Chapter Thirteen

Bend seemed like an OK town. Samantha and Cindi dropped Hep and Scroat off at the public library, which was smack in the middle of downtown.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to figure out what to do from here,” Samantha said.

“Sure thing,” Hep said. “Thanks for the ride.”

“I don’t suppose I could get your phone number?” Scroat asked Cindi.

“No, you can’t. Good luck on the rest of your trip,” she said.

Scroat scowled and got out of the car. He slammed the door and walked away without another word.

“OK, well, bye,” Hep said. He got out of the car as well, and watched as Samantha and Cindi drove away.

“You took that little rough, didn’t you?” Hep asked Scroat.

“Hey, they got us kicked off of that damn boat - not that getting kicked off the boat was a bad think, in my opinion - and then I spent a whole day in the fucking car with them. We’re practically old friends. You’d think she’d be willing to talk on the damn phone once in a while.”

“Yeah, crazy, I know,” Hep said. “But are you sure it was their fault we got kicked off the boat?”

Hep didn’t have much trouble finding a pair of likely motorcycles for sale in Bend. On an announcements board in the library was an ad for a Honda and a Suzuki from the seventies. Both were around 600cc, and the price was tough to argue with: $1200 for both. He found a pay phone and called right away.

The seller agreed to come and pick them up at the library, since Hep promised payment in cash if the bikes were running. He and Scroat had been waiting for about twenty minutes when an old Ford pickup squeaked and rattled to a stop in front of them. Hep wasn’t sure if the truck had always been that particular shade of brown, or if the years had just not been kind to the truck. The driver rolled down the passenger side window.

“Howdy. Are you Hep?”

The driver looked like he was about sixty years old. His hair was dark grey under a tan cowboy hat, and he had an awe-inspiring handlebar moustache.

“Yep, that’s me. This is Scroat,” Hep said.

“Well, one of you hop in the back of the truck, and we’ll get going.”

Scroat climbed in to the back of the truck, where he had a variety of tools and scraps of steel to keep him company. Hep rode in the cab.

“So, how is it that two fellas that don’t look like they’re from around here wound up at the Bend library, calling me about buying my motorcycles.”

“It’s kind of a long story. In a nutshell, our other plans fell through, and now we’re in need of cheap transportation.”

“Well, I’ve starred in my share of long stories, I guess. These bikes will definitely qualify as cheap transportation. I hope you’re pretty good with mechanical stuff, though. They run well enough, but they’re kind of cranky before you get them started.”

“We know a fair bit about motorcycles, I think we’ll be OK,” Hep said.

“Good deal. So are you fellas staying here in Bend a while?”

“No, just long enough to arrange some transportation.”

“Where are you heading next?”

“East,” Hep said. He didn’t really care to explain more than that.

“What’s East?”

“Some friends, I hope.”

“Fair enough. If you don’t want to talk about it, then I probably don’t want to hear about it. My wife always said I asked people too many questions.”

Hep didn’t say anything, just looked out the window at the people on the sidewalk. He saw a man carrying a sign that said “The END is NIGH.”

“That’s weird. We just saw a guy earlier today carrying a sign warning the end times were approaching.”

“Well, don’t you worry about this one. That’s John Fisher over there. He’ll get going about the end of the world at the drop of a hat, if you let him, but otherwise he’s a decent fellow. We used to bowl on Tuesday nights, before he lost his marbles.”

John Fisher looked over at the truck and waved as they passed by.

They arrived at the seller’s garage about five minutes later. Hep and Scroat waited outside while he opened the garage. Inside were a pair of seventies era universal Japanese motorcycles. The Honda was red, and the Suzuki was blue. There were also bits and pieces of probably ten other motorcycles laying about, and what looked like a very complete set of tools, including some welding equipment.

The bikes already had their keys in the ignition, so Hep and Scroat rolled them outside and tried to start them. To the seller’s amazement, they both fired up almost instantly.

“Hell! I couldn’t get them to start that well when they were new! How did you do that?”

