Ashes and Asphalt

By Trevor Holloway

Bill Byrne is dead and his last request is for his estranged sons, Mike and Kyle, to bring his ashes to the Sturgis Rally in South Dakota. They have five days to travel two thousand miles and if they survive a renegade biker from New Orleans, three carjacking lunatics, and the police, they'll be home free...unless they kill one another first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Taylor
• Release date: Mar 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986087417

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I ’ll bet you twenty bucks that you won’t mess with that old man by the bar.

The large man looked to where his friend pointed. He noticed a few bikers around him and shook his head. I’m not messing with bikers, bro.

The smaller man took out his wallet and slapped down two twenties. Toby, would you pull at his jacket for forty? He pulled out another twenty. I’ll even buy another round. Besides, all you have to do is tug a little at the jacket. If anything, you could play it off as an accident … pretend your drunk or something.

Fine, but make it eighty.

Deal.

Toby got up and eased over to the bar. No one stood near his target, and the old man slumped over the bar with a beer still in his hand.

Toby approached the bartender and ordered another round. The bartender gave him two bottles and left him to tend to the other patrons. With a swig from his bottle, Toby staggered and gripped the old man’s sleeve.

The bar sounds faded as everyone witnessed Toby’s move, especially Billy Byrne, who dusted off his sleeve.

The brawny upstart rubbed his swollen jaw, sneering as a pound of pain coursing against the alcohol. I never expected an old man like you to have such a strong right hook.

Billy Byrne pulled at his opponent’s jacket, drawing him in close enough to smell the cheap beer on Billy’s lips. I never expected some young punk like you would be dumb enough to grab my jacket.

The bottles slipped from his hands, crashing onto the floor and staining both of their jeans.

Billy locked his eyes with the guy before him. Lesson number one about biker bar etiquette is you never touch a biker’s jacket. Billy’s bony fist connected with Toby’s not-so-tough stomach and he doubled over. His eyes bugged as he clutched his ribs, gasping.

The old man cracked his knuckles. Lesson number two is you never knock over a biker’s beer, especially on the same jacket you touched.

Toby’s friend pushed Billy and got into his face. Look, asshole. You don’t mess around with Toby!

Billy’s friend, Mack, lunged forward, slicing through the air with a cobalt blue custom pool cue. Billy darted right as the stick connected with a tall gutter punk’s back. The lanky kid spun around, his mouth open as he struck the tabletop.

Billy looked down at his opponent. And you don’t mess with a Gearhead and his crew.

Hell, man, said a large black man with the short dreads. You smashed my stick!

Billy smiled at Mack, who shook the broken stick in the air. Don’t sweat it, Mack. I’ll get you a better one. Billy ducked a blow intended for his face. Behind you!

Mack spewed forth unintelligible words. A chair smashed against his neck.

A boy in brown trousers and a collared shirt wiped his hands and dodged another biker’s right cross. He didn’t take into account a second biker whose fist connected with the boy’s stomach, sending him to the floor.

Jason, the bartender, emerged from the back room with a few tequila bottles. A full beer can flew past his head, spraying its contents onto his shirt. He ducked behind the bar and rummaged through his drawers, searching for a few shells for Old Bessie. He gazed at the red cartridge between his thumb and forefinger and readied his shotgun.

Before Billy’s fist struck a preppie’s face, a blast exploded from the bar, saving his nose from certain fracture. Bits of ceiling sprinkled from above, freezing everyone in mid-fight. The jukebox wound down, leaving the thud of the fainting preppie to fill in the sudden silence. The remaining customers turned as the bartender pumped the shotgun, ejecting the spent shell onto the ground.

Now that I have your attention, I want to point out that you lot have done some heavy damage to my place.

Broken glass littered the beer-soaked floor, sparkling beneath the few fluorescent lights that were still working. The neon beer sign above the door flickered a few more times before giving up with a final defiant spark.

Don’t be shy, Jason said as he waved his piece. We accept most major credit cards.

Silence filled the room.

Don’t get your panties twisted, Jason, said Billy, who slapped down several crumpled hundreds. This should cover our portion of the damages.

A goth took another view of the debris surrounding them. He raised his head and reassessed the odds. I probably caused about fifty bucks worth. He fished a bill from his wallet and eased over to Jason, ever mindful of the bikers.

