Tinker Tales Unhallowed

By Allan Lowson

Scottish by birth, anarchist by persuasion, odd bikes and
obscure comics by collection. Retired from thirty years
of front line child protection, he lives between Scotland
and British Columbia with wife, three adult sons, and a
blessing of grandchildren.
Allan has penned reportage, articles, and fi ction since
the early eighties for variety of motorcycle magazines:
Canadian Biker, Back Street Heroes (GB), Biker and
Renegade (USA).
Poke and Uber have their real life counterparts in his
stable, and the most recent build is a 31/48 Chout (Chief/
Scout) bobber.
As for the magic? Well, thats really up to you.
Tinker Tales Unhallowed is a collection of previously
unpublished short stories celebrating magic and motorcycles.
Tinker is the son of an absentee Irish gypsy dad and a
Scottish mother, raised poor and turned out on the streets
after her death in his early teens. Blood will out, and he
becomes a trader in iron ponies, only to become enmeshed
in the coils of magic. Somehow he survives a sorcerers
apprenticeship to Magic John, a notorious gutter-mage,
as detailed in previous collections: Tinker Tales (voted
Fiction of the Year by motorcyclefi ction.com) and Tinker
Tales Untold (Book of the Month, motorcyclefi ction.com).
Yet trouble and temptation lurk around every corner. Here,
Tinker hazards an alternative Britain, runs into an unusual
outlaw club, and turns tables on a temptress. Life may be
dangerous, yet never dull. Ride behind him a few miles,
and discover the forgotten realms of magic.
Tinker Tales Unhallowed is illustrated by the British
artist, Louise Limb.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479776979

Allan Lowson

Scottish by birth, anarchist by persuasion, odd bikes and obscure comics by collection. Retired from thirty years of front line child protection, he lives between Scotland and British Columbia with wife, three adult sons, and a blessing of grandchildren. Allan has penned reportage, articles, and fiction since the early eighties for variety of motorcycle magazines: ‘Canadian Biker’, ‘Back Street Heroes’ (GB), ‘Biker’ and ‘Renegade’ (USA). Poke and Uber have their real life counterparts in his stable, and the most recent build is a ‘31/’48 Chout (Chief/Scout) bobber. As for the magic…? Well, that’s really up to you.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Allan Lowson.

ISBN:           Softcover                978-1-4797-7696-2

                     Ebook                     978-1-4797-7697-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

105534

CONTENTS

Hotel California

Homework

La Chat Noir

Riggwelter

Charon

Rebels

Crossroads

Waste Of Time

Rocky

Whore Of Babylon

Otherland

To the memory of Albert Emett, who mentored a young biker,

and Jim Fogg, who encouraged the writer.

105534-LOWS-layout.pdf105534-LOWS-layout.pdf

HOTEL CALIFORNIA

A change in engine rhythm brought Tinker half-awake. Blearing out the window he observed what appeared to be a tubby spaceship with a message running along its flanks. It didn’t spell ‘Surrender Dorothy’, and the endless tracery of lights below wasn’t the Emerald City. Close though: Hollywoodland. The word had been whispering on the leys, something big going down in L.A.—big, nasty, and nobody going to touch it with a bargepole.

Gypsy curious, and aware there might be a chance to add to his rep, Tinker booked a flight on impulse. It only cost him a bribe to a lesser gremlin, computers are a breeze to those guys. Besides, he hadn’t been to tinsel town for a while: fantastic place for a visit, but way too crazy to stay.

Stepping out of LAX, the heat and exhaust fumes hit him like culture shock—and there was plenty of that. Steatopygic black women so obese you’d think the circus had come to town, skinny little Hispanic guys sweating the shit-jobs, self-engrossed Anglos blasting around in Hummers while yakking non-stop on their cell phones. Tinker was getting his share of looks too. Plenty of big guys with beards and ponytails around, however none stood sweltering in full leathers: fortunately he had a ride coming. Sure enough, a beat-up split window VW van came racketing down the arrivals slip road.

It resembled a tattooed cachalot, as did the driver. Actually it was a mobile tattoo parlour, much of Big Bill’s business being at biker events and outdoor rock concerts.

Hey, thanks, Biggie, said Tinker, tossing in his bag.

No problemo, Bill grunted, stuffing his skull shifter into first and peeling away from the sidewalk as a transplanted Porsche motor fed steroids to oversize tyres. How was your flight?

Par for the course, Tinker replied, trying not to react to Bill’s driving. I got sandwiched between a six month old opera singer on meth and an old bag in Depends who never left her seat the whole way.

Bill thought this hugely amusing and technicoloured ham hock arms thumped on the chrome chain-link wheel, doing nothing for lane discipline.

In-flight movies were crap too, Tinker continued, resigning himself to vehicular homicide, and what little food they gave us wasn’t worth the eating.

Bill frowned and pulled on his Fu Manchu whiskers, food being about the only thing he took seriously. Okay, Tink, we’ll go PCH and soon fix that.

Tinker smiled, Yanks and their acronyms. Pacific Coast Highway was fine by him: Manhattan, Hermosa, Redondo, all those great beefcake ’n babe beaches. Warm air beat in with the breakers, neon flashed by, the land of endless summer and every excess.

