Hoodoo's Dilemma Read online

  Arms crossed tightly across her chest, she clenched her jaw and fought to find her focus. Watch the blades spinning. Watch the people watching. Notice the bikes…everywhere. Some were nice. Real nice. Notice the Indian off to the left, and the early Harley just beyond. So unique…and rare.

  But not as rare as her own bike. Nothing here was as rare as the Crocker.

  She shifted her stance, uneasy and growing colder and unhappier by the minute. So now she had the Crocker. Probably one the rarest bikes in the world. But she didn’t have Hoodoo. And if having the bike, the culmination of her father’s dreams for the last ten years was supposed to bring her father closer to her, well it didn’t. Her father refused to believe that some Cajun showed up in a Chicago blizzard and gave her that much money for no reason at all. Frankly, she’d had a hard time believing that too. Assuming her virtue was now questionable, her father had grown cold to her. Angry.

  Because of that damn bike.

  Her argument that a one-night stand wouldn’t pay that much anyway fell on deaf ears, because the only alternative in her father’s eye was that her smile and bright company was worth that much money, which was more implausible. Then when Hoodoo had called her a month later and asked her out – and was willing to travel back to Chicago to see her… it had all but nailed the lid shut on her father’s opinion of her.

  Damn bike. There were days she hated it.

  But then there were days when it thrummed between her thighs and responded to every touch, even to the point where it went wherever she was looking that it seemed a live thing. Alive and devoted to her.

  But then, wasn’t Hoodoo? At least he had been… despite the debt. He never even mentioned it, never used it against her, never trotted it out to get into her pants. Hoodoo was nearly perfect. A little rough, a little too fond of fist-fights and beer, but gorgeous, intelligent, funny and compassionate.

  And she’d kicked him out. Even the break-up was tainted by that damn bike! How do you break up with a man who just gave you two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of bike, with no question of obligations? Yet, somehow she’d managed it.

  Scattered applause brought her back, the busker had finished. Tracy fished in her jeans to find a buck to throw on his mat.

  All up and down the street, people were laughing and cheering, from one establishment laughter exploded and Tracy wondered what performer was in there.

  A small but very angry young woman shoved past her, power-walking toward the vendor booths. As she stormed by, Tracy could hear her muttering “just a damned expression,” over and over again.

  As she passed, Tracy saw the distinctively artistic Gila monster sewn into the back of her jacket. She was one of Hoodoo’s group. Maybe she was Hoodoo’s new girl. Not that it was any of her business. She’d wanted to break up with him and she’d gotten what she wanted.

  Tracy sighed. Right, like this is what you wanted. You’re going to go to the little room you were able to rent, one of the few available, and you’re going to take a bath and go to bed. Alone. Again.

  And tomorrow would be a new day. Her cousin was even going to buy her breakfast.

  Right. The man never had more than a quarter. Ever. He was going to sing her another hard-luck tune and stiff her with the bill. It was old, but sometimes it was worth the price of a meal to hear his latest reasoning for not paying.

  The sun was reaching a point where it was becoming a bit cooler, the badlands bracing up for another crisp desert night. The endless stream of bikes was beginning to fade and Tracy turned her mind to the Crocker. They’d been so happy to have it on temporary display at the American Motorcycle Museum that they’d practically piddled themselves like puppies when she suggested the deal.

  She’d leave it there for the duration of the rally, it could be a display that brings in the people who really understood its significance, and in return, they would give her a parking space. A parking space with motion detectors, infra-red and motion sensor alarms.

  It wasn’t the rally that worried her. It was the drive to and from Chicago.

  Because of that damn bike.

  Riding behind Hoodoo meant never seeing where you were going. It was too much like sitting against a wall. But he blocked the wind. He was a place to rest her head. He was great to hold on to. And every time she got behind him, she was his. No questions, no doubts.

  She spared a thought for the angry young girl that had stalked past her. Whose bike did she ride? A small part of Tracy’s mind recoiled from the thought that the girl might be behind Hoodoo in her place. She fought an urge to find the little bitch and prove…

  “It’s over,” she said out loud. “Just let it go.”

