Slick and Torry and the Cat

By Howard R Music

A small private plane carrying a load of cash for a drug deal crashes near a river. Feathers, a biker who collects artifacts, is searching for arrowheads and sees the accident. He takes $500,000 from the wreckage but, before he can get away, he is spotted by three hoods sent to make the deal. They give chase, but get their wires crossed and go after the wrong people. Slick and Torry, two bikers are falsely accused of the theft. They try to hide, knowing they are toast if they are caught. Cat, a beautiful stripper, gets wind of the deal and decides to tag along. She doesn't care much for toast, but that much bread would really make her purr. Unable to catch the slippery bikers, the hoods kidnap the girl, intending to use her for ransom. Slick and Torry are forced to hunt down the money, their only clue is an arrowhead dropped at the plane crash. Sometimes taking a ride on a sunny day can sure get complicated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Howard R Music
• Release date: Dec 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301661015

Howard R Music

I've been a motorcyclist all my adult life. Enjoy writing, and have had short stories, poems, cartoons, and illustrations published in many motorcycle publications. I also write music and perform in various places in Denton, Texas, which is well known for it's eclectic music scene. I currently ride a 2001 Harley Sportster, which is a blast to ride on Texas back roads.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A small, single engine, private plane flies low in a heavily wooded canyon, following the path of a river below. The pilot, a broad shouldered man named Nielson, nonchalantly handles the controls. Aviator glasses shield his eyes. Short brown hair is streaked with grey at the temples. A starched white pearl-snap shirt is tucked into equally starched denim jeans that slip over a pair of alligator cowboy boots. The confidence of the forty year old pilot is in stark contrast to his passenger in the seat next to him, a pale, diminutive man in a stiff business suit with a heavy briefcase in his lap, who nervously grips the seat with both hands and stares straight out the front window, as if afraid that turning his head would cause the wings to fall off.

The ground is rocky, lined with sparse thin-bladed grass and broad leaf cactus. Short live oak trees dot the hills, vying for space with small groves of thorny mesquite trees. Near the waterline an occasional cottonwood towers out of the rugged ground, stubbornly seeking life in the arid hill country of central Texas. The pale blue sky is clear except for a few scattered white clouds.

About forty feet above the river on a small terrace, Feathers, a heavily tanned man in a black t-shirt and red bandana, digs in the limestone impregnated earth with a small pick, examining and discarding shards of rock. Occasionally, he puts a fragment into a fanny pack buckled to a military style canteen belt around his waist. Sweat pours out of his long jet-black hair, which is tied into a single braid that hangs down his back.

At the top of the canyon, a black sedan is parked on a long, narrow stretch of deserted asphalt. Three men loiter around the vehicle; Carl, wearing cowboy cut clothes, paces nervously and peers up at the sky; Fritz, a large hulk of a man with heavy lidded eyes, looks at a grasshopper in his huge right hand; and Morley, a tough looking character sporting a pencil thin moustache, who cleans his fingernails with a switchblade knife. Through the trees in the canyon below, they catch a glimpse of the plane.

Must be our bird, says Morly.

Carl is stunned. What’s it doing down there?

The men look at one another as the plane’s engine sputters.

Inside the cockpit of the plane, the passenger’s eyes bug out. What’s wrong? he gasps, jerking his head towards the pilot.

Nielson scans the instruments. I don’t know. Sounds like we’re out of fuel.

Oh, Jesus! The passenger moans.

The plane is about twenty feet above the river. Nielson grits his teeth, looking at the trees and rocky banks, and realizing there is no place to land. We’re going to have to ditch it.

The passenger, a look of pure terror on his face, doesn’t notice the briefcase falling from his lap onto the floor. In the water? No way! I can’t swim! He grabs the pilot’s arm and shoulder.

Still digging with the pick, Feathers is startled by the plane as it flies below the terrace he is on. It veers off abruptly and plows into the trees on his side of the river.

Back on the road, Carl reacts in shock to the sound of the crash Did you hear that? The trees! It hit the trees!

Fritz rubs his chin as the grasshopper jumps away. I wonder why? he asks.

Who cares, you idiot! Carl yells, giving Fritz a shove. Get on down there!

