The Scarred Man by Basil Heatter Read Free Book Online Page A

Cummings?"
        "No, but you…"
        "Perhaps someone else said you were drunk that afternoon, Mrs. Cummings. Perhaps, since you have raised the point yourself, you were indeed drunk…"
        The Beaks were breaking up, digging each other in the ribs with their elbows. But I was not quite finished.
        "Mrs. Cummings, how do you feel about motorcycle clubs?"
        "Clubs?"
        "Exactly."
        "You mean like this bunch here?" she said, turning the angry glare of her faded blue eyes against the Beaks.
        "Yes."
        "They're bums."
        "How do you know that, Mrs. Cummings?"
        "Everybody knows it."
        "Have you ever belonged to a motorcycle club yourself, Mrs. Cummings?"
        That one brought down the house. Her stringy frame was quivering with indignation. The poor woman had done no more than her duty as an honest citizen, and now she was being coupled with these outlaws.
        "Certainly not," she answered.
        "Have you ever known anyone who belonged to a motorcycle club?"
        "No."
        "Then where do you get your information?"
        "Well, it's in all the papers. You read about it all the time. Everybody knows about the Hell's Angels and all like that."
        It was enough. I had established both unreliability and bias. Bubba the Gut got thirty days for leaving the scene of an accident. The Beaks snickered openly when they heard the sentence. The judge, however, was not quite finished. He still had a few words for me.
        "Mr. Shaw, I don't really know why a New York lawyer like you would feel it necessary to interest himself in a case like this, but as far as this Court is concerned you are a disgrace to your profession."
        "Yes, Your Honor," I said.
        

EIGHT
        
        For twelve days I tried to control my impatience.
        On the thirteenth day after the trial the Beak's paid me a visit, running in formation, gunning their H-D47s, ripping the air.
        Pedestrians hit the sidewalk, motorists pulled off onto the shoulder. No one wanted to mess with them. The effect was roughly the same as that of the Younger brothers slashing through some peaceful country town.
        Stud was in the lead. He gunned twice around the marina driveway with six Beaks eating his dust. Heads popped out of boats all around and as quickly withdrew. I played it as cool as possible, sitting quietly in my cockpit while the review passed. Finally Stud cut his engine and called out, "What do you say, Billyboy?"
        "Welcome aboard," I said.
        They secured their gleaming choppers and tramped aboard, scarring my clean decks with their boots.
        "You got any beer, Billyboy?"
        "I'll get some."
        "Give Cooney the dough and let him get it."
        I gave Cooney five dollars and he went across the street to the 7-11 store and came back with a half-dozen six-packs. The Beaks killed a can each in two swallows.
        "Some tub you got here, Billyboy," Stud said.
        "Thanks."
        "Where's the action?"
        "I'm afraid there isn't much."
        "You got no mamma on board?"
        "No."
        "Are you a queer or something? You don't look like no faggot."
        I grinned at him. "I like living alone."
        He gave me a sharklike flash of yellow teeth. "You're a freak, Billyboy. Everybody is some kind of freak. I ain't figured out what kind of freak you are yet. You smoke, Billyboy?"
        I nodded.
        He threw back his head and laughed. "I don't mean cigarettes."
        "I know what you mean."
        "Gimme a joint, Cooney."
        Cooney withdrew a soiled cylinder from his jacket pocket, lit it, and sucked in deeply on the smoke. He passed the joint to Stud, who demolished half of it with one puff and passed it on to me. I drew in the bitter marijuana smoke, held it as long as I could, and passed the butt to the Beak on my right. There was a glint of amusement in