The others dug deep and put in for the damages.

Billy turned right, then left, and then faced the outsiders. Jason, call two cabs for our friends. In the meantime… Billy pulled out a twenty. Give them a round of beer and keep us going.

The bartender took all of the money and produced enough bottles for the bar. The lost traveler broke rank and claimed the first one.

Billy raised his bottle and downed the contents.

Hey, Billy!

The old man swigged from his bottle and wiped his lips, giving his friend with the ratty black beard a slight sneer. What, Charlie?

Take a look at your face.

It can’t be much worse than yours! Billy brushed his fingers through the remaining gray hairs on his scalp. ’Besides, at least I kept most of my hair. Billy laughed, joined in by his fellow riders.

Charlie grumbled and flipped Billy off before breaking into a hearty laugh.

The skinny goth beside Billy looked at the old man’s face. He’s not kidding. Check out the gash on your cheek.

Billy wiped his face with his shirt. Flesh wound.

Jason cleaned out Charlie’s glass and poured him a different brew, darker than the last. That’s Wild Bill for ya. The bikers burst into laughter, except Billy, who smiled thinly.

Charlie took another shot and pounded his glass on the bar. We call him that on account of Bill here going completely batshit crazy one night while in Atlanta. He got a hold of some bad weed and lost it … his mind, that is.

Billy took a swig of beer and grinned. I’m feeling much better now.

Charlie raised his hand, his arm fat wobbling. He slapped his old friend’s back. Of course, age stole some of the sting out of him.

Billy shook his fist at Charlie. I’ll show you how much sting I have in me!

Jason poured a Jack and Coke. Charlie reached for the drink, but Jason lifted the glass and downed the contents. His body shook from the booze and he turned back to his customers, pointing at every biker. If I had any sense, I’d boot out your asses.

You wouldn’t do that, Jason. A brief silence punctuated the room as everyone turned to Billy. We’re family, you and us. Billy raised his glass to a yellowed picture that hung beside the register. Five guys in leather jackets posed around a Harley, with one perched atop the bike. Each jacket sported a grinning skull with shiny metal gears in the eye sockets. Two mufflers crossed one another beneath the jawline, belching out gray smoke.

Yeah, said Jason, who turned away from the picture. But you still got to settle tonight’s damage.

Add it onto my tab.

Whatever, Bill. Jason lifted the bar partition and entered the supply closet.

Say, Bill. You ready for Sturgis?

Bill coughed as some suds traveled down the wrong pipe. Always ready, Claude.

Charlie leaned in, his eyes unblinking as he stared at his friend. What about your heart? Didn’t you go to the doc last week?

Yeah. He gave me the usual crap about taking better care of myself. Y’know ... less drinking, less smoking. Less living. Billy took another swig from his bottle. But if I did all that, I’d be better off dead.

Amidst the Gearheads, Wild Bill Byrne relaxed with a local brew. The black shirt he wore with the rebel flag fit snugly around his expanding gut. The past few weeks had put some pressure on his brown leather belt, which needed to move another notch around his faded blue jeans.

Next month he would celebrate his 67th birthday and the boys planned to reach Sturgis on August 5th, the same day as Bill’s odometer rolled out another year.

This year, the boys had arranged a blowout for their oldest member. Six years had gone by since their last trip to the bike rally up past the South Dakota Badlands, and that time, Bill’s birthday had already passed when they arrived. Charlie’s bum leg delayed them by a couple of days, and Bill missed seeing his longtime friend Wayne.

Both guys had put in over forty years with the Florida Gearheads, back when fewer wrinkles marred their faces and darker hair grew on their heads. Wayne had left the Gearheads ten years ago with his then girlfriend, now wife, Jill.

Bill’s smile faded. He dulled the pain with a shot of his ’medication’.

Charlie got up and hitched his dark blue jeans. I’d like to make a toast. The group hushed and took hold of their bottles, all poised. To the meanest mother to ever ride a hog. Cheers, Bill!

Cheers!

The group saluted Bill and chugged their remaining beers.

Bill finished his and released a wicked belch. Gotta hit the head, guys. I’ll be back in a bit. He stumbled from his seat and meandered to the restroom.