  “Another performance in a few minutes, love,” the busker said, raising an eyebrow. “I just need to take a break for a min.”

  “Sorry,” Tracy mumbled and moved on before her blush became a beacon marking her place in the rally permanently.

  Besides, wasn’t that what she did best? Especially since she’d demanded Hoodoo leave. She moved on. Just keep moving.

  Damn that fucking bike.

  Chapter Three

  Hoodoo was a bronzed giant. His skin was a mix of African-American, possibly Cuban, maybe a mix of a few others and little white. The end result of the genetic mix was a colossus with skin the color of brushed bronze, eyes that were a piercing gray, and hair the color of burnt charcoal.

  He’d come by many nick-names: Godzilla’s little brother, Bigfoot with a shave, Colossus, someone even tried “Tiny,” but it wouldn’t stick.

  “Hoodoo” came, inadvertently from his grandmother, Momma Leonna. She’d raised him and his siblings since most of them could remember, Hoodoo being the only one of his brothers and sisters who claimed to actually remember what their momma looked like.

  Momma Leonna was the most renowned voodoo priestess in New Orleans. No one was willing to cross her. Most weren’t willing to meet up with her in case a misunderstanding led to a curse. Hoodoo always thought that was funny, considering Momma Leonna didn’t actually believe in voodoo, she just played it for the tourists who threw money at her for giving them “advice.” The funny thing was, after a time, the locals started believing that nonsense, too.

  Her advice was usually a version of “don’t believe liars,” and she made enough money off of the triteness and castor oil cure-alls to raise her daughter’s children. At the moment, Hoodoo could hear his grandmother’s advice for a hangover: “Don’t get drunk, stupid.”

  He sat in his booth at Sturgis, the first time he was there as a vendor, proudly displaying his wares. He was an artist with a brush and a bike, his own ride was prominently displayed as a showpiece featuring a heavily muscled Viking riding a bike off a cliff into the valley of hell, sword raised in anticipation of the slaughter of the demon beneath him. It was art that could have graced the cover of any metal band’s hit CD. Conversely, the pin striping was a delicate touch, filled with flurries and curlicues. It was a masterpiece and he was proud of it. Other works, along the same theme in print format, hung from every part of the little vendor booth. He’d never sold his works before, but then, he’d never owed the head of the western division mafia a quarter million before either.

  He would forever be paying off the sweet Crocker that nestled between Tracy’s thighs. And even though they’d broken up, he couldn’t regret it when he thought of it that way.

  “Hoodoo!” Val called, a piercing cry through the white noise of the crowd.

  “Shhh,” Hoodoo tried to shush her, but making a shushing noise hurt. A lot.

  Val nodded, hands on hips. “Yeah, I figured if I wasn’t there to monitor you, you’d drink yourself to death.”

  “It wasn’t the beer,” he whispered, waving her away though it appeared she wasn’t taking the hint. “It was the fight, I’m concussed.”

  “You didn’t take a shot to the head,” Val reminded him. “Not that it would have done any damage. Just how much beer did you drink last night?”
>
  “A case,” Mad-dog said, his beard bristling with suppressed laughter. “A little more, actually. I passed out at that point, he was still going strong.”

  Hoodoo shot him an angry glare. Mad-dog just shrugged it off.

  “A CASE?” Val turned on Hoodoo, “No wonder you’re hung-over! You’re lucky you’re alive! Do you have any idea what that much alcohol can do to a body?”

  “Oh my God!” Hoodoo cried, his hand on his neck, the other outstretched in her direction to ward off evil spirits. “Momma Leonna has possessed your soul! Out demon, out, I say! Go back to the bayou and swim with the gators, they’re ‘fraid o’ you, too!”

  “I give up,” Val turned to Mad-dog, “I…”

  Mad-dog’s beard practically crackled with suppressed mirth. “Hoodoo will pay his penance in hell for the morning, but he won’t learn. Let the man die in agony, Val.”

