The Artist

By Howard R Music

Toby, a graphic artist from Kentucky, who started a successful business painting custom motorcycles, finds himself over leveraged after expanding his operation and being ripped-off by a couple of his new employees. He saves the life of an acquaintance by shooting a man who tried to murder his friend Dwayne Cutler. Cutler, a rich, urban biker who, impressed with Toby's skill and nerve, offers Toby a chance to earn some quick money to save his business. All Toby has to do is eliminate those who are attempting to sabotage Cutlers's international business interests. Desperate, Toby takes up the offer, and proves to be quite adept at dealing with "harsh realities" as Cutler calls them. The money from the assassinations keeps his custom motorcycle business running and even makes a tidy profit. However, while on a mission to deal with a "harsh reality" Toby learns that Cutler's diverse business dealings includes child sex trafficking. Refusing to eliminate the targets, a Catholic Priest and a young trafficking victim named Michelle, Toby goes on the run in Texas. Trying to keep a low profile he takes up with some out of state motorcyclists on tour. Unfortunately, some of the riders have a "past" of their own, and Toby is drawn into a confrontation with members of a Mexican drug and sex trafficking cartel and now must not only try to avoid his former employer, but also stop a vicious killer from Mexico called Lobo, who is intent on taking a cargo of young American girls across the southern border.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Howard R Music
• Release date: Apr 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310148941

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

How does a man become a killer, the lone rider thought as he sat on a concrete picnic table at a roadside rest stop smoking a cigarette. Hell, he was an artist, at least he'd always thought of himself as one.

A black motorcycle parked next to the table made occasional ticking noises as it cooled in the shade of a live oak tree in the midday heat. The machine looked like a mildly customized Harley Davidson but, in reality, it was a totally aftermarket product, though American made. The aluminum S&S engine was a larger displacement motor with balanced flywheels and piston rods, which allowed it to rev higher and smoother than a stock V-twin. The transmission and frame weren’t stock either, and unlike most custom bikes, which sported elaborate paint jobs, gleaming chrome or gold plating, and lavishly engineered front ends, this one had a simple black paint job, plain fiberglass saddlebags, and a bug-encrusted windshield. A sleeping bag, a luggage tube, and a portable camping tent were lashed to a short sissy bar behind the two-up seat, which meant the bike was designed as a functional road machine rather than eye-candy.

The appearance of the owner was deceptive as well. His dark hair was cut short like a businessman, which he was, more or less, and because of the wind stood straight up like a brush. His skin was heavily tanned except for a lighter area usually covered by his wrap-around riding glasses that now sat on the concrete table beside him, and it was void of tattoos, giving the man the semblance of an occasional rider: a dentist, doctor, or lawyer who rode on charity or supper rides on the weekends. But in reality, the man was an avid motorcyclist who regularly logged ten to fifteen thousand miles a year in the saddle. Leather riding boots and a denim cutoff that bikers often wear to carry loose money, or keys, or other things that might be needed to be reached quickly, were the only items that set him apart from other citizens.

The detailed ink, piercings, and other trappings generally adorning one-percenters, or those emulating them, held little interest, as most of his money had gone into a custom painting business he had established in his native Kentucky. The man had loved cars and motorcycles as long as he could remember, and as a teenager had taken a job in an automotive body shop. The craft came naturally to him and, in his early twenties, he began doing after-hour paint jobs on motorcycles in his garage. Eventually, he was able to save enough to rent a small shop. It didn't make him rich, but it paid his bills and allowed him to work for himself. The memory of hanging up the hand-painted sign in front of his own business was one he would never forget. Toby's Custom Paint. Toby, he thought, hell of a name for a murderer.

