The Brickbox

Chapter one

On a day that started like any other, Rags and Gunner made it to their favorite street corner early and settled in for another day of panhandling for spare change and watching the world go by, not expecting much in the way of excitement or change, nor aware that their lives were about to be altered.

Under Rags’ usual growth of beard stubble, one could see the wrinkles that premature aging had added to his face and the scars that life had given him along the way. His hair was gray, with only a hint that it used to be blond. He was small and slim but gave an impression of being wiry and tough if pushed the wrong way. His clothes were tattered and old and hence his name, but they were as clean as the limited washing facilities at The Brickbox would allow. He favored blue jeans, collarless shirts, buttoned vests, and an old pair of work boots with broken laces. Inside the boots were mismatched socks, a habit that stretched back to when Rags was a rodeo clown. When he spoke, his voice sounded like a low-pitched, raspy whisper. Ya feelin’ it’s gonna be a good day fer coin? he asked his friend sitting beside him. 

Gunner was a tall black man in his late forties who walked with a slight stoop. He had salt and pepper hair, a soul patch under his lower lip, and a scar that ran along his jaw from the right ear to his chin—a reminder of a fight with a pimp who had been beating on one of his hookers before Gunner stepped in. As always, Gunner wore an old army combat jacket over a white T-shirt, faded chino pants, and a well-worn khaki slouch hat.  Sitting beside a beat-up saxophone that rested on a battered case, Gunner gave Rags’ question some thought. Finally, he answered, Could be.

Rags squinted at his friend. Gave that a lot of thought, did ya?

Yup. Gunner reached down and began to scratch his scrotum with some vigor. When he was done, he leaned his head back, looked upward, and sighed.

Rags looked at his friend’s crotch. Ya find the one ya still got? he asked.

"I’m thinking it isn’t the one I got that itches so much," said Gunner.

Rags nodded, and then a new thought occurred to him. Ya remember to bring a sign?

Yeah.

What’s it sayin’ today?

Gunner reached over to a shopping bag and pulled out a square piece of cardboard. Written on it in black felt-tip pen were the words: I AM ONE-TENTH APACHE. WILL ATTACK SETTLERS FOR MONEY. (DISCOUNTS ON IRISH CATHOLICS). 

Rags looked at it and nodded his approval. Ya should get Chalkie to draw sumthin to go with the words. Maybe an Indian on a horse.

Are we allowed to say Indian anymore?

Dunno.

What kinda horse?

Chestnut. Maybe Appaloosa.

Male or female?

Thinkin’ female. Ya don’t wanna have some kid’s parent get all over ya by havin’ Chalkie draw a horse with a big pecker.

Might get sued?

Or worse.

Worse?

Might have to listen to some soccer mammy gobbin’ at ya fer five minutes, tellin’ ya how offended she is an’ how y’oughta be ashamed of yerself an’ how ya shouldn’t be pollutin’ this here street corner by bein’ here.

So, maybe I could get Chalkie to draw a chuck wagon instead.

A chuck wagon on fire, with some arrows stickin’ out.

Where’d the fire come from?

The microwave exploded inside the chuck wagon.

Frigidaire? Whirlpool?

I’m thinkin’ sumthin offshore. Maybe Korean.

With a good warranty.

Exactly.

Rags pulled out the stub of a cigar from a vest pocket and put it in his mouth, but he didn’t light it. Beside him, Gunner put his saxophone to his lips and took a deep breath. Just as he was about to blow into the instrument, Rags nudged him and pointed his finger.

This could be interestin’, he said.     

On the other side of the street was a park with trees and a bench. A man and a woman smiled at one another as they walked along the sidewalk. Both had a group of leashed dogs in front of them. As they drew opposite Rags and Gunner, they moved off the sidewalk and onto the grass. After tying the dogs to a couple of trees and moving to the bench, they began to make out. The dogs yapped and nipped at one another in play, except for one pair who began sniffing and then engaged in a dry hump behind the unaware dog walkers. Rags and Gunner took this in, nodding their approval of the dogs’ efforts.

Them mutts got the right idea, said Rags. Know what ya want and git to it.

Yeah, replied Gunner. And those two young-uns on the bench are gonna get themselves all worked up and sweaty, and then what?

We could offer to mind the dogs for ‘em while they disappeared in the trees.

