Cyclone Rumble Read online

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  “On your feet maggot,” Morgan had roared as he kicked open my bedroom door.

  I had rolled up in my bedding, slid my weary head under a pillow, and pleaded with my older brother, “Let me sleep.”

  “I didn’t hear you recruit.”

  “Give it a rest Morgan.”

  Without warning, he flipped on the light switch. “On deck Mister.”

  I turned under my pillow, opened one eye, and looked sideways at my brother. “Would you please stop with the Marine propaganda.” I rolled to my knees and faced the window next to my bed. I pulled back the Hawaiian print curtain and peered through the foggy glass into the dark alley behind our duplex. “No way.” I tumbled back in bed and scoffed at Morgan, who was standing at rigid Parade Rest. “I don’t know why you keep acting like you’re in the Marines. You sure as heck don’t look like a Marine anymore.”

  Morgan had been squared away when he was discharged. Sporting a razor-cut flattop, he had looked like a football star from the fifties. Seven months later, all that remained were the washed out baby-blue eyes. With full lumberjack whiskers and sandy blond hair creeping past his shoulders, Morgan had officially dropped out.

  “You look more like a Berserker than a United States Marine.” I rummaged through my bed and fished out a t-shirt. I pulled the undershirt over my head, locked eyes with Morgan, and said with a condescending smirk, “Don’t worry big brother, even if you don’t look like a Marine anymore—you still act like a jarhead.”

  “Out of bed hippie.”

  “Just because I’m not ready to join the Marines, that doesn’t make me a hippie. Being a grunt was fine for you, but I’m going to college first—I’m officer material. You may have gotten the brawn big brother, but I got the brains. And the looks—And the charm. Besides—I may join the Air Force. I heard they’ve got better chow.”

  “Only pussies join the Air Force.” He grabbed a baseball mitt off my dresser and hurled it against the wall, next to my head. “Be a man; join the Marines.”

  “I’ll join the Foreign Legion if I want to. Whatever I do, it’s going to be after I finish college.”

  “Fuck College. You’re going to be eighteen in few days; it’s time for you to talk to a Marine Recruiter. I can’t be your daddy forever.”

  “What are you talking about? I thought this was all settled. You said we were going to be roommates.”

  “Forget about it Duff.” He picked up my alarm clock and checked the time. “You graduated three weeks ago. All you do is read comic books and whack your pud. You need to get your lazy ass down to the Marine recruiting office.”

  “Slow down big brother. We don’t want to jump into something I might regret. You don’t have to worry; I’m going to get a job. I just need a few more weeks Morgan. I’ll cough up my share of the rent.”

  “Even if you get a job—you can’t run with me. You’re just a kid. You think you’re smart, but you don’t know jack shit. You’ve got a whole hell of lot of growing up to do little brother. And I can’t stand around holding your hand while you do it. I made sure you graduated from high school like I promised mom. Now—I’ve got my own life to live. Did you think maybe I don’t want to baby sit while you play Joe College? I’ve got other things to do little man. You know I’m getting tight with the Serpents. Lawson and some of the other cats have been talking to me about wearing The Patch. If I become a Prospect, I’ll be getting into some pretty heavy stuff.”

  I laughed out loud. “You mean Lawson and his band of war rejects. Once this hero worship thing wears off—you’re going to see Lawson for what he is. Think about it Morgan—you aren’t really going to join the Serpents?” I lifted my arm and sniffed my pit. I took a good whiff under the other arm and then looked at my brother. “Come on Morgan—you can’t throw me out in the cold. Let’s talk about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” he said. “Put some pants on and meet me out by the garage.” Morgan did an about-face and disappeared down the hall.

  I spotted a pair of Levis on my weight bench, got dressed, and followed my brother. Down a short hallway, through the crummy kitchen of our two-bedroom one-bath duplex, I stepped out the back door onto the cold concrete driveway. The cool damp air made me glad we were back in San Pedro. Even the smell of diesel fuel and dead fish from L.A. Harbor was an improvement over Barstow. I glanced down the driveway, squinting at the sun peaking through the haze. I thought I heard a dog growl.