  “I’m just pissed because I embarrassed myself,” she admitted. “I… if you had yelled…” she lowered her voice, “… if you yelled, ‘fuck me’,” she whispered so even Mad-dog who was right beside her couldn’t hear her, “No one would have said a thing.”

  “He’s ugly,” Hoodoo pointed to Mad-dog. “You’re not.” As if that settled the question.

  Mad-dog leaned over the front of the booth and clapped his hands once, the concussion of that clap echoed off the building. Hoodoo groaned and covered his ears.

  “Yeah, well, when you put your foot in your mouth, you either have to run, or dance one-legged. You could have stayed, you know that we’re your friends, hell, sometimes you’re my wingman when the sickly sasquatch here isn’t riding with us. You know we’re not gonna let no one mess with you.”

  “Hell,” Hoodoo offered, pulling himself up like the green giant on the vegetable cans. “You won’t let anyone mess with you. Someone try something, I just watch you throw him ‘round a bit. Aint’ gonna take that fun from ya.”

  “What he mumbled goes double for me.” Mad-dog said, smiling.

  “GOOD MORNING!” Loki showed up, fresh as daisy and louder than life. Hoodoo nearly threw up. “Hey, boss! I saw that girl again, the one from the fight? Damn, she’s got a sweet ride! What the hell is she doing on that thing out here?”

  “Wait, what?” Hoodoo looked up to Loki and regretted it. “Can you stand over there?” He sounded like a querulous old man, even to himself.

  “Why?”

  “Because the sun is behind you,” Mad-dog explained.

  Loki got that look in his face that was by far too innocent to mean anything good. “Oh, too much beer?”

  “A concussion,” Val spat the word, layering in her disbelief.

  “Right,” Loki said and Hoodoo heard him moving somewhere off to his left. “Until the concussion goes away. Let’s take pity on the lightweight, shall we?”

  “Lightweight?” Mad-dog laughed. Hoodoo pictured his beard fairly bristling, like a thing alive. “No one’s called him that since he was…” he held his hand about waist high, and finished “…three.”

  “All right, all right,” Hoodoo complained, having seen the whole thing through the one eye he’d dared to crack open. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve never seen a Crocker before, but DAMN!” He drew out the word appreciatively.

  “She brought it here?!” Hoodoo stood, grabbed the table and steadied himself. The table came somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, so being “steady” on his feet still required him to right himself still further. He straightened his back carefully. “That’s crazy! She brought the Crocker?” he raised his eyebrow at Val who was slowly backing away. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t want you to fall on me,” she admitted, her eyes a little wide.

  “No one would ever find her again,” Loki agreed.

  “He could take out the booth,” Mad-dog said as an aside. “Flatten the whole thing.”

  “You know,” Loki said thoughtfully, “it occurs to me that giant jokes coming from you are ironic at best. If you weren’t around the Mountain Who Snores here, it would be you getting the brunt of our humor.”

  “That’s why I stay next to him.” Mad-dog admitted with a shrug, “I am spared your half-witticisms.”

  “Very wise,” Loki admitted.

  “Thank you.”

  “Not at all.”

  “ENOUGH!” Hoodoo bellowed and then tried not to be sick from his own yelling. The traffic outside his booth came to a halt. “NOT YOU!” He yelled again to the crowded walkway and waved them back to whatever it was they were doing.

  Chapter Four

  All in all, it was a productive morning. The oil painting of the motorcycle gleaming in the sunset by the side of a lake was gone. It was sold to a man who Hoodoo thought was going to beg a quarter from him, but pulled a platinum charge card from a weathered, cracked wallet and paid the full asking price of $3,000 without batting an eye.

  Hoodoo was still a little off from that and the hangover, but the sudden appearance of all five of his friends put his back up and made him wonder just who he’d offended in a previous life to deserve…this.

  “Get out,” Mad-dog said with preamble, shoving past him to take possession of the battered lawn chair which groaned dangerously, a reminder that things in Hoodoo’s world invariably didn’t last long when he tried to use them.