They’d probably want us to sign a waiver or something. 

An’ we might lose our place on the corner here.

Exactly.

Ya bring any books with ya?

Gunner reached into an old khaki-colored canvas pack and pulled out a couple of paperbacks. I got a Zane Grey and a Robert B. Parker.

I’ll take the western one, said Rags. Gimme horses ‘n cowboys any day.

You’re easy to please.

An’ you just watched a couple’s dogs humpin’ in the park.

See your point.

Chapter two

While Rags and Gunner sat on their corner that morning, Jude Zander got off a highway cruiser at the downtown bus station. She had no idea where she was or where she was going. Never having been in a city before, the size and mass of everything overwhelmed her, as did the smells and noise. And the people. She had seen pictures in magazines and online and had watched videos and television. Still, no one in her hometown was anything but white-skinned, of Anglo-Saxon heritage, and vocally mid-Atlantic. And now, in the whirlpool of humanity all around her, she saw black people, Asian people, women with scarves covering their heads, and men with black hats that pushed long curls out around their ears.   

Is this what the world really looks like? she thought

Outside the bus station, Jude stopped and pulled the nylon pack off her back. Somewhere inside was a piece of paper with her aunt’s address on it. While she dug around for it, a teenaged boy slammed on the brakes of his bike, barely missing her. Hey, idiot! he yelled. Ya stop in the middle of the street, and you’re gonna get run the hell over! As he started pedaling away, giving Jude the finger over his shoulder, he yelled at her again, Wake the hell up, man!

Man? Jude had forgotten. She had cut and dyed her hair, and she wasn’t wearing any makeup or jewelry. She wanted to look like a boy. Her slim figure, loose-fitting clothes, and baseball hat helped to disguise her gender, and she did her best to remember to speak in as low a voice as she could manage, though remembering it wasn’t always easy.

You’re a boy, she told herself. Don’t forget, or it’ll be easier for them to find you. 

Jude walked for a while, taking in the newness of tall buildings on the busy main street, the smells of restaurants, the loud music blaring out of arcades, and so much more in the way of new sensations. She came to a corner and looked left down a quiet street where she saw a sign that read: ‘Jimmy’s Bar’. Parked outside were eight large motorcycles, all of them black with chrome trim. When she got closer to the bikes, she circled them, not daring to touch anything. She was fascinated by the size and the promise of the power of the machines. Until now, the biggest motorcycle she had seen belonged to Bobby Miller, but that was a faint spark compared to the thunder and lightning she was looking at now. As she stood admiring the machines, a voice from behind gave her a jump.

Well, well, now what’ve we got here? said the voice.

Jude turned and saw two women, unlike any she had seen in her hometown. Teased big hair, short tight dresses, lots of cleavage, heavy makeup, and enough jewelry to start a store. As they approached her, Jude wondered how they could walk in such high heels. Both women looked to be somewhere in their twenties, but Jude wasn’t sure. The woman in the tight red dress walked to within inches of Jude’s face, looked her straight in the eye, and asked, Got any money, man?

What for? asked Jude.

The other woman, standing to the side in a bright pink dress, said, I’m going for my master’s degree in physics.        

Really? asked Jude.

Oh, sure, said pink dress.

Whatcha got in the pack? asked red dress. Some weed? Maybe some happy dust?

Before Jude could answer, red dress leaned forward, stuck a tongue in Jude’s ear, and reached around to get at the straps of her backpack. Come on, she said, if ya got some feel-good product in there, we could share it and party up. As red dress became more aggressive with the backpack, pink dress reached out and touched her friend’s shoulder. Hey, he’s just a kid. Let’s just let him be. But red dress persisted with the straps. As Jude squirmed to get away from this perfumed buzz saw, a husky, menacing male voice called out, Get away from the kid!

Standing outside the door of the bar were eight men dressed in T-shirts, blue jeans, army combat boots, and leather cut-off vests with the name ’Mud Monkeys’ stitched in large letters on the back, and the word ‘Vet’ in smaller letters on the front. The men looked dangerous. In the middle of the group was the biker who spoke. He looked like the guy who drove the hot rod in American Graffiti, but his hair was longer, and he had a mustache and goatee. His large arms were covered in tattoos—a ferocious-looking gorilla on one and a pair of crossed rifles on the other. He walked over to the two streetwalkers and glared at them. Get the hell away from the machines! he said. You’re drivin’ their value down just standin’ next to ‘em.

