Hicksville, Kentucky
It’s a small town, middle of nowhere. If I wasn’t almost out of gas I wouldn’t even be pulling in here. I let the bike coast up to the old style bowser and flick the kill switch.

The noise from the hollow pipes has woken up the old dude asleep on the counter and he comes struggling out, wiping his mug with an oily rag. He stops a few feet away from the bike and grins at me.

“Hot damn”, he says, “that’s a real chopper ain’t it.” I smile back at him.

“Sure is.” An 88 S&S motor in a stretched frame, hidden monoshock under the king and queen seat, long-range gas tank, six-inch risers with shoulder wide drag bars. I designed it myself; the Wizard put it together for me, way up north, over the border in Canada. Pearl grey paint with ethereal red flames, blacked out engine, small touches of chrome that look shockingly bright against it. Saddlebags thrown over the rear seat, sleeping bag tied to the sissy bar. My home on the road, everything I need right here with me. The old man pulls a nozzle out of a pump and offers it to me. I slide off the bike and unscrew the gas cap and sweep my hand downwards.

“Be my guest,” I invite him. He grins some more and puts the nozzle inside my tank with all the care in the world. Anyone half his age and I’d break their arm off at the elbow before I let them anywhere near the paintwork.

“Where ya from?” he asks.

“North.”

“Where ya headed?”

“South.”

He chuckles some and shakes his head a little. I walk around a bit and stretch, take my glasses off and wipe them clean on my bandana. A young woman bursts out of some bushes at the side of the building and stumbles over towards us. She trips and falls over right in front of me. I reach down, grab her outstretched arm and lift her to her feet. She’s about twenty-five or so, slim but well rounded. Dressed in a summer shift that’s torn at the shoulder and the neck. There’s a bruise on her left cheek and a cut on her lip. Her throat is scratched and her left bicep has red finger marks on it. She’s gasping for breath and can’t speak.

“Get her some water,” I tell the old man without turning around.

“Yes sir.” He shuffles off and the young woman, eyes wide, tries to pull away from me.

“You just hold still,” I say to her. A blue Ford pickup comes roaring across the gravel of the driveway and slides to a dusty stop. A big guy jumps out of the cab and comes rushing over to us.

“Odelle,” he says “get in the damn truck.” The girl looks frantically about herself and tries to jerk her arm out of my grip.

“Odelle’s fine with me,” I tell the new arrival, “we’re just starting to get aquaintted.” She looks at me with a mixture of surprise and relief, I feel her relax in my grip but she tenses up when he speaks again.

“I don’t know who you think you are mister, but you’d best keep your nose out of our business. This here is my wife.” The big guy is standing spread legged, a short distance in front of me, blocking out the morning sun, hands clenched at his sides.

“You want to go with this man?” I ask Odelle softly. She doesn’t lift her head but she shakes it, no. I slip her around behind me and let go of her arm, she’s got enough bruises already.

“Appears she prefers my company to yours,” I point out.

He’s about six two, broad shouldered, rugged looking, with thick black hair cut into a short flat top and the face of a man who’s used to getting what he wants. He’s dressed in cowboy boots, jeans and a western shirt with the sleeves rolled down. He’s taking stock of the sudden opposition. I know what he sees; I wake up to it every morning.

I’m a couple of inches under six feet myself but I’ve got a lot of manufactured muscle to make up for the size difference. I don’t have a flat top; in fact I don’t have any hair at all. I’ve got a shaven head burned brown by the sun. On the back there’s a tattoo, in bright luminous ink, of the Ghost Rider’s skull, haloed by flames. I’ve got more tats running from my shoulders down to my biceps. I’ve got scars on my cheekbones and my nose and the bony projections where my eyebrows are situated. I’m wearing a black leather vest with some unusual patches sewn onto it, no shirt, faded denims and rebel boots. I’ve got the face of a man people generally don’t want to fuck with.

The big guy reaches around behind himself and I take a step forward, ready to spring on him if he pulls out a gun. His hand comes back with a wallet in it and he flips it open and thrusts it towards me.

