Page 8 of Thug

It was a ridiculous question. I may have looked like a confused millennial, but I was beyond ready. In fact, I envisioned actively participating in getting Carp so drunk that he made decisions he’d later regret. Decisions that included him and me in the storeroom bumping uglies while his tattooed brethren told war stories, arm wrestled each other, and barfed on my freshly-mopped floor.

I gave a reassuring nod. “Absolutely.”

While Carp continued to undress me with his eyes, Brisco stomped across the bar. Flattered, nervous, and curious as to what might unfold over the course of the night, I watched a steady stream of leather-clad men filter through the door.

“Listen up!” Brisco bellowed to the group of men. “There’s two rules.” He pounded his clenched fist against the table where he and Price were seated on the previous night. “First, this is Price’s table.”

Each of the men gave a nod in acknowledgement.

“Second,” Brisco nodded his bald head toward me. “She’s off-limits.”

Wait. What?

I shifted my attention from Brisco to Carp. His expression instantly morphed from one of interest to complete and utter indifference. Curios as to why the off-limits declaration was made, I searched the group. So far, two dozen men had meandered into the bar, but Price wasn’t one of them.

I’d been around bikers since the day I was born. They were like every other walk of life. There was no cookie cutter mold that each of them fit into. Some were neat, concise, and well-spoken. Others were loud, sloppy, and overbearing. The vast majority fit somewhere in between. In my experience, however, they all shared one common trait.

They gave respect if they were treated with respect.

I decided the off-limits remark was likely nothing more than a demand on Brisco’s part for the group to treat me with respect.

Some of the men pushed and shoved each other while others chose their tables. A few meandered to the rear corners of the bar and stood with their arms crossed, watching the others intently. I swallowed a mouthful of nervous energy and addressed the crowd.

“Listen up, fellas!” I shouted. “I have Budweiser and a local IPA draft for a buck, or domestic bottles for $3.50. Food choices are simple. Pickled eggs or pickled sausages. Your choice, a buck.”

Outbursts seemed to come from everywhere. While I struggled to make sense of what was being said, a tall man with closely cropped hair edged his way through the crowd. He was lean with a well-defined jaw and had piercing brown eyes. As he approached, I could see that the front of his vest was adorned with two patches, Treasurer and Lacky.

He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and positioned his mouth within an inch of my ear. “Let’s make this easy,” he said in a pleasant tone. “Put a pitcher of Budweiser on each table and a few extras on the bar. Line the bar with empty glasses. At the end of the night, let me know what we owe.” He leaned away. “Be fair with me, and I’ll be fair with you.”

“Okay,” I responded. “What if someone wants something other than Bud draft?”

“Give them what they want,” he replied. “Keep one tab. At the end of the night, provide a receipt and I’ll pay it.”

Attempting to please the thirsty crowd by any other means would have been a nightmare. I silently exhaled a sigh of relief. “Sounds good to me.”

I threaded my way through the layers of bulging biceps, leather boots, and the lingering aroma of testosterone. After taking my position at the tap, I filled pitchers with beer two at a time and pushed them to the edge of the bar. As soon my hand released them, they disappeared into the crowd. Ten minutes later the place filled with beer-drinking, leather-wearing, expletive-blurting bikers.

Relieved to have a cold beverage in each of their greedy hands, I surveyed the crowd. I knew the Hard Eights were the largest club in the Tucson area, but I hadn’t envisioned them filling my bar to capacity. A head count confirmed thirty-two men, which was my seating capacity.

My eyes came to rest on Brisco and Carp, who were standing in front of my prized jukebox. I opened the register, grabbed a fistful of quarters, and headed in their direction.

Upon reaching the two seemingly confused men, I extended my hand. “Here.” I handed Brisco a fist-full of quarters. “It’s four songs for a quarter.”

“Does this fucker work?” he asked.

I chuckled. “Considering what I paid, it better work until long after I’m dead and gone.”

He traced his fingertips over the glass of the 1950’s Seeburg Select-O-Matic as if he were feeling the curves of a perfectly shaped ass. “This fucker’s awesome,” he growled. “Fuck yeah, I know how to work it.”

He pumped a handful of quarters into the machine and handed the remaining loose change to Carp. Standing side by side with the bald-headed giant for the first time, I realized just how big he truly was.

I was five foot seven in flats, and Brisco towered over me by nearly a foot. With arms as big as my thighs, it was obvious why he was chosen as the club’s Sergeant-at Arms. Anyone who wanted to mess with the club would think twice about doing so after knowing they must get through him first.

Brisco pressed the tip of his sausage-sized index finger against the buttons mounted at the center of the jukebox. The vertical phonograph slid the length of 100 potential options, paused, and returned to the center before stopping. The selected 45 rpm record was extracted from the long row and placed in the plater. Mystified at the piece of equipment’s faultless operation, both men exchanged a glance.

“How old is this fucker?” Brisco asked.

I was as proud of my jukebox as I was of my bar. “It’s sixty-five years old,” I responded. “It’s a reconditioned 1954 Seeburg Select-O-Matic.”