He tossed the cigarette butt. There was very little wind at the small rest area that was situated halfway down a hill on a gentle curve beside the Texas state highway. Behind the rest stop was a shallow creek that had carved itself out of the rocky terrain. It was dry as it was most of the year, except during an occasional thunderstorm when the runoff would roar down the scrub oak-covered hills and mesas in the area. Toby was alone at the rest stop. Though it had two covered tables, shade trees, and steel barbeque pits mounted on pipe, it received few visitors. There was a sign a mile up the road announcing its presence, but if a driver didn't see the posting he was likely to miss the place, which wasn't visible because of the curve on the hill and the surrounding trees. Most drivers didn't see it in time to stop and simply kept going. Toby had missed it as well, but there was no traffic, so he'd spun around and returned.

Greed. It was a curse. Why wasn't he satisfied with just working alone? It kept him fed, provided a place to sleep, and paid for his motorcycle. What possessed him to think he needed more?

It started out innocently enough. Within a few years of opening his shop, demand for his elaborate airbrush work outpaced his ability to keep up. Toby hired another painter to help with prep work, but it wasn't enough, and the backlogs mounted. The custom bike craze was in full swing. Retirees, who had grown up watching Easy Riders and other biker flicks made in the late 60's and 70's, were flush with extra cash now that their children were grown, and purchased customized Harleys to recapture their youth and live out fantasies delayed by family and career. His business needed more room to expand, and he secured a loan to purchase a larger facility so that he could hire the extra help needed.

Toby took another cigarette from a half empty pack in the pocket of his worn cut-off. Tobacco was something he'd seldom used. Sometimes he would light up while drinking an occasional beer at Stoney's bar in his native Bowling Green, Kentucky, where he played eight-ball with friends when time allowed. He was one of the few people who could smoke one day and not touch cigarettes again for weeks or months. But now he was going through a pack a day, sometimes two.

Behind him in the distance, traces of dark clouds touched the horizon, and the high humidity in the midday heat alluded to rain, though the sky was clear with a few scattered white clouds that occasionally blocked the sun at irregular intervals. He lit the cigarette with a cheap, plastic lighter, and drew the smoke deep in to his lungs. Texas in the spring was beautiful. Not as lush and green as Kentucky, where the flowing rivers fed the roots of trees that grew twice as large as the ones that were scattered haphazardly on the grassy plains and rocky hills that caught his gaze. But the changing hues of newly budded leaves, struggling flowered plants bursting through the sand, rock, and cactus and stretching out to a backdrop of grey, blue, and purple streaked skies was a panorama simultaneously connecting one to the past and present, yet with an anticipation of future adventure just out of sight.

It was no wonder people were flocking to the state. He would definitely consider relocating if his future were not as precarious as the ash on the end of the cigarette between his fingers. The man stared at the half-smoked cylinder in his hand, not sure of why he used them; they were as tasteless as cardboard and did nothing to alleviate his mood or the situation he found himself in.

Toby was amazed and disgusted as he thought about how he had been mesmerized by the possibility of becoming rich building his own line of custom motorcycles. Several builders from coast-to-coast were featured on television, charging six-figure sums for handcrafted choppers. His friends and business associates urged him to go for it, and like some star-struck teenage guitar player, he had.

It went well at first. He changed the name of his company to Toby's Custom Motorcycles, and began hiring extra help: two brothers (Norman and Henry Jackson) who were well-known for their fabrication, sheet metal, and welding skills, and a factory-trained mechanic called Knucklehead who had spent most of his life repairing Harley engines. Knucklehead's name came from an antique Harley he rode, a classic machine that he babied and cared for like it was a woman. The new shop, workmen, tooling, and inventory left him mortgaged to the hilt, but eighteen-hour workdays kept up enough cash flow to cover it. Former customers, impressed with his painting skills, spread the word, contracts for one-off custom bikes trickled in, and within a year, he began to show a profit. There appeared to be no end to it, and he made plans to buy a truck and an enclosed trailer so he could transport his creations to the major biker rallies that are held all over the country.