“I’m a cop!” he says. I look at him.

“So what?” He’s taken aback; he stares at me for a moment.

“I’m a fuckin’ cop,” he says loudly.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” I half turn to Odelle. “You got someplace safe to go.” For the first time I take a really good look at her. Her face might be bruised and smudged but she’s a real looker. Her hair is wild and tangled but gleams in the sunshine. Wide blue eyes look into mine.

“He owns me,” she whispers.

“Nah,” I say, “that was yesterday.” While our little drama has been unfolding the old timer who runs the place has screwed the cap back on my tank and left a bottle of mineral water on the seat.

“How much for the gas and the water?” I ask.

“Are you outta your fuckin’mind,” yells the cop. “Get over to the hood of my wagon and assume the position.” I don’t even look at him.

“Keep dreaming asshole.”

I roll up a twenty-dollar note and throw it over to the old timer. He snatches it out of the air and gives me another grin. The sound of heavy footsteps gives the cop away. Out of the corner of my eye I see the sucker punch that he throws at the side of my jaw. I just take a step back and let his fist pass harmlessly in front of my face. I counterpunch to the underside of his chin and hear the pleasant sound of his teeth crashing together. My right fist buries itself in his gut and I stamp down on the side of his knee and watch him fall to the gravel. He rolls around some as I walk over to his truck, take the keys from the ignition and throw them off into the bushes. There’s a radio in there as well so I rip the mic out and hurl that away also.

He tries to get to his feet as I pass him on the way back to my bike. I boot him in the face and he rolls over and lies still. The girl, Odelle is just standing there in the driveway of this dusty, nowhere gas station, her arms are at her side but her head is up.

“Thank you,” she says. “It doesn’t matter what he does to me later, it was worth it,” she exclaims.

“You got that right,” agrees the old timer.

“He ain’t going to do nothing to you later girl.” I point at my chopper. “We’re out of here.”

She looks at me and she looks at her husband, still lying unmoving in the dust. The old man moves up beside her.

“Odelle,” he says, “ you do what this young feller tells you. You stay around here, one day Brad’s going to beat you to death.” He gives me a hard stare. “You be good to her mister, she’s had a hard life these last few years.”

I take the bottle of water off the seat and slide it inside a saddlebag. I slip my riding glasses back on.

“I will.” I swing a leg over the saddle of the long bike and offer my hand to Odelle. She hesitates for a second then reaches out and grips my hand like a drowning person grips a life raft. She slides onto the seat behind me and wraps her arms around my waist. The old timer reaches out and grasps my hand now. I squeeze his for a moment then press the starter button and the big motor roars into life. Odelle jerks in surprise then relaxes. Above the thundering of the shotgun pipes I yell at the old timer.

“Adios amigo.” As I let out the clutch and the bike starts to gather momentum the old man yells back at me.

“Adios yourself and don’t never come back to this town, long as you live, don’t neither of you come back.” I twist the throttle and the bike leaps forwards, behind me I feel Odelle rest her head against my back.

Algiers, New Orleans.
One month later.

Mardi Gras time. I’ve been coming here to the Rajun Cajun in the red light district of New Orleans for the past five years. The Cajun is one of the most popular bars, and at Mardi Gras time it’s packed solid. I got on real good with the owners the first time I passed through here. I needed a job and they needed a new bouncer, so things worked out well for all of us. Now I come back every year at their busiest time and provide security for them. It suits me because I like the old city and it’s unique atmosphere, it’s a working holiday for me.

It’s early evening, the patrons are behaving themselves and I’m leaning back on the polished wooden bar talking to Jinx the owner. He’s a huge black man, spends half his life at the local weight room, and probably pumps more iron in a week than I do in a month.

“How’s that Odelle girl doing?” he asks.

“She’s doing fine,’ I assure him, “likes her new job, she’s starting to make her own friends, I think she’s going to be ok.”