  Staring at his surplus-green wristwatch, Morgan grumbled while pacing back and forth in front of his six-banger ’49 Chevy pickup, which was backed up to the detached garage. When he saw me, Morgan turned and walked along the side of the pickup and into the open garage. I followed. Inside was a brand new Bultaco 360 El Bandito.

  “Is this thing hot?” I asked. “Because I know you don’t have the money.”

  “Don’t ask stupid questions,” he said, sliding a narrow wooden ramp from the truck bed.

  “Nothing stupid about it. Stupid is getting busted with a stolen motorcycle. I know you’re pissed off at the world these days; I just really hate to see you get in serious trouble. At mom’s funeral, you talked about going to go to college on the GI Bill so you could coach high school football. You keep running with the Serpents—you’re going to end up at the University of San Quentin.”

  I hopped in the back of the pickup, and Morgan shoved the Bultaco up the ramp. Grabbing the handlebars, I pulled the dirt bike into the back of the pickup. “I know you think Lawson is some kind of hero, but I don’t trust the guy.”

  “J.T. Lawson is a righteous dude,” Morgan said, sliding the ramp to the other side of the truck. “I told you how he saved my life in Nam.”

  “Yeah—about a million times. It was 1966, Operation Hastings. You’d been hit in both legs and couldn’t move. Surrounded by the enemy, slowly bleeding to death, it was curtains. When out of nowhere, our hero, J.T. Lawson, crawled through a minefield and carried you to safety. I still don’t trust the guy. And some of those other dudes belong in a freak show.”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  Morgan shoved his ’61 Norton off the kickstand and ran it up the ramp. I secured the 650 and then hopped out of the truck.

  I said, “I know a lot more than you think.”

  “You’re just a young punk. What the hell do you know?”

  “I know this—you keep running around with the Serpents—you’re going to get bit. If you ask me, the whole bunch is rotten.”

  Morgan took a lumbering stride and grabbed me by the shirt. “I’m getting tired of your smart mouth.” Morgan unclenched his fist and eased back, but his eyes were still pissed. “You’d better watch what you say about the Serpents. If you’re as smart as you think you are, you’ll keep your opinions about the Serpents to yourself. The Serpents are hard men, not like those high school pussies you hang around with. So unless you want your ass handed to you some day—watch what you say.”

  “What’s with you and the Serpents? All you talk about lately is how great the Serpents are. Time for a reality check Morgan. It’s Lawson and T-bone, and a couple of shattered war vets. What’s so great about the Serpents?”

  “You don’t get it—do you Duff? The Serpents are a family, only tighter, and more organized, like a squadron. They’re willing to fight and die for each other. I’ve been getting tight with these guys. I really feel like they’ve got my back.”

  I popped him in the chest with open palms. “The Serpents don’t have your back. They’re in it for themselves. What happens if you get arrested? Is Lawson going to go to jail for you? We’re family Morgan, real family. Did you ever think I might need you? To hell with the Serpents.”

  “You know,” he said with a far off look on his face, like he hadn’t even heard me. “A lot of those guys have been to Nam.” He said it like going to Nam was some exalted ritual of manhood that mere mortals like myself couldn’t possibly understand.

  Morgan checked his watch one
more time. “Put your shoes on. You’re going to drive me up to a little cabin near Sidewinder Mountain. Fuckin’ Vince was supposed to drive, but he’s late, and I can’t wait any longer.”

  “He probably met some beach bunny. He’ll be here. Cousin Vince always comes through. Sometimes he’s a little late, but he always comes through.”

  “I don’t have time for Vince’s bullshit today. I’m on a tight schedule.”

  “What’s your schedule have to do with me?”

