'Cause he was a putter, you could tell by lookin' at him he didn't take no bus. If there was a roof on a ride, it sucked.

He looked like a putter, goddamnit. Independent jeans- so oil-soaked they stood by themselves- black XXXL T-shirt with the death's- head Angel insignia- when no Angels were around. Nailheads, steel boots, leather, leather, leather.

Nice bandanna-style ripper cap- fuck the helmet law!

The bus ate twelve of the sixty bucks, came late, made stops along the way to drop greasers off at orchards. Half the day to get to Bandit Cycles and when he arrived at the store it was crowded, weekend warriors glomming the new stuff Spanky had customized. Guys in suits drooling over outrageous '95 Rigids, coupla Softtails, a few antiques that tightened his ball sac. Lookit that Knuckle/Pan- black-cherry lacquer with a dancing chick in pink.

Rich pussies checking out the merchandise like they knew what it was. Spanky pointing out details, kissing ass.

And if a pussy bought one, what would he be? A pussy on a scoot.

Motor cruised around the showroom, examining parts, leafing through the latest Rider-the Fox of the Month was a greaser, but lookit them brown nipples!

Then back to the grease room behind the store, where two mechanics were working on bikes. Bolting away, two assholes he'd never seen before.

More Mexicans! What got into the Spankster?

Finally, the pussies left with brochures and Spanky went back behind the counter, untied his ponytail, and shook out two feeta hair- shit, the guy had gotten gray. No meat on him, face like a skeleton, those rotten teeth, asshole looked like a death's-head. When did he start wearing glasses?

Motor walked up to the counter. Spanky had a bottlea Bud in one hand, his right arm was covered with tattoos from shoulder to fingertips. Not the left one, though, that just had Spanky's old lady's name, Tara, on the bicep. Once Motor had asked him about it and Spanky had said, “Use the left one to wipe my ass. Like the Hindus.”

Weird.

“Hey, man,” said Motor.

Spanky didn't look up. Draining half the Bud, he picked up a flyer about the Chillicothe meet, pretended to read. Motor read the back. Primo putt, Labor Day, all the way to Ohio. Lord, that was one he woulda loved to do, cruise in formation by the penitentiary, brothers behind the fence lifting their fists in solidarity.

Spanky kept reading, paying him no attention.

“Chillicothe,” said Motor. “Only thing better would be Sturgis, right? Or maybe Memorial Day at Laconia, hey?”

Spanky continued to ignore him.

Motor coughed and finally the skinny bastard looked up.

“Hey, man,” he said. “What's happening?”

Spanky waited a while before he muttered, “Buell.”

Using the name Motor hated.

“Hey, Spank.” Motor raised his hand for a high five. Spanky didn't move. Then he slipped a ring through his beard, turned it into a gray horsetail. Finishing the rest of the beer, he tossed the bottle over his shoulder onto a pile of trash.

“No credit, Buell. You're still into me for those switchblade wheels.”

“I paid you, man.”

“Yeah, right- took you two years. Wheels like that, coulda moved 'em in two days. You take two years.”

Which was bullshit- the wheels were used, pulled off a wreck and reshaped, onea them totally skanked where kickback gravel had knocked out a chunka rim.

“Spank-”

“Forget it, Buell.”

“Listen, it's only a few small ones. And I got dough.”

“How much dough?”

Motor peeled off a twenty and a ten. Spanky looked at the money like it was dogshit.

“C'mon, man, you know I'm good for it.”

Spanky sighed and his chest sucked in like a ho's cheeks givin' head. No hair on his chest or his arms, but that gray beard growing up to his eyes was thickern Santa's.

“It's a down payment,” said Motor.

“Yeah, sure- tell you one thing, you ain't gettin' no virgin pieces. If I let you have anything, it'll be off the spares pile.”

“Fine,” said Motor. “Lemme scrounge.”

“Scrounge? You think for thirty bucks you can scrounge?”

“Thirty down, man. Old lady's got a check comin' in next week.” Total lie; Sharla had no income till the enda the month. “First thing the check comes in, you get it- I'll bring it in person.”

“In person?” Spanky smiled and the ringed beard moved around like ten pounds of lint. “Why don't you FedEx it to me, Buell? Everything comes FedEx now- ever use FedEx, Buell?”

“Yeah, sure.” Total lie.

“Got your own FedEx account, do you? We got one. Got a computer, too.” Spanky slapped the register. “Everything's computerized, Buell. Got another computer in back for ordering parts. Got E-mail, too. Know what E-mail is, Buell?”

Motor didn't answer. What an asshole. It dawned on him that Spanky looked… Jewish. Like onea them rabbis with that beard- put a hat on him, send him back to fucking Israel.

“E-mail, Buell. You send messages through the computer, phone calls, doesn't cost. You can get dirty pictures on the computer too, Buell. Amateurs, anals, facials, anything. Or just use your E-mail to write ‘fuck you' to some asshole- anything you want. What I'm saying, Buell, is it's a new world out there, dude's gotta change with the times. Once upon a time a dude could sit on his ass, scrounge himself a scoot, live free. Now you got to have more than gas money.”

Spanky looked at him with a mixture of pity and contempt. What was the asshole getting at?

“Nowadays you gotta produce something, Buell. Goods and services- like making a scoot or tuning it. I get doctors, lawyers, already have the Mercedes, but they're heavy into the putt. People producing something.”

“Lawyers,” said Motor, “produce more shit than a bear with the runs.”

Spanky didn't laugh. Not even a smile. “Right, Buell. That's why they can pay for their parts and you're trying to give me thirty bucks.”

“Hey, man-”

“Yeah, yeah, you wanna scrounge the parts pile, awright, but this is the last time, man. And first you gotta go over to the Bell and get me some grub.” Spanky scratched the interior of his left nostril. “Three tacos- get me the soft ones and a beef burrito, extra guac, extra sauce. And a cheese enchilada. And a jumbo Coke. You pay for my dinner, maybe I'll let you scrounge. At least you're producing something- no goods, but at least it's a service. It's all about economics, Buell.”

The Taco Bell was three blocks away and Motor's heels hurt with each step, all that weight pounding down, the worn-down boots not helping. His thighs chafed through filthy denim. When he got there, he was sweating from exertion. He ordered Spanky's food, scowling at the beaner kid, who said, “Yes, sir?” and stopped smiling when he saw Motor's face.

He was about to leave when he saw it, on one of the tables.

L.A. newspaper. He didn't read newspapers- who gave a shit. But this one, the picture, made him notice.

Fuck if it didn't look like Sharla's rug rat.

He picked it up. It took him a long time to finish the article, and he had to go over it twice to be sure. He'd always had trouble reading, words not making sense, some letters upside down. His old man called him a retard, look who's talkin', fucking unemployed janitor, dead at forty-five from a fucked-up liver. Mom not much better in the booze-slave department, but at least she didn't bug him. She couldn't read good, either.

Finally, he got through it. Was this for real? Witness to a murder? Hollywood?

He studied the picture some more. Looked exactly like the little rat.

Had to be the rat- he'd split, what, four months ago?

And kids always split to Hollywood. Motor had ended up there himself, Old Brain Fry kicking his ass after he flunked tenth grade for the third time, finally telling himself, Fuck it, I'm gone.