By the time we had hit New Orleans I had found out everything there was to know about Odelle Morton. Married Brad “The Sheriff” Morton, when she was eighteen. Discovered Brad was a wife-beating bastard a few months later. Tried to leave a number of times but she was born and raised in that Hicksville town, everybody she knew was there and she just couldn’t bring herself to cut loose. The beatings occurred about six months or so apart, I guess it was possible to believe it might not happen again. Brad was a nice guy the rest of the time, couldn’t do enough for her or the townsfolk. A bully and a wife beater, sounded like a regular type of guy to me.

We got out of old Brad’s jurisdiction just as quick as my sled could go. Of course Odelle had no money, just the ragged clothes on her back. I was cashed up myself, just finished a bouncing job up in Boston. Guy like me, looking like I do, I can always find work in clubs and bars. Got a good rep around the country too. Wade “Ghost Rider” Gage, professional doorman and bouncer at your service.

I started work back at the Rajun Cajun and Odelle found herself a job as a seamstress. Seemed she was a genius dressmaker, back in her home town that was how she had kept herself busy, while old Brad boy was out protecting the decent folk. I had a room on the top floor of the bar; Jinx and his wife gave Odelle the use of their guest room attached to their house out back. Everybody seemed real surprised that Odelle and I weren’t an ‘item’, what with me doing my white knight act and all. Wasn’t like that. I can never stand by and let someone be abused, isn’t in my nature.

When I was growing up I read comics like all the other kids at school. Their heroes were always characters like Spider-Man, Conan or the X-Men. Not me; Johnny Blaze was my hero. The Ghost Rider, the spirit of vengeance stalking the earth, seeking revenge for the innocent. That handle kind of grew on me over the years. My first Harley was jet black, with the Ghost Rider’s flaming logo on each side of the tank. I had the flaming skull tattoo on the back of my shaven head, had the same patch sewn on the back of my riding vest.

Everyone’s got to have a role model!

I never had any intention of shacking up with Odelle, I reckoned she was going to be carrying a lot of mental baggage around with her for quite a while, nothing I felt the need to be saddled with. I had done the best thing for her already, got her away from her abusive husband. Now she was working, making new friends, getting herself settled. In a couple of months I’ll be back on the road, heading to Florida, following the sun as it heads south for the winter. Don’t want a full time woman; never felt the need for one. I need to keep moving, don’t like being stuck in one place for too long. I’ve jammed across a hell of a lot of this country, and there’s still plenty of places I haven’t been to, and plenty I want to go to again. I can usually manage to find myself a woman for a night or two when the urge is on me. Footloose and fancy free, that’s me.

The rock and roll band is blasting out an old favorite. I’m standing at the side of the main bar, trying to chat to Jase, a riding buddy, over the noise. We give up and I circle around the room, slapping hands with some of the regulars who have come to know me over the years. There must be a couple of hundred people in the place, most of them grooving out and having a good time. I’m looking for the one’s who aren’t. The pickpockets, the drug dealers, the drunken, sucker punch bullies. I come across Odelle and a young guy dancing near the band. She waves and drags the young guy over to me. She arrives with a grin, a little out of breath. Over the noise of the band she yells;

“This is Steve, he works in the hardware store over the road from me.” I nod, give Steve a thumbs up. He’s looking a little cautiously at me, a lot of folks do when we first meet. He shouts something at me but it’s way too loud where we’re standing, I just nod to him, blow a kiss at Odelle and continue on my way around the room. A few seconds later and I come across a scruffy looking rat named Martello hassling a couple of tourists. I come up behind him and give his shoulder a slap. He spins around and his eyes narrow when he recognizes me.

“Wade,” he says. I lean forward and speak real close to his ear, to make sure he can hear me.

“You don’t know me well enough to call me by my first name motherfucker. I’ve told you before you don’t come in here anymore!” He spreads his hands placating.

“Hey man, I didn’t know you were back in town.” I reach out and take hold of the collar of his dirty shirt and twist it, his neck is forced to one side, and I lean closer.

“It don’t matter if I’m in town or not, you don’t come in here, if I see your scrawny ass in here one more time I’ll take you out in the bayou and string you up for the ‘gators to fight over.” I force his chin up so that we’re eyeball to eyeball. “Are we communicating on the same level here?”

