his mouth agape, reaching for the grungy rag on his hip. He continued on, using the rag to hide his face from anyone else who might suddenly emerge from the building. A few more steps and he was at the bike. Pulling the long-handled wrench out from under his shirt, he clamped it down hard on the oblong knob of the massive ignition switch and slowly turned. Thomas knew that sometimes the flywheels and points can be poised to fire, and when the spark from the ignition hit the plugs at the right instant, the bike would fire. It didn't, but the loud snap reverberated through the parking lot and echoed between the buildings like a gunshot between canyon walls. Thomas shuddered, his paranoid mind exaggerating the sound. He rolled the defiant Panhead out and deeper into the driveway, while kicking at the clutch lever and jamming the jockey shift into second. The cogs disengaged, and he pushed toward the street. Thomas checked for traffic and pushed, just as a sheriff's patrol car appeared at the end of the pothole-strewn road. He ducked his head, grabbed the front brake and lost his balance. The bike lurched, pulling Thomas more off center and toward the steep pavement. His brow dripping beads of sweat, his armpits drenched, Thomas's weak biceps tugged against the weight of the leaning, 500-lb machine. He could hear the clambering footsteps and chatter of what sounded like a small army of people approaching from behind as they descended the administrative building's front steps and headed for their cars. It was 4:58. The cruiser rolled by so slowly that Thomas could hear the tires stretch against the asphalt. It lumbered through the intersection, then hesitated before finally turning left onto the freeway. Thomas struggled to regain balance, pushing with all his paranoid might. He was trapped in the center of the sloping driveway, employees emerging from offices, cars starting in the parking lot. His heart banged against the sunken walls of his chest like a huge church bell tearing loose from its ancient tower. Thomas regained balance and jumped across the seat. Upon impact, his left foot slammed against the foot clutch pedal, simultaneously holding the hand shift into gear. It skidded against the compression and fired, lurching into the street. He banked hard to the right. The bike's powerful roar suddenly turned to coughs and sputters as he reached the intersection. The freeway was less than 50 yards away. He yanked on the throttle and the carb seemed to clear, then cough again, as he narrowly missed the edge of a crater-sized chuckhole. He approached the same four-way boulevard stop that the patrol car had just rolled through. Unfamiliar with suicide clutches and tank shifters, his mind whirled with the moves he had to make in order to stop the bike, while simultaneously trying to reason why the machine seemed to be gasping for air. He disengaged the clutch and pulled the shifter in another direction in an effort to find neutral. Then, holding the clutch pedal depressed and disengaged, he tried to stop the bike with his other foot against the rear brake pedal while at the same time relieve his right boot of its duties so he could place it firmly on the asphalt and steady the machine. Frustrated, he rolled into the intersection. Afraid the machine was going to die, leaving him stranded in the center in the midst of his dash to freedom, he contemplated popping the clutch and rolling through the intersection. The bike coughed unmercifully. It was running out of gas. Failing to turn on the supply of gas, he reached for the petcock. He wasn't aware that it had just been chromed and needed a stronger than average gloved hand to force it. Thomas strained against the stiff lever. He had to keep the unfamiliar bike running while simultaneously looking about the intersection for traffic, onlookers and a lane of escape. A Volvo nosed into the intersection, the owner oblivious to the rider leaning over the tank of the sputtering motorcycle. He didn't have the time or the fuel to risk stopping. He kept rolling. Trying to lean away from the approaching car, his panic forced the petcock to loosen and move, but would the gas reach the carb in time? He released the valve, grabbed the bars with both hands, yanking desperately on the throttle for response and prayed for the best. The bike would either fire again and he'd outrun the massive sedan, or he would be run over, which meant that more than just his bones would end up busted. As the Volvo advanced, Thomas stared at the chrome bumper bearing down on him. The engine coughed. He twisted the throttle frantically. For the first time, the middle-aged woman behind the wheel made eye contact with him. As she hit her brakes, the cycle fired, and Thomas veered, disappearing around the sweeping, 90-degree on-ramp. He reached for the bandanna on his hip and wiped his brow. Sweat was rolling into his eyes, stinging and blinding him. He consciously worked on his composure as he wobbled in his lane. He hated bikes; he couldn't snort coke and ride. Looking down at the polished, black, lacquered tank, then the pounding Panhead engine underneath, Thomas noticed the gnarled metal figure forming the jockey shift as he shoved it into another gear. He pulled his hand away suddenly, as if struck by his own superstitions, and glanced warily at the strange shift knob--an intricately shaped cobra's head bearing tiny, inscribed numbers: 8871. The powerful machine thundered defiantly as Snake caught himself mumbling aloud, "Who is this guy?" Well, what did you think? Interesting? Want a copy of the whole book? |
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