Broken speed limits and several gray hairs later, they drew up beside a tiny taco stand. Either this take-out had to be giving away green cards with the tortillas or the food was spectacular. Mexican day laborers and impoverished surf bums jostled together in a good-humoured queue, or lounged around on benches reading the free ‘L. A. Weekly’ while waiting for their orders. The six cooks crammed inside joked in Spanish as they sweated through choreographed routines of amazing grace and economy of movement. Tinker could have watched their terpsichory weave its magic all night.

Cutting past the gated communities on Palos Verdes hill en route to Bill’s pad in San Pedro, Tinker marveled at the illuminated sprawl stretching below them. Everything seemed so big here, from the quart of cinnamon-laced horchata to that ‘full diaper’ burrito occupying most of his lap. If that was an ‘El Burrito Jnr.’, he’d sure hate to meet the kid’s big daddy.

That set him thinking about ‘Big Daddy’ Ed Roth, Tinker still had treasured copies of Ed’s ‘Choppers’ magazine on his bookshelf. So many tales about ‘Big Daddy’, like when an outlaw club sicced their monster sergeant-at-arms on Ed for taking liberties with a certain fiercely defended patch on his T-shirts. The club waited outside while a terrific fight went on in the office, then Ed staggers out begging for mercy and promising to be good. The only thing odd being the big clubber looked in far worse shape than him. Actually Ed had beaten their enforcer pretty good, then proposed this little act to save face—Ed liked to keep everyone happy. Another time three drunks fresh out the slammer attacked ‘Big Daddy’ while he slept in his trailer. He smacked them around some, booted their remains down the road, then promptly went back to sleep. ‘Zap’ cartoonist and amazing hot rod/chopper artist, Robert Williams talks of his early days at Roth Studios. Apparently handguns were not uncommon. Even less uncommon in L.A. now, seems every mickey-mouse punk in Disneyland gotta have a gun.

Back at Bill’s place, that same old shack overlooking the vast expanse that constituted Port of Los Angeles, Tinker felt a wave of nostalgia. He’d first met Biggie at the El Camino vintage swap meet many years ago and got to haggling with him over war surplus Indian parts. The deal had been sealed over a cold Anchor Steam, and another. The borrowed supermarket trolley full of parts got parked, then into the back of the van for a head-twisting puff of Columbian. Realising Tinker was just off the plane and hadn’t figured a place for the night, with typical Californian hospitality Bill invited him to crash at his pad in San Pedro. It proved the start of an enduring friendship.

Traditionally a poor community of Mexicans and longshoremen, San Pedro fortuitously had never been developed and thus retained a certain old-world California cantina charm. This little town, and its notorious ‘Shanghai Red’ bar, had been stomping ground of the ‘Boozefighters’, your original ‘Wild Ones’. Many were stevedores in the nearby port and made famous the ‘Long Beach’ cut-downs, which were the original choppers. The earliest Harley strokers also catwalked down these streets between sets of lights, challenging the locally made, and virtually unbeatable, Crockers.

Ports were always a tad lively. Fortunately the local Latino hoods had developed an understanding with Bill. He provided cheap gang tattoos; they respected his person and property. Biggie’s strong ties to a couple of established outlaw clubs didn’t hurt either.

Tinker’s jet lag coincided with Big Bill’s night-owl ways. They kicked back in porch-slung hammocks over a six-pack of Sierra Nevada ‘Bigfoot’ and a bag of skunky bud. Bullshit, the thief of time, reigned to a background of Captain Beefheart, yet another L.A. certifiable genius. Old tales grew new twists; the bikes faster, boobs bigger, till that twenty-proof, prize-winning wine of the barley was no more. So then Bill started bugging Tinker about his rep. C’mon, turn a bucket of water into beer, pull some of that limey magic shit instead of your prick.

Tinker shook his head. Give me malted barley and hops, sure I’ll make ale in a while. But it’s the wee beastie that scoffs sugar, farts carbon dioxide, and pisses alcohol as really does it. What man can understand for himself, alas, is no longer subject to magic. He stubbed out the roach. Besides, the jet-lag’s getting to me and you’ve an early work appointment.

Next morning Bill took off to lay some paint; home visits were his speciality. He gave Tinker the keys to Babs, his ULH bobber, before driving off in the van. Remember, Limey, we’re stick to the right here, no riding the wrong way.

Tinker rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Too early to discuss politics or yer sex life, Biggie, he grumbled, a brew of strong black Joe in hand. Reckon I’ll take a spin by Cindy’s shop and maybe later check out Bandit’s new place near the Longshoreman’s Hall in Wilmington.

Cindy inherited ‘Century Motorcycles’ from her dad, a Vincent speedster. His ashes resided in a black, gold-pinstriped tank on the wall. She was a feisty, salt-tongued old bird who’d grown up around the likes of Rollie Free, Von Dutch, Bud Ekins and assorted motorcycle madmen.

Tinker, fuckin’ A, shouted Cindy, oblivious to other customers. Git yer sorry ass over here. Her assistant being detailed to mind shop, they repaired to the back warren to play catch-up. Although Cindy cut her teeth on Vincent con-rods, she had a soft spot

Reviews for Tinker Tales Unhallowed

[Adam Norton · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Really enjoy Tinker’s tales! I can get lost and think I’m riding next to him.