“Ok, ok,” he wheezes, “I wont come by here no more.’

“That’s the spirit.” I give him a shove in the direction of the front door and he stumbles, rights himself, looks daggers at me, and then walks off. The tourist couple he was trying to badger drinks and smokes off look mighty relived.

“Thanks,” says the guy, “he was being a pain.”

“No problem,” I assure them. I hand the guy back his wallet, which I had removed from Martello’s pocket while I had hold of him. “This is yours.” They look at me in shock for a moment.

“Son of a bitch,” the guy says. I pat his shoulder and smile at his woman.

“You folks take care.” I refuse their offer of free drinks for the rest of the night and go back to patrolling the room.

That’s how life goes for the next couple of weeks. We’re right in the middle of the Mardi gras now and the town is rocking. I’ve had to remove a dozen or so troublemakers every night but that’s cool, it’s what I do, what I’m good at. Buddies of mine, mainly Bikers, passing through or here to party, have dropped by on frequent occasions to say hi and pass on interesting pieces of gossip. Razor and Bone have come up from Key Largo, to spend a week getting pissed and laid by the visiting lovelies.

It’s about 4am and most of the Cajun’s customers have either left or passed out on the floor. Jase, Razor, Bone and myself, together with a half dozen local riders and an equal amount of alcohol-laden ladies, are sitting at a table up on the balcony that overlooks the main barroom. Cigarette and cigar smoke mixes with more exotic substances floating about our heads. I allow myself two cigars a day, the second one I always have when I’ve finished work for the night. I blow out a thick stream of noxious gases and laugh at a story that Bone has just finished telling. I’ve had a few glasses of Jack’s best and I’m starting to get a good buzz on. A visiting tourist named Lauren is cuddling up to me, and if I can stay awake for a bit longer I feel sure that Lauren and I are going to get much better acquainted. Odelle’s friend Steve arrives at our table.

“Hey dude,” cries Jase. “Have a seat buddy.” We’ve gotten to know Steve quite well since Odelle introduced him to me that night on the dance floor. I wouldn’t say they were going steady or anything, but they sure were spending a lot of time in each other’s company lately. I’ve even been out riding with him; he’s got one of those big jap cruisers, an Intruder with a huge 1400 motor. It ain’t no Hog or American Custom but it sure is pretty. Pretty fast too, he’s beaten me on some of those twisty bayou back roads. On the straights though my Ghost Bike just leaves his for dead. I kick out a chair for him to sit on.

“Have a seat Ricegrinder.” Bone looks at me.

“I can’t believe you would even talk to a jap rider, much less invite one to sit at our table.” I can tell by the look on Steve’s face that he’s not sure if Bone is being funny or not. Steve raises his hands.

“No guys it’s ok, I don’t want to interrupt your party or anything.”

“Oh hell kid ignore fuckhead over here and sit down.” Jase tells him. Steve is still waving his hands about.

“No, really fellers, I just wanted to ask Wade if he’s seen Odelle tonight?” I tilt my head and look up at him, make an effort to focus a little more.

“No, I don’t believe Odelle has been in tonight amigo, figured she was out with you somewhere.” I used to see her in the Cajun every night when we first hit town and I got her settled. Kind of a safety blanket I reckoned, made her feel a little safer to be around the one person she knew had helped her out. After she met Steve there had often been nights when I wouldn’t see her. I thought that was a good thing, meant she was getting out and about on her own two feet. Getting more independent.

“Anybody else seen her around tonight?” Steve asks the assembled crew. People shake their heads or reply in the negative.

“I’ve been in here all night myself,” Jase says. “I don’t think she’s come in at all.”

“Is that a problem kid?” asks Razor.

“Well I don’t know, I was supposed to meet her at my place after work and she never showed up. Then I saw Jinx’s wife and she said Odelle wasn’t at their place. I’ve looked most every place I thought she might be, but I still can’t find her.” Lauren snuggles a little closer to me.