“Just luck, I guess,” Hep said.

“If you say so,” the old cowboy said. “So, are you going to buy them?”

“Well, they seem OK. I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you $1200 for both if you’ll let me scavenge through your junk pile and use your tools to rig this bike up so I can ride it comfortably.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not letting a couple of guys I don’t know take over my garage for a couple weeks modifying a pair of bikes I just want to get rid of.”

“We won’t be a couple of weeks. We’ll be out of your garage before breakfast tomorrow.”

The old cowboy looked hard at Hep and Scroat. They looked rough, and the bigger one was probably the ugliest son of a bitch he’d ever seen, but they also looked honest. He hoped he was right.

“All right, you can use my garage for the night, but you’ve got to be out of here first thing in the morning.”

“You’ve got it,” Hep said, and reached to shake his hand.

The cowboy shook Hep’s hand, and then Scroat’s.

“Now, will you fellas be paying cold cash, or hard cash?”

Hep pulled his wallet out of his pocket, and said, “A little of each.”

He gave the cowboy a stack of one hundred dollar bills. The cowboy counted the money, folded it, and stuffed it in his pocked. “Thanks. I’ve got the titles right over here.”

He took a manila folder off a shelf littered with motorcycle bits, and handed it to Hep. Inside were the registration cards and titles for both bikes.

“Now, if you fellas will excuse me, I’ve got some other things to do. Put the tools you use back where they belong, if you don’t mind,” he said. He went to his truck again, got in and started it, then waved to Hep and Scroat as he drove off.

“Are you going to need my help?” Scroat asked.

“Nope,” Hep said.

“Cool. I’m going to go find a bar. See you later,” Scroat said.

“Later,” Hep said. He was already coming up with a plan for how to turn the Honda into a trike using the parts laying around the garage.

Scroat got on the Suzuki, started it, and rode away.

With the garage to himself, Hep got started by taking inventory. There were a few wheels, a couple of frames, and some bits of steel plate that could be useful. It would be enough. He put the little Honda up on it’s center stand and got to work tearing it apart.

He barely noticed when the old cowboy pulled his truck in to the driveway and went into the house. He didn’t notice the sun set as he welded together bits of frame. He didn’t notice the neighborhood cats lined up across the street, watching him work as he hammered steel plate into the shape he needed.

Scroat arrived back around four in the morning, looking extra disheveled and reeking of liquor. Hep acknowledge him with a grunt, and continued working.

The old cowboy came out to the garage around seven thirty in the morning, and couldn’t believe what he saw. Hep was airing up the last tire on an immaculate trike. The seat was low, and the rear fenders were polished to a high shine.

“What do you think?” Hep said.

“I.. can’t believe it,” the old cowboy said. “Who are you?”

“Just me,” Hep said. He rolled the bike out of the garage, and went over to the corner where Scroat was sleeping. He gave Scroat’s shoulder a good hard shake, and said “Wake up!”

“What?” Scroat said. He sat up and scratched his head. “Man, I just fell asleep.”

“It’s time to go,” Hep said. He walked over to the old cowboy, who was still staring at Hep’s new trike. “Thank you very much for your hospitality. I really appreciate it.”

“Sure,” the old cowboy said.

Hep and Scroat got on to their bikes, started them up, and rode off towards downtown Bend. Hep gave the old cowboy a big wave as he rode away.

The old cowboy turned to inpect his garage. It was spotless. All the tools were back in their proper places, and he could swear they were cleaner than they had been the last time he’d used them. The biggest shock, however, was looking over the parts pile. There were a lot fewer parts laying around, but in their place was a motorcycle that hadn’t been there before. He looked at it carefully, and noticed keys in the ignition. He turned the bike on, and thumbed the starter, not expecting anything to happen. He was quite surprised when the motor leapt to life and settled into an easy idle.

“Who the hell were those guys?” he said to himself. He shut the bike down again, and went back in to his house to have some coffee. This was just too much weird stuff for a man his age to deal with before he’d had his coffee.