Within the sanctity of the restroom, Bill faced his reflection and slapped his face. Blood rushed to his cheeks, restoring some feeling of sobriety, but not enough. He slapped his face a few more times, easing the sting with a few splashes of cool water from the sputtering faucet. A quick check revealed bloodshot eyes and breath that could peel wood. If his luck held, he wouldn’t get pulled over tonight.

The noise from outside the restroom increased, causing Bill to tread lightly toward the door. He gripped the handle and squeezed tight, wincing as his chest burned. Bill’s strength faded and he collapsed to his hands and knees.

Charlie! Get in here! Now!

Charlie opened the door and took a step back. What’s wrong?

Just get me out of here!

The swinging door wobbled as Charlie bolted from the can. A crowd had gathered around the bar. He pulled back some of the onlookers and his jaw dropped as Wild Bill Byrne knelt on the floor.

Charlie dropped to his knees beside his buddy; he had to try to get him out of there. Bill was bloody heavy, even for an old fart. A few of the bikers tried to claw Charlie away from Billy, but Charlie shrugged them off.

Billy, what the fuck, man?

The redheaded gutter punk grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911. His friend backtracked a few paces by the bar and grabbed a beer.

Billy’s eyes never blinked as he stared at Charlie. Where are the paramedics?

They should be here soon.

Go wait for them outside, Claude!

The man with the blond highlights in his curly hair rushed outside to flag down the ambulance.

Don’t you choke out on me, you bastard!

Charlie felt Billy’s forehead and looked around for an idea of his next move. The wailing sirens’ intensified before their flashing lights shot through the windows and the open door.

Even after the paramedics arrived, Charlie pressed himself against his motionless best friend, whose entire left side slumped like a ragdoll.

The others cleared, but Charlie refused to move. Jason tried to pry him away from Billy while the paramedics prepared their stretcher.

The driver approached the bikers as the back doors of the ambulance opened. What’s going on?

Charlie rubbed his hand across his face, wiping away some sweat. Jason stepped forward. I don’t know. Billy was fine one minute, then his speech slurred and the old man wobbled.

The younger paramedic secured Billy while the driver checked his vitals.

Anything else?

Jason raised a finger. He complained about a headache and his vision going funny, but we all blamed the brew.

The driver turned to his waiting partner and exchanged nods. All right.

Charlie staggered forward. His heart pounded as his friend moaned through his clenched teeth. What’s wrong?

I can’t say, but we’ll need to hurry. The younger paramedic tapped the other paramedic’s shoulder. You’ve got more experience with this. I’ll drive.

I’m coming too.

The supervising paramedic held out his hand. Sir, it’s against the rules to allow you to ride in the ambulance.

Shove your rules! If you don’t let me ride with Billy, I’ll make sure you’re riding alongside him!

The head paramedic nodded to Charlie. Whatever. Get in the back. Your buddy will need all the help he can get.

They loaded Billy into the back and Charlie slammed the door behind them.

CHAPTER TWO

It Came From Outer Space played in the dimly lit bedroom as Mike and Rebecca Byrne slept. Rebecca fumbled for the nightlight beside the bed as her cell phone rang over the still on television. Beside her, Michael Byrne shifted his back, arching away from his wife and the light.

Hold on. She found the remote and set the television on mute. Groggy from the broken sleep, she picked up the cell phone. Hello?

Rebecca listened in, distracted by the digital clock’s light counter blinking over to 2:00 am.

Yeah ... oh, hi, she whispered and looked at Mike, her eyelids heavy with sleep. What did you say? Of course ... hold on a minute. Honey, wake up. You have a call. Rebecca pushed the phone into his hand and leaned against him for support.

Charlie? What’s going on? Mike straightened his posture, and brushed the sleep from his eyes with a heavy hand. When did it happen? Mike ruffled his hair while his wife rubbed his shoulders.

His stomach clenched as though a heavyweight boxer had punched his solar plexus. Even breathing made him ache. Yeah, sure. Mike fumbled several times before grabbing a pencil. He pressed the lead against the paper to make sure the note took. I’ll call you when I get there.

The bathroom’s night light filled the room as he rummaged through the drawers. Underwear, t-shirts, and socks shuffled while he selected a few of each.

