Clinamen

I

Hooker’s parking lot erupted with loud exhaust sounds coming from a chopper’s straight pipes. Razor had been scouting the area ever since arriving in Massena. It was after midnight. A solitary corner streetlamp gave off an eerie gray light, illuminating the one chopper that was parked outside. He drove up to the entrance, got off the Harley, and smiled as he saw the Roll the Bones placard on the door. He walked into find the place dark with only a faint fluorescent light shining at the end of the second bay. As he moved toward the first lift, he heard the sound of a twelve-gauge double-action pump. He froze. The man holding the shotgun pointed at him spoke.

“That’s good. Now what do you want?”

“I’ve been told by the man up north you were the last man to see Axel alive.”

“What’s it to you?”

Razor paused. “He was my brother.”

“You ride with them Angels up north?”

“I did once. There’s been a change in administration since I got put away. Yeah. To answer your question, I was a leader up in Quebec. Just got out. Looking to get some answers.”

Workbench lights suddenly began to flicker, then came on permanently. Dan Proud Hawk walked around the back of a Dodge Dart and stood in front of Razor, keeping the barrel of the shot gun aimed at the intruder’s heart.

“This garage and me. We’ve been known to serve a purpose . . . and even sometimes for the man up north. Who are you?”

“I am Razor.”

“Don’t recall ever hearing a leader by that name.”

“Like I said. Been away for some time.”

Proud Hawk pointed the barrel toward the Angel’s knees.

“All your answers got locked up out of state,” he said.

“You’re holding all the cards right now, you know,” Razor responded, pointing at the gun pointing at him. “But think about it. Think of all you’ll be losing out on when I go back and tell him that you were . . . you know . . . uncooperative?”

“You’re not from around here. This is not how it works here on this reservation.”

Razor remained motionless, stared at the barrel of the gun, then looked up at Proud Hawk. “Don’t particularly like anyone drawin’ a bead on me . . . do you think . . .”

“All right. Take it easy.”

Proud Hawk lowered the weapon. “Like I said. I am connected up around those parts up north. But let’s get something straight right here and now, Razzzzor. Big Joe and you can threaten all you want. This tribe comes first. Nobody nowhere can get me to talk.”

Suddenly the overhead bay lights come on, and there, no more than twenty feet behind Razor, stood retired sheriff Henry Crow Horse, wearing an old, weathered buckskin jacket with his bowie knife strapped to the front of his waist. Moving his hand up slowly and caressing the knife’s pommel, he stared at the biker.

“You may want to get a muffler for that ride of yours.”

Startled, Razor put his hands up, keeping his eyes on the old Indian with the long, flowing white hair.

Henry Crow Horse walked up and stood face-to-face with Razor.

“You keep your hands up, you hear? These days it seems I can’t sleep so good, so I like to ride around at night. Name’s Henry. I am going to see if you got any weapons on you, so just stand still.”

The old man’s right hand shook slightly as he carefully patted him down.

“That’s good. Put your hands down and come on over here.”

Henry Crow Horse led them into an adjacent small-parts room and sat down on a swivel armchair behind an old olive-green army-surplus desk, gesturing for the biker to sit down on a crate in front of him. Proud Hawk, suspicious, stood just inside the doorway, leaning his shotgun up against the jamb.

“Hawk, what seems to be going on here tonight?”

“Well sir, this man seems to think I have some special information for him.”

“What information are you looking for, friend?”

Razor looked at Proud Hawk, then turned and faced Crow Horse. “I was told he saw my brother the night he was killed. I’ve been away. Just got out. Wanted to know some facts.”

“Strange time of the day to be walking in on a man’s place of business looking for facts, don’t you think? What’s your name?”

“Razor.”

“You and your brother, both members of the Quebec’s chapter, huh?”

“Yeah.”

The longtime retired sheriff pushed his chair away from the desk with his cowboy boots and leaned back as if to stretch out his entire spine, then clasped his hands together behind his neck and stared at Razor. Slowly he sat upright, stood up, unbuckled his belt with his knife in its scabbard, and placed it on the desk. Then he removed his buckskin coat, draped it on the back of the chair, and sat back down. He unbuttoned his shirt pocket, pushed his cigarettes up from the bottom in their cellophane pack, took one out without removing the pack, and buttoned the pocket again. He took a lighter from his pants pocket and lit the cigarette, then put the lighter on the desk and pulled an ashtray to him with his one steady hand.

“Well Mr. Razor Blade, there’s no doubt in my mind you’re a brave man . . . that’s for definitely sure. And I can see you’ve got a lot of hard-weathered bark on ya. You know, I’ve lived a long time. Born here and never left for any extended time, so you see there isn’t anything that happens on this reservation that gets by me. So listen up now. I am going to be straight with you because it doesn’t involve anyone here. If it did, well, let’s just say you would be in a heap of trouble right now, coming around here asking about our people. You understand?”

“Yeah. I understand.”

“I am very glad that you do.”

Henry Crow Horse took a deep drag on the cigarette and exhaled slowly.

“Three years ago the Nation of Mohawks brought together many tribal representatives from the west for a powwow right here in St. Regis. For a week we met daily and spoke about many mutual issues facing our brothers and sisters. It was at that time we agreed to have an exchange program for teenagers who were having difficulty with reservation life. Some of our kids went to Arizona and New Mexico and some of theirs came here. Two boys didn’t want to go back. They ended up doing some bad things. I am afraid they were involved in your brother’s death. The FBI chased them, but they got away. Rumor has it they are still in the desert doing their best to stay away from the feds.”

Razor sat motionless and silent, then turned and looked at Proud Hawk and focused his eyes quickly on the shotgun and the knife on the desktop; then he turned his head, looked at the old man’s ruddy-skinned, weather-beaten face, and stared into his black, bloodshot eyes.

“I didn’t know what to expect when I drove up here. Didn’t really know what answers were waiting for me here in Massena. What now?”

“If I were you, Henry Crow Horse replied, I would just say ‘much obliged’ and be on my way.”

Razor slowly got up, his lips pinched tightly closed and his eyes focused on the old Indian’s ancient-looking eyes. He grabbed his left bicep with his right hand and moved his hand slowly up and down his upper arm while measuring the distance between Dan Proud Hawk and the open door immediately to his left. He redirected his attention toward Henry Crow Horse. He stood very still.

“You’ve been generous, Henry, and I’ll leave now, if that’s all right.”

“You’re free to go. Oh. Just one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Give some thought to getting that new muffler.”

Razor gave no reply but managed a terse smile and a nod. Proud Hawk picked up the shotgun and stepped back, allowing the Hell’s Angel a path out of the room, then followed him outside and watched him leave. He returned to the parts room and sat on a big easy chair that was covered up with a few U-Haul truck blankets. He waited for the old man to say something.

Henry Crow Horse took another deep drag, exhaled, and flicked the ash into the ashtray. He leaned forward and looked down at the floor, holding the cigarette between his finger and thumb with the palm of his hand tilted oddly, resting on his cheek. He stared at the floor, then looked up and stared into space as small clouds of smoke suspended in midair surrounded his head and shoulders.

“Do you think he believed me, Hawk?”

“I don’t know.”