The three men rush towards the river bottom, stumbling down the rugged slope.

At the wreckage, Feathers walks up cautiously, stepping over scattered pieces. One wing of the plane is missing. The fuselage sits on the rocks, while the tail section rests at an angle on a short live oak tree. The occupants are unconscious, still strapped in their seats. He tries to climb in the shattered cabin, but his canteens hang up. He unhooks the belt and drops it on the ground. Inside, Feathers finds and examines a small military style firearm, until he spots the large briefcase. He moves the passenger’s legs out of the way, and then opens the case. It is full of money.

Mama, mama, mama, he breathes quietly. Closing the case, the man climbs out of the plane, looking around apprehensively.

Just then, Carl comes out of the woods and sees Feathers at the wreckage. Hey, you! Stop!

Immediately, Feathers bolts away with the briefcase.

After him! Carl yells to his companions who are coming up behind. He’s got the money!

Morly takes off after Feathers, followed by a lumbering Fritz.

Carl sees the canteen belt Feathers had dropped. He picks it up, searches through the pack, and finds an arrowhead. Putting it in his pocket, he drops the belt, and follows Fritz and Morly.

Feathers runs up to a black Harley Davidson parked out of sight just off the road. He quickly straps the briefcase on the back, starts the motor, and roars out onto the asphalt.

Morly comes out of the brush and fires several shots from a semi-automatic pistol at the biker as he rockets past the black sedan.

How about that, says a wheezing Fritz, walking up behind Morly. He’s got a motorcycle.

As Morly puts away his pistol, an out of breath Carl runs up to them. C’mon, dufus! Get to the car! You can’t catch him on foot! He smacks Fritz on the back of the head, and then runs down the road towards the car.

Fritz rubs his head then says to Morly, How come he’s always hittin’ me?

Two bikers cruise side by side down a busy city street. The Texas sun glints off the chrome and spokes of the spinning wheels. A steady rumble from the v-twin engines bounces off the pavement and the brick walls of the buildings they pass. Slick is a lean, sandy haired man on a multicolored custom Harley Davidson with a nude woman painted on the tank. Torry is a bit stocky and rides a factory Harley with a black paint job. His long dark hair is tied back in a ponytail and he sports a red bandana. Both men wear black t-shirts. They roll off the highway into a gas station parking lot and kill their engines next to a pump. Slick dismounts, slides a card on the dispenser, selects the fuel type, and then starts filling his tank.

You know? I guess I’ll never learn, says Torry, still sitting on his bike.

Learn what? Slick answers, checking out a long legged girl walking back to her car.

To stop listening to you.

Slick hands Torry the nozzle. Look, I thought it was a for sure thing. How was I to know it was a set-up?

Oh, I don’t know. The handcuffs might’ve tipped you off.

They dropped the charges.

After two days! Torry replaces the nozzle on the pump, and then starts walking towards the store.

It wasn’t so bad, Slick answers, following him.

Not for you! I was the one in the tank. Most of them were drunk. The guy next to me passed out and puked all over himself.

I’ll make it up to you.

Forget it. I’ll find the parts myself.

I know another guy who’s got some old stuff still in the original boxes.

Torry opens the glass entry door, and he and Slick go inside. You think they’ll fit those treadle sewing machines you suckered me into last year?

So the bottom dropped out of the antique market, Slick answers, getting a drink out of an upright cooler. This is different. These are Harley parts. I can get them for half price.

Which means I’ll wind up paying double, Torry sneers, looking for a drink himself.

You know what your problem is, Torry?

Torry stops and looks at Slick.

You’re a pessimist.

Back on the city street, the black car, with Morly at the wheel, speeds along. Carl is in the front seat with Morly and Fritz is in the back by himself. All three scan the outside traffic and buildings looking for Feathers, the biker who took the briefcase of money.

Lighting a cigarette, Morley spots Slick and Torry’s Harleys at the gas pump. Over there, I think it’s him. He slows the car, turns into the parking lot of the station, and stops where they can see the backs of the motorcycles.

Are you sure? Carl asks Morly.

Just then, Slick and Torry walk out of the store