Red and pink dress stood motionless, not sure what was coming next. The biker then took a quick step toward them, and both women turned and quickly moved off, click-clacking their high heels on the pavement as they put some distance between them and possible trouble.

The biker with the husky voice turned to Jude. Y’alright, kid? he asked.

Jude didn’t know what to say. Her senses were on overload… massive buildings, strange people, women in revealing clothes, large motorcycles, and dangerous-looking men.

Kid? the biker asked again.

I guess so, said Jude. I, uh, I didn’t know what to do about those ladies.

They ain’t ladies. They’re skanks.

Skanks?

Hookers, kid.

Prostitutes?

Yeah, okay look. Ya really gotta stay away from street trash. They ain’t gonna do ya no good no how. Ya fool around with them, and they’ll clap ya up.

Clap?

Crabs.

Crabs?

VD!

Oh.

The biker looked Jude in the eye, and in that instant, she could see the menace he carried with him. It scared her. She wasn’t sure what he’d do next until he extended his hand. Name’s Mako. Me and the boys are a motorcycle club—The Mud Monkeys. 

Jude shook the biker’s hand, doing her best not to give away her gender with a limp effort. Mako, like the shark? asked Jude. 

Yeah, said the biker. It’s a nickname I picked up in the army.

And, uh, why do you call yourselves The Mud Monkeys? asked Jude.

It’s a term that was used by some yobes in the military to describe infantry soldiers. They looked down on us because we spent a lotta time marchin’ around in the rain and mud and diggin’ holes in the dirt. But we took pride in what we did, and we adopted the name for our club. Kind’a like reverse snobbery.

Jude looked at the front of Mako’s leather vest. Across from ‘Vets’, she saw the word ‘President’. "So you are the president? The leader?" she asked.   

Leader of the pack, duly selected and elected.

And what does ‘Vets’ mean?

Veterans. We’re all army vets.

Did you fight in wars? Jude was now interested in something she knew nothing about. She hadn’t known anyone in her hometown who was in the military.

Let’s just say we all did time in some interesting places and leave it at that.

Jude wanted to ask about what it was like to be in combat and if any of them had been wounded, but she sensed that Mako and his friends didn’t like to talk about such things, so she asked, Do you just ride around all day or do you have jobs?

You’re a curious little mook, aren’t ya?

Jude was now alarmed, thinking she had gone too far with her questions and angered Mako. I’m sorry! she exclaimed.

Hey, it’s cool, said Mako. Ain’t no thing.

Jude visibly relaxed, and the biker picked up on it.

The club owns and runs a small security business. We protect people and things.

Like what?"

Warehouses, gypsy cab drivers, visiting rock bands… mostly independent sources who get referred to us by word of mouth.

Do you do bodyguard work?

Yeah.

And do you wear your, uh, motorcycle clothes when you work?

No, the cuts don’t get worn on the job.

But you are wearing them now.

I ain’t workin’ right now. If someone was lookin’ to sign up with us, or if I was visitin’ some of the guys on a job to see how things were goin’, I’d be in normal clothes. Perception is important.

Jude nodded her head, but wasn’t sure if she should ask any more questions. Well, she said, I guess I’ve taken enough of your time. I’d better be going.

Where ya headed? asked Mako.

I’m trying to find my aunt’s place.

Chapter three

Eight loud motorcycles pulled up in front of a large, beautiful house in a well-to-do neighborhood. When Mako gave them a throat-slashing signal, they shut off their engines in unison. The resultant silence was like magnified serenity.      

Mako looked around at the neighborhood, taking it in. He turned his head to talk to Jude, who was sitting behind him. Your aunt lives in a nice part of town. Maybe we should consider movin’ our clubhouse here. Whaddya think, kid?

I, uh, I don’t know.

Hey, relax. Livin’ here’d be about as much fun as watchin’ water evaporate.  

Across the street, a refined-looking middle-aged woman walked a small dog decked out in a sweater and an expensive-looking collar. As she looked disdainfully at the bikers, one of them, Weasel, stuck his tongue out in a gesture that left nothing to the imagination. The woman, while moving and watching the biker, walked into a tree and was