  “I can’t, I have to…” Hoodoo gestured at the display, although the effort was weak. Truth be told, he’d had enough of sitting in the sun while people murmured inane things, before passing along to the next booth over. The one giving out samples of home-brewed beer.

  “I’ll watch the store!” Val said, giving Mad-dog a look which he returned, right down to the squint and the way she wrinkled her nose. On him it didn’t look so cute.

  “And I’ll watch her!” Loki offered.

  “Perv,” Val said, batting at his arm, though without heat. She’d made it very clear that in her mind all men were still little boys. The exception to that seemed to be Hoodoo and Mad-dog. She seemed to have a bit of a crush on Mad-dog, and Hoodoo thought maybe she was a little afraid of him though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to spook her.

  Loki was fair game, though.

  “Come on,” Mad-dog said, slapping the thick bole that was Hoodoo’s arm. “Let’s not miss the rally. We came a long way to see it.”

  Hoodoo looked from one to another and finally threw up his arms. “Okay!” he said and rose a little easier than last time. He’d been sitting on a chunk of wood, bartered from a guy cutting wood at the campground down by the river. So far it was holding up much better than the lawn chair. “Fine, I’ll go, but…” he rounded on Val. “I am going to have a beer or five, so Momma Leonna, you stay away from that girl’s soul!”

  “Alright,” Val laughed, shoving at him, trying to force him out into the crowd. “Just go!”

  Hoodoo shook his head and opted to walk, deciding to leave his bike in the booth. The gas tank and the fenders with their pin striping made a very good billboard. Besides, the fun runs would take hours and he didn’t want to be away from the booth too long.

  To his surprise, Mad-dog and the Welsh brothers came along. Mad-dog fell in beside him and the brothers took the rear. It was like being on the road again, Mad-dog had been his wingman for a long time now. There was no one he’d rather have at his side.

  Except maybe Tracy.

  He sighed, and put his concentration into a half-hour of endless wandering, looking in and out of other booths, hearing the roar of passing bikes. It should have been the time of his life. He was here, at Sturgis for Pete’s sake. But even though the shops were fascinating, the image of Tracy with another man, another biker would not let him alone. The fact that she was riding with one of The Bandits made it worse. They had a reputation of dirty deals and dangerous…

  “Of all the…” Hoodoo stopped, rounding on his people so fast the Welsh brothers walked right into him. “Why would she take up with The Bandits?”
>
  “Dude,” Danny said, exchanging glances with his brother, and shaking his head. “You gotta let it go. There’s nothing…”

  “… more you can do about it now.” Andy finished for his brother, shaking his head in unnatural unison that gave him the willies.

  They’d used to drive Hoodoo crazy, but now he expected it. It was just natural to turn to the brother that wasn’t talking; he would be soon enough. Although how they knew how to finish each other’s sentences he’d never been able to figure out. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Hanging around Mama Leonna’s workshop had been creepy enough, right on down to the stuffed ravens and the jar of sheep’s eyeballs in formaldehyde.

  Necessary, she used to say. The tourists expected it.

  Hoodoo shook his head to dispel the image. “Look, there’s something more to this,” he insisted. “Tracy’s smarter than this! Maybe she’s kidnapped or blackmailed or…”

  “Bro!” Mad-dog said sharply. “Let it go! It’s over! The only thing left of Tracy is that bike you’re still trying to pay off. And wasn’t that debt forgiven? I mean seriously man, you’re obsessing.”

  “Yeah, but…” Hoodoo crossed his arms and glowered at his best friend. “But it’s a debt. And I pay my debts.”

  “Honorable,” Andy said.

  “Noble” Danny agreed.

  “Stupid.” Mad-dog said. Danny and Andy took an involuntary step backward. Mad-dog was probably the only person on earth that could insult Hoodoo to his face and get away with it. Still, it was a risk. “You’re killing yourself to pay a debt you can’t pay off for a girl that doesn’t want you—and worse, is now with The Bandits! Now you’re trying to deny the evidence. This is not the act of a rational giant!”