Page 37 of Goose

Goose

Despite the popularity of motorcycles in Southern California, the distinct sound of Harley-Davidson’s Shovelhead engine was something rarely heard. As the replacement for the unreliable Panhead engine, the now outdated and underpowered Shovelhead was produced from 1966-1984.

Hardcore bikers outfitted their motorcycles with the engine for reasons unknown to modern-day wannabes who chose to ride their machines with multi-colored metal-flake paint schemes to Starbucks every other Sunday for a cup of overpriced coffee.

Upon recognizing the distinct sound, I peered over the edge of the roof. The low idle speed and the unmistakable exhaust note each time the approaching motorcycle came to a stop was an all too familiar sound.

Shovelhead’s ran like a striped-assed ape and sounded like absolute shit. They were beautiful and grotesque at the same time.

Baker pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. I pushed my shears into my back pocket, stood, and surveyed the morning’s work.

“I’m up here!” I shouted.

The sound of his boot heels against the concrete drive confirmed he’d traveled alone. As soon as he stepped onto the roof, I knew something was amiss. His long face and tired eyes warned me not to bother asking. He sauntered toward where I stood.

I could count Baker’s solo trips to my home on one hand. Each one brought with it a unique revelation. He never stopped by “just to talk”.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, turning away. “Beer or tea?”

“Whiskey,” he replied. “Something smooth.”

Whiskey at ten am on Sunday. I didn’t like the sound of it. Nonetheless, I returned in a few moments with a bottle of Macallan single malt and two glasses.

After pouring two shots of mind-numbing size, I set the bottle aside and handed him one of the glasses. “You look like hell.”

He held the glass beneath his nose and drew a breath. “I’ve got a cop’s head in one of my saddlebags. It’s not a good feeling.”

He downed the shot.

I wasn’t thrilled about a five-month-old head being parked in my driveway. I’d chosen to relocate to the beachfront getaway to stay one step ahead of the police, not give them an invitation to raid my home for evidence.

I drank the shot in one gulp and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. “You don’t say? Any idea where the rest of him is?”

He looked like he was going to puke. “Hands and feet are in there, too.”

I swallowed a mouthful of bile. “What about the rest?”

“There’s only one more piece,” he said. “Cash has got it in the bed of his truck.”

I suspected at ground level it smelled pretty fucking ripe. Luckily, the fifteen pots of freshly-planted marigolds were keeping the roofline from falling victim to the dead cop’s stench.

“All the fucking cops will have to do is follow the trail of swarming flies,” I muttered. “What the fuck were you thinking, Bake? Coming here?”

“Last I remember, you said you wanted to be involved,” he grunted. “Consider yourself involved. And, for what it’s worth, it doesn’t stink.”

“According to who?” I asked. “All that hair on your face is blocking your nose. The son-of-a-bitch has been dead for five months. Depending on where’s he’s been—”

“Encased in concrete.”

I was impressed. Not a lot, but for having Cash involved, I felt that I should at least pat him on the shoulder the next time we saw each other.

“All of it?” I asked.

“All the pieces I brought. That poor Shovel’s weighed down pretty good.”

I closed my eyes and drew a slow breath through my nose. The marigold’s pungent odor was something I’d grown to enjoy. I’d purchased them because of their ability to withstand the full sunlight of the roof deck and to ward off insects.

They, like Baker’s Shovelhead, were a simple reminder that not all of nature’s beauty appealed to every one of a man’s five senses.