Then, without warning, he was deluged in a tempest, the perfect storm. He was approached by a Nashville recording executive who wanted three top-of-the-line choppers: one for himself, one for his son, and one for his new trophy wife. It would be a profitable deal, but the man wanted them in sixty days so that they could be trailered to Daytona, Florida, the first major bike rally of the year. The executive assumed custom-made Harleys could be spit out like paper from a copy machine. Leery, Toby discussed it with his staff, and was assured it could be done.

Despite trepidations, he signed a contract, and used the thirty percent front money, one hundred thousand dollars, to buy the parts to start the build. The two brothers he’d hired as fabricators were skilled artisans but, unfortunately, they also had a taste for strippers and nose candy, and began showing up late for work, if they came in at all. The day after Toby confronted them about their casual work ethic they disappeared, along with the motorcycle parts for the record executive build. He later found out the Jackson brothers had pulled this scam before. He cursed himself for not doing a more thorough background check, but there was no time to deal with them by then. Toby's Custom Motorcycles was in a bind. Everything he owned was in hock to the bank, which would not extend any more credit. He didn't have nearly enough capital to replace the stolen parts. Even if his insurance would cover the lost inventory, the money wouldn't be paid in time to finish the bikes on the stipulated date, and the company would be in breach of contract.

Toby put cigarette butt out on the top of the table and stood up. The memories jolted him like an electrical charge and he couldn't sit still. A dry van eighteen-wheeler passed by, its tires singing a high-pitched tune. He paced around the rest stop, boots crunching in the gravel, as he tried to work the stiffness out of his legs and back from the days he'd spent in the saddle.

Unable to figure a way out of his dilemma, Toby had ridden his Harley, which sported detailed graphics to advertise his business, to a secluded spot outside of Bowling Green to do some target shooting and, hopefully, think the situation through. The gun was a Ruger Single Six .22 revolver with a nine and one-half-inch barrel. It had interchangeable cylinders, so virtually any .22 round from a short to a magnum could be fired. It was an inexpensive, though accurate and reliable, firearm. Toby liked the way it looked and felt in his hand, and through the years had become quite proficient with it. He fired almost two hundred rounds of shorts, which were low-powered and quiet, knocking over aluminum cans, bottle tops, anything he could find in the makeshift dump, but a solution to his problem still eluded him.

At dark, he packed the gun away in a saddlebag and started back to Bowling Green. He couldn't bring himself to go home to his troubles, so instead he stopped off at Stoney's. The bar was built in the 1940s, a small, gable-roofed building covered in natural rock, and was originally a diner for an old motor court motel next door. It was rumored that the motel was often used for discreet trysts by country music stars, who'd slip across the border from Nashville with young girls who hoped to sleep their way to a recording deal. The rooms were now rented out as cheap efficiency apartments, since traffic on the state highway dried up with the introduction of the interstate system in the 60s.

It had been awhile since he'd been there, but the bartender recognized him, and an acquaintance he sometimes shot pool with was there, a man named Dwayne Cutler. They struck up a conversation, ordered some beers, and racked up a game. Toby had known Dwayne for a few years. They'd met at Stoney's and regularly got together at the bar for competitive but friendly games of eight ball. All Toby knew about him was that he ran a family business. Export, import, that sort of thing, Cutler had said. Toby didn't think much about it. A lot of moneymen were into Harleys and slumming around at biker bars. Unlike most deep-pocket bikers, though, Cutler was a serious rider who took regular cross-country trips. Toby had run into him at a few local biker events, but because of his new bike shop, he hadn't seen much of him lately.

It was a slow night at the bar. There were only a couple of other riders with their dates, busy feeding money into the jukebox. After a few beers and several games, Dwayne said he needed to split. Yeah, me too, Toby answered, after losing his third game in a row, which was unusual as he was known for his prowess at the tables. They walked out the back door, which opened to the alley where they had parked their bikes. It was their usual routine, because the door was near the tables and they could check on their rides easily during the games.

