P-Nut

Axton Bishop looked like an old-school biker from yesteryear. His face was deeply tanned from years of riding, his brown hair was littered with gray, and his hands were covered in more scars than most other bikers I knew.

A half hour south of Wichita, in a town I’d never heard of, the three of us were seated at an office in the back of his clubhouse. He took a moment to digest the death of a mother he’d never really known, and then looked up.

He folded his massive arms over his chest and met Smudge’s gaze. “Died, huh? I’ll be damned. Like I said a minute ago, I never really knew her. She left when I was a kid. Ol’ Man was a violent prick, so I can’t say as I blame her.”

“I’m sorry,” Smudge said.

“Don’t be,” he said. “It’s nobody’s fault. Part of the journey. Happens to the best of us.”

“Your pop rode with the red and white?” I asked.

“He did. Like I said, he was a violent prick,” he said dryly. “They did the world a favor when they locked his ass up.”

“Did he ever mention his brother-in-law?” I asked. “His wife’s sisters husband? Your uncle?”

“Not that I recall, no. But we didn’t talk much past when I was about eighteen. Not much up to that time, either.”

“Ever heard of Billy The Snake Schreiber?” Smudge asked.

Axton shot her a glare. “Do I look like a car salesman?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“A landscape architect?”

“No.”

“Resemble a 1%er at all?” he asked flatly. “Maybe a little?”

She chuckled. “Maybe a little.”

“Any man who wears a patch knows of The Snake,” he said. “Man gave his life for his club in more ways than one. We could all learn a little something from how he lived his life. Why do you ask?”

Smudge pushed herself away from the table and straightened her posture. “He was my father.”

His eyes thinned. After a moment’s thought, his lips parted slightly. He pushed himself away from the table, stood, and shot her a look.

“You’re Billy Schreiber’s daughter?”

She nodded. “Sure am.”

“That’d make him my uncle.”

“That’s why we’re here,” she said. “I was hoping you could tell us more about him. Well, that, and I wanted to meet you.”

He looked at me and then at her. He motioned for her to stand. “Stand up.”

She stood.

He looked her over. “As far as I know, you’re my only relative.”

“My dad was an only child, and my mother only had the one sister. If you don’t have any siblings,” Smudge said with a grin. “You’re my only relative, too.”

“I’ll be fucking damned.” He extended his hand.

She looked at his open hand as if he was trying to hand her a snake. She clenched her fist and straightened her arm.

He pressed his fist into hers, grinned, and then looked at me. “And you’re a Filthy Fucker?”

“Done a dime with ‘em so far.”

“Dime in that state’s like a lifetime anywhere else. It’s like the wild west out there, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Can be.”

He looked at Smudge. “Did you know my mother?”

She shook her head. “Sorry.”

“You didn’t know my mother, and I didn’t know your father. It’s a damned shame you came all this way.”

“At least we got to meet each other,” she said.

I know it wasn’t what she wanted, but it was really all he had to offer. He seemed to be a man of few words, and I had my doubts we’d spend the day in the clubhouse chewing the fat about bikes, booze, and bitches.

We did stay for another hour or so, and then said our goodbyes.

As we saddled up, Axton stood off to the side and looked my bike over. “Good lookin’ scoot.”

“Appreciate it.”

Smudge pulled on her helmet, and then turned toward Axton. “Do you eat Vietnamese noodle soup?”

He grinned. “I’ve been known to.”

“Any good places in Wichita?”

“There’s a couple, yeah.”

“Any of them been around for twenty years or so?”

“One,” he said. “My Tho. Fellas that run it ride. Good people, good noodles, and a good atmosphere. Family owned and operated. Biker friendly, too.”

“Thanks,” she said.

She looked at me. “Noodles?”

The thought of eating at a place her father had ridden 1,500 miles to eat at was intriguing.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I responded.

* * *

The small building on a corner lot with a dirt parking lot wasn’t at all what I expected. After parking the bike, we walked inside.

The inside of the restaurant was spotless. We chose an empty seat, and were greeted promptly by a man in his forties.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Water and coffee, times two,” I said.

He gave a nod and then motioned toward the center of the table. “Menus are right there. I’ll be back with your drinks.”

As we looked over the menus, he returned.

“How long has this place been here?” Smudge asked.

“Twenty-five years,” he said.

“How long have you worked here?” she asked.

He smiled. “Twenty-five years.”

“Do you ride?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, Ma’am. Mine’s parked out back, right beside my brother’s.”

“You ever heard of Billy The Snake Schreiber?” she asked.

He gave a sharp nod. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Her eyes went wide. “Has he ever been in here?”

“Yes, ma’am. He came in several times. It’s been a long time ago, though. He’s dead, you know.”

She nodded. “Do you remember where he sat?”

He gave a sharp nod, and then pointed to a large round table in the far rear of the restaurant. “Same place every time.”

“Mind if we move to that table?” she asked.

“No, Ma’am. Not at all.”

We moved to the other table and sat down.

The waiter brought our drinks. “Are you ready to order?”

“Do you know what Billy ate when he came?”

“Yes, Ma’am. The number twelve,” he said. “Every time.”

Her eyebrows raised slightly. “You’ve got a good memory.”

“Hard to forget a man like that, Ma’am. It’s been a long time, but it isn’t very often someone rides 1,500 miles to eat in your restaurant. My brother and I were gang-bangers back then. We actually started riding because of him. He was an easy man to admire.”

She grinned. “I’ll have the number twelve.”

“Bring us two of ‘em,” I said.

“It’ll just be a few minutes.”

Smudge relaxed against the back of her seat and looked around the restaurant. “I like this place.”

“I do, too. And, the fella waiting on us is nice.”

“It’s cool thinking that my dad sat here. That he ate the same food.”

“I like the thought of it.”

“I’m glad we made this trip,” she said. “I wanted answers. It’s weird, but the only answers I really got were when we were on the road.”

“You know you’re a true biker when you get far more satisfaction out of the trip than you do the destination.”

“I guess I’m a true biker, then.”

It was one more thing we had in common.

Not that I needed another reason to invite her into my life.