Page 2 of Dizzy

Still, I could give it a go. Search out Cue. He should be easy to find. Bald as his name, apparently. I’d make an awful stripper, but all I need is one paycheck to buy a bus ticket. I could do it if I were drunk.

Uh, oh. The little guy has spotted something on the roof of the garage. The sun’s glinting off a hunk of glass in the gutter. I scrub my dry, bleary eyes. Is that a beer bottle?

Now, he’s pulling himself up on the dumpster. He barely makes it. His feet scrabble against the sides as he drags himself up by his lil’ chicken arms. Kid’s no more than six or seven. Adventuresome, though.

Reminds me of when one of my nephews found a way into the crawl space and set himself up a hidey-hole down there with a beach chair, sleeping bag, and snacks. He was pretty much living down there until the rats ran him out.

Now, there’s an idea. This place is sprawling. The main clubhouse, the garage, the huge yard with its makeshift stage and firepit, the woods beyond. And then there’s the frame and scaffolding for the addition. There’s got to be a nook where I can hunker down. I’ll think better after getting some sleep.

Thunk.Thunk. The little dude is jumping, trying to grab the gutter. The plastic lid bows under his weight. Like his daddy, he’s sturdy. Hope it holds.

The other two haven’t even noticed he’s wandered off. The shaggy dude’s bent over—long, wild black hair falling in his face—straining with a wrench. Sweat’s glistening on his back, muscles tensing under his ink. His tattoos are faded and old school. A skull with a sword through the eye socket. A cross. Dog tags clutched in an eagle’s talons. A heart wrapped in banners reading Sharon, Parker, and Carson.

There’s a sword through the center name, blood dripping from the tip. Guess things didn’t work out with Sharon.

I rub the stars on my inner wrist. My brother did them with a needle and thread before he left for Florida, and we never heard from him again.

Thud. The intrepid explorer has landed flat on his ass in the dirt. My body tenses, anticipating the wail, but this guy’s a tough customer. Hops up, doesn’t bother dusting himself off, and clambers right back up. Kid just might make it.

I should get a move on. The place is clearing out, and soon, someone’s gonna notice the raggedy chick poppin’ a squat out front.

I stand, hand instinctively reaching for my phone. Damn. I can’t believe someone stole it. I was sitting at the bar, and I swiveled on the stool for a second, and it was gone. Well, maybe it was longer than that. And maybe I left it while I went to pee, but still. It’s gone.

I head back for the clubhouse, but a clatter, a grunting, and a flailing catch my eye.Holy crap. The little guy’s dangling from the roof. He found some milk crates and stacked them on top of the dumpster. He must have kicked them over when he grabbed for the gutter. Now he’s twisting and turning, trying desperately to walk the wall and hoist himself up, but he hasn’t got the strength. His knuckles are white, and his eyes are glued on the prize.

Oh, my lord. He’s letting go with one hand to try and grab the bottle.

I have only known raccoons with this level of determination.

I bolt over, vault up on the dumpster—gross—and grab him by the calves.

“Stop! I almost got it!”

Fair enough. I brace him with my chest and lift him higher. The plastic lid sways, creaking under our combined weight. If we crash into this dumpster, and I’m somehow stabbed to death with that damn broken bottle, I’m gonna haunt this kid for the rest of his life.

“Got it!”

I lower him down, my arms shaking. He’s a husky one.

“Thanks, lady.”

Before I can say boo, he jumps off the dumpster, waving a shard of glass, shouting, “Parker! Look what I got!”

I leap down and lope off before his hot daddy looks over this way. Last thing I need is to draw the attention of one of the brothers of the Steel Bones Motorcycle Club. Not when I plan to squat in their digs and riffle through their shit until I have enough cash to blow town.

* * *

I’ve beenan uninvited guest of the Steel Bones MC for a week. I’m freezing. I’m starving. I’m sick to death of classic rock, and I stink.

I hope that when the club kills me, they make it quick. I’m so freakin’ cold, all they’ll need to do is give me a good wallop, and I’ll shatter into pieces.

And they are gonna catch me soon and kill me, ‘cause my luck has always been shit, and I ain’t cut out for bein’ stealthy. Besides, my feet are so numb, I’m trompin’ around like a slutty, grubby Frankenstein.

Geese honk high overhead, and the dark is easing to gray as I slowly turn the knob to the clubhouse’s back door. It’s dawn. Frost covers the yard. You can see my boot prints clear as day, coming from the woods.

The sun better melt that soon, or I’m gonna be busted in a comically Scooby Doo fashion. Tell the truth, I can’t believe I’ve evaded detection this long.

I gently nudge the door. Sweet. It’s unlocked. In the week since Chaos bailed, the door’s been fifty-fifty. Drunk bikers ain’t the most conscientious. The club’s also hectic with all the construction mess. A whole chunk of wall is nothing but plastic sheeting. Guess they figure if a person can bust in like the Kool Aid Man, why lock a door?

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