  Morgan gave me a look like an overhand right. “After you drop me and the dirt bike off, you’re going to drive my truck up to Barstow and park it at Tubby’s Truck Stop.”

  “Then what—I’m supposed to sit there and wait?”

  “No! You drop the truck off at Tubby’s and split. You can ride my Norton back. You park the truck out back, unload the Norton, and haul ass back to San Pedro. I don’t want you anywhere near Barstow this afternoon.” I guess Morgan could tell what I was thinking. He said, “And I don’t what you sitting over at the diner eating cherry pie trying to put the moves on Harper. That chicks bad news—besides, she’s too old for you.”

  “Stop being a chump. Harper’s not the reason you got fired from the mine.”

  “I got fired because the system sucks.”

  Morgan finished securing the bikes. I went inside and scarfed a bowl of Sugar Frosted Flakes. When he came in the house looking for me, I was putting on my Salvation Army work boots. Morgan checked the front door, and I grabbed a Snickers Bar out of the freezer. We walked out the back door together. Morgan locked up, and I jumped behind the wheel.

  We cruised west on Summerland Ave. through an early L.A. mist. I turned up the northbound onramp to the Harbor Freeway, and Morgan pulled a Browning Automatic Pistol out of the glove box. He released the magazine and started popping cartridges out with his thumb.

  “What the hell is that for?”

  “It’s for whatever I need it for.” He counted twelve out loud as he reloaded. He slammed the magazine shut, racked the slide, and then set the Browning back in the glove box. “You’ve always got to be ready Duff. I learned that the hard way back in Nam.” Morgan stared straight ahead for a few miles then started rocking like a football player getting psyched up for big game.

  As we drove through South Central Los Angeles, I turned to my brother and said, “You aren’t in Vietnam anymore big brother. I know it’s a jungle out there, but I don’t think you’re going to need the heavy artillery.”

  Morgan got wide eyed, pulled the military-grade Browning from the glove box, and displayed it in the palm of his hand. “Heavy artillery—hell—this is a pop gun. You should see the ordnance the Serpents have stashed.”

  I just let it go. I kept quiet and drove while Morgan chain-smoked. A half a pack of cigarettes later, we ended up in the orange groves out in the middle of nowhere, the sign said Rancho Cucamonga. From there I turned north. Morgan lit his last cigarette at the base of the Cajon Pass. We started up the grade, and the old Chevy struggled, so I shifted down and pulled into the truck lane. While we made the slow ascent up the 5,000-foot pass, I turned to my brother and said, “You know Harper O’Neal isn’t the reason you got fired from the mine.”

  “Reason enough.”

  “That’s bullshit Morgan.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” he said, slamming his fist against the dashboard. Morgan gripped my bicep and dug his fingers into my arm. “Stay away from that bitch.” He let go of my arm and pointed past the horizon. “I’m going to need you to turn off just past Victorville, I’ll show you where.” A couple minutes later he clinched my arm, and shook me like I was asleep and the house was on fire. “Do you understand me Duff—I’m serious. I don’t want you hanging out at the diner.”

  I lifted my elbow high enough to break his grip, and then yanked my arm free. “Yeah I get it Morgan. You know I’ll be eighteen in a few days, and I won’t have to take anymore guff off of you.”

  Morgan sat up and put his hands on the dashboard. With his eyes focused up the road he said, “If you don’t like it, you can go down and enlist on Monday, or you can get a fucking job and move out on your own. Until then—like the judge said—I’m your legal guardian. You do what I say.”

  Any time we got in an argument, Morgan loved to throw that legal guardian bullshit in my face. Every time he said it, I could picture him in his Dress Blues at the custody hearing. Morgan had just gotten out of the Marines when my mom died. Since our dad had been killed in the Korean War, and because I was still seventeen, there was a custody hearing. Although Morgan was only twenty-five, the judge was impressed with how mature my brother appeared. He had secured a good job as a maintenance mechanic at the McCord Mine out in Barstow, and his hair was high and tight, just like the judges. The judge gave a speech about how great it was that he had served his country and what a shame it was that all those ungrateful hippies were out in the streets protesting. If that judge could only see Morgan now.