Honey, what’s wrong? She hesitated for a moment. The voice ... sounded like–

Mr. Charlie.

Charlie Sykes? Talk about a call from out of the blue. What has it been, five years?

Close to two years after we left Crescent City.

Mike stalked into the walk-in closet. He jerked his suitcase down from the top shelf. He brushed aside the dust before unzipping it for the first time in seven years.

Rebecca usually avoided mentioning their hometown. Crescent City was Mike’s berserk button topic and he swore he would never return there. He had often said that only a miracle or act of God would force him back south. Why did Charlie call?

Mike stowed away some boxers, dress pants, a pair of jeans and shirts, making room in the corners for even more boxers and shirts. He paused and grabbed some extra jeans. Dad is in the hospital.

Rebecca pulled a blue housecoat over her nightgown. What! Did he wreck his bike or get shot? Tell me!

Mike waved his hands in the air. Lower your voice!

Sorry.

Charlie didn’t know for certain. He said Dad is in pretty bad shape and he asked me to come down, just in case...

Can you hand me my suitcase, too? I can pack a bag and get the kids ready–

Honey– Mike placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders and locked his eyes with hers. It might be nothing, and the kids won’t find the trip any fun. Besides, I’ll be down there for a few days at the most and then back again. If ... if something happens, I’ll call you.

Rebecca huffed, trying to avoid Mike’s it’ll all be okay smile. Well, I’m wide awake now. What do you want me to do?

I don’t know. Could you book me a flight while I handle the car rental?

After she had left the room, Mike wiped his eyes. His old man had never grown up; he’d die a big kid if given the option. Hell, he’d been a fun dad for a kid obsessed with motor bikes. Memories of him riding pillion on the Harley onto the school grounds for his first day at kindergarten came flooding in, and his tears began in earnest.

***

Charlie slumped into the under-stuffed red chair that bore the impression of many before him. The twenty-minute dash to Palatka had rubbed his nerves raw, but the Putnam Community Medical Center offered Billy the best shot possible.

The waiting room smelled of antiseptic. Others waited alongside him. A migrant family huddled together in hopes of good news. The mother ground a crystal rosary through her fretful fingers. An elderly couple, a few years ahead of Charlie and his crew, stood by the soda machine. The husband’s eyes followed the ticking clock as if expecting the second hand to take off.

Charlie rested his head in his hands. He stared at the cracked white floor tiles, trying to keep his mind occupied.

Boy, are you a sad-looking bastard.

Charlie jerked. Claude strolled in, his face hanging more than his hair as he removed his black leather gloves. He restyled his hair, making certain everything was in place and that his small bald patch remained hidden. After he pocketed his gloves, Claude grabbed a nearby tissue from a cardboard box and cleared his large pointy nose.

Yeah, guess I am.

Claude tossed the tissue into the plastic bin. He sat beside Charlie for a minute, waiting for him to speak. Charlie kept silent, moving little except to breathe. What’s the story, man?

They ain’t telling me jack. He’s in ICU, and they’ll only allow family in.

Claude leapt from his seat and pounded his chest. We’re family!

Like his old lady, or a brother, or a son.

Claude pointed at Charlie. Did you call–

I called! Charlie bit his lip while the other visitors stared. He shuffled a few paces away from them and lowered his voice. Several times.

The intercom crackled with a faint message, forcing the men to listen. Three nurses left their station, rushing past them. Charlie waited until they turned the corner before walking in the opposite direction.

Where are you going?

Charlie turned. To see a friend.

***

Various beeping and flashing machines were connected to Billy. Charlie’s guts could have been ripped out and gasoline poured on the wounds and still he wouldn’t feel worse. Even the air held an artificial scent of ozone as he entered the windowless blue and white room.

Charlie rubbed his hand along his scalp until reaching the black ring of hair that showed more gray than black these days. He gripped the back of his neck.

It’s not much of a room, but at least you don’t have someone beside you messing with the television. Charlie tapped the television remote and flipped to a baseball game. Hey, look. Marlins are playing, and it looks like they’re beating the Mets.

He strengthened his resolve and turned to Billy. Two seconds later, Charlie’s nerves started fraying. Christ, man. You look like death warmed over …

Billy didn’t move.

