Hunt the Jackal by Don Mann, Ralph Pezzullo Read Free Book Online Page B

bar, which was lit by strings of little red-and-white lights. He threw back a shot of Jack Daniel’s with a St. Pauli Girl chaser and considered asking for a menu. The Atlanta Hawks were losing to the Heat on the big TV, which didn’t interest him. The little one to his right was tuned to CNN. Something about another budget deadline in Congress.
    A poster past the bartender’s head listed the Ten Steps to Self-Esteem. They were (1) know yourself, (2) understand what makes you feel great, (3) recognize things that get you down, (4) set goals to achieve what you want, (5) develop trusting friendships that make you feel good, (6) don’t be afraid to ask for help, (7) stand up for your beliefs and values, (8) take responsibility for your own actions, (9) take good care of yourself, (10) help someone else.
    It interested him enough to read it twice and stop at number eight.
    An older, potbellied guy with a long gray beard seated to his right turned to him and asked about his Harley parked outside. The man had gray eyes, badly stained teeth, and a drinker’s nose, and reminded him of some of the old bikers he’d known growing up.
    Crocker found it easy to talk with him about Harley models, engines, and close calls both of them had experienced riding. Crocker’s last had been one night on his way home when he was hit smack in the face by a buzzard.
    He laughed and said, “I don’t know how he didn’t break my neck. I literally got a mouthful of wet feathers and could taste that bastard for days.”
    The old man drained his glass, pulled at his beard, and chuckled. “I remember one Sunday night riding down a deserted country road thinking about the ol’ lady,” he said. “I rolled off the throttle as I crested a hill and sensed someone warning me even though I was all alone. I look up and see this big-ass truck has swung into my lane to pass some guy in a sedan. I had no time to stop. Had to pull my left shoulder back to avoid clipping the truck’s side mirror. Barely squeezed past, and shit my pants.”
    “You’re lucky.”
    “You know what I saw painted on the side of that truck?”
    “No idea,” Crocker answered.
    “Dana Mills. My girlfriend was named Dana. Her mom’s maiden name was Mills. She dumped me two days later. Broke my heart.”
    Sounded like the lyrics to a Waylon Jennings song, Crocker thought.
    The old biker bought another round and shifted the conversation to biker movies. Crocker listed his favorites. “ Mad Max was good. Knightriders, The Great Escape . I liked The Wild One with Marlon Brando.”
    “You ever see a movie from the seventies called Werewolves on Wheels ?” the bearded man asked as though he was a connoisseur.
    “No.”
    “It wasn’t no blockbuster,” he said, “but damn if it don’t have its own sleazy charm. I’m talkin’ female bikers, one of whom is possessed by the Devil and changes into a real sexy werewolf at night. And black-robed monks who worship Satan.”
    Crocker’s interest started to wander. The man moved his stool closer and signaled to the bartender to refill their glasses.
    “You running away from something?” the old man asked.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You had much experience with Satan?”
    Crocker stared at the amber Jack as it entered the clear glass, considering that maybe the bad wolf and Satan were the same.
    “You hear what I asked ya?” the man repeated, the little lights behind the bar reflected in his gray eyes.
    Crocker downed the drink and nodded as he searched for an answer—one that dodged the question but was respectful.
    “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” he said.
    “I think you do,” the man answered, his eyes boring into Crocker. “Matter of fact, I got a notion you’re struggling with him right now.”
    Crocker knocked back the beer and looked up at the TV. Anderson Cooper was talking. His face looked gray and pinched.
    “Maybe,” Crocker said. “Maybe not.” It hurt to look inside himself,