  Leaving the cool San Bernardino Mountains, we crested the Cajon Pass. The road flattened out, and we headed north into the Mojave Desert. We blew through Victorville. A few minutes later my brother pointed at a mile marker and told me to pull over. I drifted onto the shoulder, slowed down, and eased off the asphalt onto a dirt berm. Morgan pointed to a sign that read No Admittance.

  “Take that road. Hurry up.”

  “When did you become such a dick?” I asked, slamming my foot on the gas pedal. Gravel peppered the undercarriage and the truck shot through an opening in a barbed wire fence.

  We headed east through the rocks and tumbleweeds toward Stoddard Ridge. A half hour later we started up a rutted old fire road that ran along the backside of Sidewinder Mountain. A mile or so up the trail, the old Chevy struggled through a dry wash. On the other side of the wash, we descended into a gorge, turned a short corner, and drove up on an old pecky cedar miner’s shack. Place had a rickety front porch, and there were seven or eight motorcycles out front, mostly Harleys. A tall lanky dude with a wiry beard wearing a stovetop hat stood on the porch. He looked like Abraham Lincoln on smack. With a shotgun cradled in his arms, like he was holding a baby, the guy swayed forward until it looked like he was going to fall off the porch. Then he’d sway back. I don’t think he even noticed us pull up.

  “Looks like a junkie,” I mumbled as we rolled to a stop.

  “Shut the fuck up Duff. I’m serious motherfucker. You keep your goddamn mouth shut.”

  “What’s your problem Morgan?”

  Morgan wasn’t listening; he was focused on the shack. Lawson and his motley crew were spilling out of the front door. Lawson looked toward my brother and lifted a sleeveless Denim Jacket over his head with both hands. The crusty group cheered, and my brother roared—‘Oorah’. The jacket had a Prospect Rocker on it, and Morgan left me hanging while he ran up to get his new club patch. Lawson gave my brother a bear hug while the others slapped him on the back.

  I got busy unloading the motocross bike. As I pulled down the tailgate, I could hear my brother coming around the front of the truck, talking tough. Morgan had his arm around Lawson’s shoulder. T-bone followed, on Lawson’s flank. The burly ex con had a WWII grease gun in one hand, and a bottle of bourbon whiskey in the other.

  “Who the fuck is this,” T-bone said, waving the submachine gun in my direction.

  “He’s cool,” Morgan said. “It’s my brother Duff. Don’t you remember? He always had his head in a book. You called him Poindexter.”

  “Looks like a rat to me.”

  “I’m not a rat. I never told on anyone in my life. Besides, there’s nothing to tell.” I turned to my brother. “Unless bad manners are a crime.” I spit some dust. “Don’t ask me to do you anymore favors Morgan. You’ve been giving me crap all morning, and now your retard buddy is giving me a ration. One of your asshole friends can drive the truck up to Barstow. I’ll hitchhike back to San Pedro.”

  T-bone took offence and started toward me. Morgan stepp
ed around the back of the pickup and cocked his arm. I pulled my chin.

  Morgan said, “Goddamn it Duff. I told you to watch your mouth. I ought to…”

  Lawson stepped in front of T-bone and asked my brother. “What the hell happened to Vince?”

  Morgan lowered his arm and looked back at Lawson. “Vince didn’t show up. I was running out of time. I didn’t have any choice Lawson.”

  “I don’t like it,” T-bone said. “He looks like a punk.”

  I heard T-bone; my eyes were on Lawson.

  Callous eyes stared from behind the shadow of a scowl. Lawson said, “Morgan says you’re a smart kid”

  “Smart enough.”

  “That’s good, because I need you to be smart. Be smart and forget you were ever here. If I find out you’ve been running your mouth, I’ll have T-bone cut your tongue out.”