Jolted back to the present, Toby watched a green lizard with red stripes weave in and out of the grass and rocks at the back of the rest area, thinking how strange it was that no matter how hard he tried he couldn't shake the memories of that night out of his head. Every nuance of that alley; the smell of grease, the dumpster, the hum of the air conditioning unit, the buzzing of the street lamp surrounded by flying insects; stuck with him as if it were a part of his skin. The event played out over and over in his mind like an old movie rerun. If only he hadn't gone target shooting, hadn't stopped off at the bar, had gone after the Jackson brothers, or at least had declared bankruptcy and liquidated the bike shop, then maybe the only regrets he'd ever have in his life wouldn't be clamped on his skull like a vice.

As he'd unlocked his Harley parked behind Dwayne's ride that night, Toby heard footsteps. He turned and saw a man walking towards them. There was nothing unusual about him, other than the Colt 1911 .45 semi-automatic pistol he was pointing at them.

Cutler! the man barked, his pale blue eyes shining with an electric intensity.

I know you? Dwayne glared, his gaze shifting between the two men in front of him.

The man with the gun stopped a few paces from Toby. You've taken your last girl!

Toby could see sweat gleaming on the man's face. He wore a dark windbreaker over a black t-shirt stretched tight over a pair of broad shoulders. His thick chest heaved with exertion or anger, Toby didn't know which. We were just shooting pool, there... Toby started, but was cut off when the man bashed him in the face with the .45. It happened so fast he never saw it coming. He collapsed on his back next to his Harley, by the rear wheel and right saddlebag. Blood filled his left eye from a gash that bisected his eyebrow and bridge of his nose.

You'll get yours later, the man with the .45 said grimly to Toby, as he pointed the weapon back at Dwayne. This has been a long time coming, he continued, taking a step forward.

His ears were ringing and he was seeing flashes and sparks in front of his one good eye. Toby knew he was dead. There was no doubt that after the man shot Dwayne that he'd put a bullet in him as well. Trying not to make a sound, he slowly reached up for the buckle on the leather saddlebag bolted to his Harley.

You've mistaken me for someone else, Dwayne said.

No! I've been looking for you a long time!

Toby eased the strap away from the buckle.

The man took another step towards Dwayne. You're pathetic. You've no idea how much damage you do. How much pain you cause.

Toby unfastened the buckle and eased his right hand inside the saddlebag, hoping the music from the jukebox inside or the traffic on the street would drown out any noise he made.

Dwayne raised his hands. I'm unarmed. This is murder.

You can't murder a snake.

Toby shifted his weight as his hand closed on the grip of his pistol.

You're looking at life in prison, Dwayne pleaded, staring down the bore of the .45, which must have looked like a cannon from his perspective.

You don't get it, do you? the gunman breathed. You're not walking out of here. The only reason you're alive now is that I wanted to look you in the eye first.

Slowly, Toby eased his Ruger out of the saddlebag. Despite his impaired vision, his dizziness, and the disconnected feeling of his hands and legs from his body, Toby forced himself up into a sitting position. His pistol was a single action, and had to be cocked before it would fire. Loaded with .22 shorts, it would take a direct hit in the spine or brain to stop the gunman from blowing him apart with the lethal .45 rounds. He braced his left hand on the pavement and, forcing himself to breath, Toby drew his feet underneath him, and sprang up. In one motion he cocked the pistol, shoved the long barrel into the soft spot below the gunman's left ear, and pulled the trigger. He never even heard the muffled shot as the sudden movement sent a wave of nausea through him. The momentum caused him to trip over the gunmen's legs and fall back to the ground on his back, still holding his pistol, though he was too weak to cock it again.

Dwayne kneeled down beside him. He took a bandana out of his pocket and tried to wipe at the blood on Toby's face. You did it! Just in time, too, he said, smiling. "I don't think I could have delayed him any longer. I was running out of things to say.

Who is he? Toby asked, flinching away from Dwayne's hand.

I don't know. Can you stand? It doesn't look too bad, but you'll probably need a doctor.

Disoriented, Toby let Dwayne help him to