They could’ve at least let you keep your jacket on instead of that stupid hospital gown.

Charlie slid the guest chair beside his friend. The metal legs screeched across the floor. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair as he interlaced his fingers.

That was some great fight, eh, Billy? You showed those punks that age don’t mean nothing. Charlie came within inches of punching Bill’s arm, only to stop a hair shy of his skin. He retracted the fist, unraveling his fingers.

Charlie rose from the chair, using the armrest as a crutch. This isn’t you, Bill. He walked away and stopped, only to turn on his heel and rush the bed. You’re not meant to be in a hospital. You’re supposed to be on your ride, clocking over a ton on some long stretch of slab!

Bill did not respond save a rhythmic breathing in sync with the connected monitors. His head leaned toward Charlie, yet his eyes darted behind closed eyelids.

I know you’re in there, buddy. I ... I made a couple calls. You’re going to have some visitors right soon. And once you’re back up, we can ride along the coast to Jacksonville and catch a concert - you, me ... the whole gang.

Charlie slapped his forehead. I forgot about Sturgis! Aw ... I guess we won’t make it, but there’s next year. But we can still do Jacksonville. You make the call.

Silence filled the room as Charlie waited for any slight movement, any indication that his words had sunk into his friend’s skull. He clasped his hands together and sighed.

***

Rebecca slept securely beneath soft covers while Mike tossed and turned. Sleep had evaded him for the past hour as he stared at the unchanging white ceiling. The ceiling fan spun on, drawing Mike’s eyes into a continuous cycle. Cooler temperatures often sent him to dreamland, but not tonight.

They had already booked the earliest flight to Florida and a car to drive the hour’s distance to Crescent City. Rebecca had helped him pack and took a catnap afterward to be clearheaded enough to drive him to the airport.

It was 4:47 in the morning. In about two hours’ time, the kids would be getting dressed and Rebecca might fix breakfast. Coffee would be less than useless, but she’d make it out of habit.

At least the traffic wouldn’t be bad and, with a little luck, the airplane would leave St. Louis on time and operational. If his luck held he’d reach Jacksonville about three, get the car, and drive into town at 4:30 pm.

Mike eased off the bed. He stretched his arms, which retained some of his youthful vigor. The muscles were smaller than when he used to work out, several years ago, and his abs edged closer to keg than six-pack.

Rebecca shifted away from her husband. He looked down at her sleeping body, still toned thanks to her exercise regimen, and smiled as he slid into his baby blue slippers and eased out of the bedroom.

Mike followed the nightlight’s trail into the kitchen, squinting as he opened the refrigerator and adjusting his eyes to the glare. He pushed aside the milk, assorted juices, and snack packs until he pulled out a beer.

Sitting in the semi-dark room, Mike popped open the tall can. The blinking coffeemaker light and dim stovetop bulb offered a soft glow while he stared at the brand —Rocky Mountain Regal. The old man used to rave about the hops; he liked some kick to his drinks. He’d sipped from his dad’s bottle when he was a boy and hated the flavor.

Billy would laugh every time he told that story, much to Mike’s chagrin. He even mentioned it on Mike’s twenty-first birthday, embarrassing him around his friends.

Mike took a swig before placing the can on the table, and he sighed as he spied a faded picture on the wall.

***

Some time ago

Mikey! Get out here right now!

Mike tossed his comic book aside and raced through the opened door. He jumped off the porch, skipping a few steps. He turned the corner and skidded, sending stones flying.

His mom and dad stood beside a new dirt bike.

His dad smiled and clapped his hands. Surprise!

Mikey bolted to the bike, marveling over the frame, the engine, and tires. Wow!

I built her myself, with a little help from Mr. Charlie. Billy turned to his wife. We had some free time between refurbishing.

Do you think he’s old enough, Bill?

Billy snorted. Deanna, the boy has got to have a bike and what’s better than one with an engine? He turned back to Mike. What are you waiting for, son? Jump on and try her out.

Mike looked to his mom, who frowned at the notion. Mike’s wide-eyed stare broke her defenses and she raised her hands in defeat. He grinned and proceeded to mount the bike.

Deanna stepped aside for a moment before rummaging through a grocery bag by her