“True love, isn’t it sweet.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I tell her. I take a deep breath of the fume-laden air and my head spins a bit.

“You really think there’s some kind of problem here Steve?” He wrings his hands together and shrugs.

“I guess not, I’m just a little concerned you know.” I stretch and yawn.

“Tell you what, you go home and get some sleep and if she hasn’t shown up in the morning I’ll help you look for her ok?”

“Hey kid!” Bone says loudly. Steve jerks and looks at the big biker with apprehension. Bone winks at him. “If your lady love ain’t come back by morning we’ll all go and look for her with you.” A chorus of assent follows this statement and Steve looks relived.

“Thanks guys, that’d be great. I’ll go home now, if she comes in while your still here, tell her I was looking for her will you?”

“Not a problem buddy,” Jase assures him. I watch Steve walk away and rub my jaw. It is a little strange that Odelle can’t be found. She stays pretty close to the area around the Cajun. Only goes exploring if Steve, the Jinx’s or myself are with her. Razor rolls another joint.

“Sun’ll be up soon Wade, plenty of time to look for her then.” Lauren stands up with my hand in hers.

“You were going to show me the great view from your room on the top floor.” Bone snickers.

“The only view your likely to get is one of the ceiling.”

“Sounds good to me,” says Lauren.

When I wake up it’s almost noon. Lauren has already crawled out of my bed and headed back to her hotel. I run a hand over my shaven skull and stagger into the bathroom. Thirty long minutes later and I’m starting to feel almost human. I towel off and put on clean jeans and a black t-shirt, and pull on my boots. My rumbling stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten for hours before I crashed, so I head downstairs to rustle up breakfast, which will actually be lunch. In the lunchroom there are customers milling around or sitting at tables, waiting for Jinx’s staff to fill their orders or feed them.

Mrs Jinx is standing behind the hot roast counter; she gives me a look and asks me how my head feels. She’s a big girl and unlike her better half it isn’t all muscle.

“Like I fell asleep and woke up to find you sitting on my head.” She takes a swipe at me with a gravy spoon and chuckles.

“You go sit yourself down over there and I’ll bring you some of my gumbo.” Mrs Jinx’s gumbo is rightly famous in Algiers, so I don’t argue, I just go and sit myself down like a good ‘ole boy. Jase and Steve walk in and come over to my table.

“You look like shit,” Jase informs me gleefully.

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.” Jase, who of course was up just as late as me, who probably drank and smoked more, looks like he had a wonderful nights sleep. Steve on the other hand does not. He really does look like shit. I know the answer to my question before I even ask it.

“Found Odelle yet?” He shakes his head.

“No.” I switch my gaze to Jase. He shrugs.

“Looked most everywhere we can think of in Algiers, nothing. No one’s seen her since yesterday afternoon. Hasn’t turned up for work, hasn’t called in sick.” One of the staff brings over a huge bowel of chicken gumbo. I motion for Jase and Steve to sit.

“Lets eat, then we’ll get the boys together, take another look around.” Jase sits, Steve doesn’t, he’s to keyed up to stay still. I can see he’s really worried about Odelle. I’m starting to get a bad feeling myself but I’ve got to eat something or I’ll feel worse later than I do now.

“I’m going to go to the police,” he announces.

“Mite early for the cops Steve,” I say to him.

“I don’t care,” he replies, “I think something’s happened to her, something bad.”

As a hard core biker, I instinctively don’t like the idea of asking the Man for help. On the other hand I do know a few of the local officers, because they’ve been called here a number of times to drag off people I’ve been forced to subdue, mainly groups of guys who tried smashing the joint apart when they were liquored up. I give Steve a name at the local station.

“Tell him I sent you, tell him I’ll also have some people looking for her shortly. I’ll be here at about five this afternoon if he wants to talk to me.” Steve is grateful. He thanks me and hurries off. Jase is spooning a second helping of gumbo onto his plate.

“You reckon she’s got herself into some sort of shit?” I drag the bowl over to me before he eats the lot.

“Don’t know,” I say, “but we will find out.”

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