  T-bone sucked air as he laughed, like a hyena with a tracheotomy.

  T-bone stopped laughing. Morgan didn’t say a word. Lawson watched.

  “Like I said, there’s nothing to tell.”

  “Just make sure you remember that. Your brother’s life may depend on it.”

  Lawson took off his club jacket. He motioned for Morgan to do the same. Then he handed them to T-bone. Morgan didn’t like giving up his new Patch.

  “Don’t sweat it man,” T-bone said. “You’ll get it back. I’m going to stash them all in the shack. We don’t need to do any advertising today.”

  “We’re leaving in ten minutes,” Lawson said. “Get your shit together.” He followed T-bone toward the shack. He stopped and turned around. “Make sure your brother knows what the fuck’s going on. If he fucks this up, you’ll pay the price.”

  Morgan hustled, hopping in the truck and quickly untying the dirt bike.

  I pulled out the wooden ramp and asked, “What the hell was that all about?”

  “He was testing you. Lucky for us—you passed the test. Now all you have to do is keep your mouth shut.”

  “Lawson is schizoid. He’s like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” I looked toward the shack and caught an eyeful of T-bone pissing off the front porch. “And T-bone is a Mongoloid.”

  “Goddamn it Duff. You nearly got your ass kicked a minute ago. You need to watch your mouth. A guy like T-bone will bust you up for the fun of it. Out here in the middle of nowhere, I won’t be able to stop him.” Guiding the dirt bike down the ramp, he said, “Jesus man—you got a death wish.”

  “So this is it?” I asked. “You’re going to live out here in the dirt and rocks with a bunch of snakes?”

  “Nobody lives here little man. We’re just using this shack for a base of operations.”

  “What are you talking about—base of operations?”

  “Me and my bro’s are heading out in the desert for some serious recon this afternoon.” Morgan opened the fuel line, stood up on the foot peg, and romped on the starter. The two-stroke engine screamed to life and Morgan called out, “Grab my Browning out of the glove box. You never know when you’re going to get into a firefight.”

  When I grabbed the pistol, I heard what sounded like a buffalo stampede. Half a dozen filthy bikers spilled out of the shack. They all turned their jackets inside out. The tall lanky dude with the shotgun, who looked like Abraham Lincoln on smack, strolled over and straddled a chopped Harley. Five other greasy looking sons’ of bitches followed. One by one the motors roared to life and the riders took off. That left two motocross bikes, and Lawson and T-bone standing on the porch.

  I handed Morgan the gun and asked, “What the hell is going on here?”

  “The Serpents are about to strike.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? You make it sound like a military operation.”

  Morgan tilted up his Ray Ban Aviator Shades. His eyes bore into me. “The Serpents are an army. There’s over a hundred members nationwide. Lawson could make a phone call and have every one of them here in less than three days. Most of them have military training, and anyone of them could snuff you out in a second. The Serpents are some bad motherfuckers Duff. You don’t want to piss any of these guys off, especially Lawson.”

  “Get serious Morgan.”

  “I am serious. Lawson was in the Marines for fifteen years. He did three tours in Nam. Believe me, Master Gunnery Sergeant J.T. Lawson knows how to kill a man. I’d follow him into combat any day. A lot of men did. I’m not the only Marine who owes his life to Gunny. He really watched over his little grunts. He kept in touch with a lot of them. Lawson didn’t just show up out the blue last New Years Eve. He came to recruit me.”

  “You’re crazy.“

  “You know what’s crazy Duff? Crazy would be for you to tell someone what you saw today. That would be crazy.”

  I didn’t say anything after that. Morgan told me about five times to park the truck at Tuby’s Truck Stop, in the northwest corner by the cinderblock pumphouse. Then he told me a half dozen times to leave Barstow as soon as I got there. And he told me to stay away from the diner. I don’t know what he told me after that. I wasn’t listening.