Rubout (2 page)

A big hot Harley was not just the perfect centerpiece for this ball, it was the only centerpiece. The only other thing on the tables were bottles of beer. Anything else would have been a distraction. At the Leather and Lace Ball, the dancers were the decoration. Each new arrival was more incredible. Behind Sonny, I could see a tall blonde with long straight
hair, wearing a lace body stocking and a fringed miniskirt loosely laced up the sides. Her guy wore the biker’s formal wear: a black Harley T-shirt, black jeans, and a panther tattoo. His black beard was braided, biker style, to keep it from blowing in his face while he rode. I had an almost overpowering urge to yank it. Most guys wore some variation on this costume. But there were notable exceptions. A big tawny-haired man in fringed buckskin looked like he’d stepped off the set of a Western. A broad-shouldered man dressed like a riverboat gambler in a black frock coat and ruffled shirt looked like he was still on the set. Verrrry nice. He was talking to a tiny brunette wearing a black lace blouse over a white lace bra, a scrap of skirt, and thigh-high boots with white bows up the back. Her friend had hair the color of cold beer, a black body stocking, red bra, and jeans with heart cutouts down the legs. I bet there wasn’t an unbought body stocking in a fifty-mile radius.

I loved it. This was the only society ball where there wasn’t a tummy tuck or a face-lift in the whole room. Real biker women weren’t afraid of a few sags, lines, or saddlebag thighs. I saw a red-haired woman with her love handles boldly outlined by black lace. Her man, who sported a matching gut, couldn’t keep his hands off her overhangs. It gave me hope for when I turned forty, only three years from now. I was thirty-seven and holding, but my grip wasn’t as good as his.

“Looks like your anti-RUB measures succeeded,” I told Sonny. “This isn’t the Malcolm Forbes crowd.” He smiled his crooked smile. “We tried to discourage
the yups,” he said proudly. “Most of these bikers aren’t your ZIP-code riders.”

He saw the puzzled look on my face.

“Those are guys living in your desirable ZIP codes, rich guys who buy Harleys for status and take them out three weekends a year. The people here are mostly your big-mileage riders. They’ll put ten, twenty, thirty thousand miles a year on their bikes. They’re not afraid to get a few bugs in their teeth.”

As Sonny bragged, in walked the biggest, gaudiest RUB I’d ever seen. She entered the same way a roach strolls across your kitchen floor when you’re trying to convince a stuffy relative that you keep a clean house. This particular bug was an exotic breed. Her blond hair had been artfully tossed for about eighty bucks, and she wore at least three thousand dollars of designer leather. I recognized the outfit. I’d seen it in
Vogue.
It was by Escada, or Versace, or one of those designers who use lots of gold buttons and gold braid. She was wearing leather to the Leather and Lace Ball, but it was the wrong kind. Her outfit was soft designer leather. Real biker leather is hard because it acts as armor when you fall off the bike. Her outfit would have been stunning in her circles. But here she looked ridiculous, the way Marie Antoinette dressed as a shepherdess must have looked to a real sheepherder.

As she walked closer, I recognized not just her outfit but her face. Holy cowhide! This was Sydney Van-der Venter. She really was a socialite, a former maid of honor in the Veiled Prophet court, and cochair of a half-dozen major galas and parties. Her picture was always in Babe’s column, but I bet she wasn’t
too pleased with his last mention. Babe ran an item about her upcoming ugly divorce. Babe called Sydney “the bitter half” and said she was the estranged wife of local venture capitalist Hudson Vander Venter. Sydney and Hudson lived in Ladue, the richest suburb of St. Louis—at least they had when Babe announced the breakup. She had the underfed look favored by fashionable types. Sydney was fortyish, face-lifted, dyed, and dieted almost to starvation. What was this woman doing at a biker ball in low-rent South St. Louis?

“How’d she get in?” I asked Sonny.

“She doesn’t count.” He shrugged.

“She does if you read Babe,” I said.

“Gimme a break,” said Sonny. “Do I look like I read Babe? She goes out with a guy in our HOG chapter—Jack.”

This was more incredible. Jack lived in my neighborhood. He wasn’t quite what Sonny called a one-percenter, but he was somewhere between an angel and a Hell’s Angel. Bikers have a dirty little secret: Even the hardest riding, toughest-looking were mostly family men and women who held responsible jobs, had nice kids, and went to church. They just liked to ride hard and look bad. The one-percenters—the rare ones involved in drugs, prostitution, mayhem, and murder—around on the edges added some glamour. Personally, if I was going to take up with a bad biker, I could find one handsomer—and less hairy—than Jack.

“I can’t believe Sydney Vander Venter hangs around a guy who wears a helmet that says ‘Helmet Laws Suck,’” I told Sonny.

He took a thoughtful sip of beer and said, “Hey, she spent most of her life with prissy guys in suits. Now she wants to experience real life. Jack wants to experience real money. You can’t blame either one. If she . . .”

I didn’t hear the rest. My attention went elsewhere. A couple strolled by in a jaw-dropping getup. She was wearing nothing but black leather boots and a black lace body stocking. It was obvious—in that outfit—that she was a natural blonde. It was also obvious she had serious muscles.

“Who’s that?” I said, awed by the raw display.

“That’s Stephanie, Ms. Gypsy Tour,” he said. “She’s the woman who handled her bike best at the trials. She comes by her skills naturally. She’s an over-the-road trucker.”

“That’s quite a pair,” I said.

“She
is
built like a brick shithouse,” Sonny said, and his crooked grin slipped into a leer.

“I meant Stephanie and her escort make quite a pair,” I said.

“Oh, him. That’s her boyfriend, Crazy Jerry,” he said, and shrugged. Crazy Jerry was nobody I’d shrug away. He had almost as many muscles as she did, plus a flawless tan. I could tell because he was wearing only a black vest, black leather chaps, and a black Harley G-string. I looked, then quickly looked away. Almost every woman in the room did the same thing. It wouldn’t be good for our health to stare too much at Jerry’s stuffed G-string. Stephanie looked like she’d decked more than one man and wouldn’t hesitate to hit a defenseless woman.

I noticed Sydney couldn’t keep her eyes off the
guy’s crotch, and she was pretty obvious. If she didn’t stop staring, Stephanie would boot her designer derriere all the way back to Ladue. Sydney had a flush on her face that didn’t come from her Chanel blusher. Judging by the drink in her hand, Sydney was chugging a biker favorite—Jack and Coke—a lethal combination if you’re not used to it. The sweet, strong Jack Daniel’s sipping whisky is hidden in the sweeter Coke. It tastes harmless going down. Then you try to stand up and realize you’re blitzed. Sydney must have been really drunk to stare at another woman’s man that way.

Fortunately, Stephanie was distracted by her duties. She was raising money for the night’s charity, the Troubled Children’s Foundation, by letting bikers stuff bills in her already bulging cleavage. I counted several hundred dollars sticking out of the gaps in the lace when she strolled by, and Sonny tucked another ten in there. “I like a gal who’s up front about her money,” he said, and this time he was definitely leering. Stephanie leered back. But when she turned to the dance floor, she tensed. What she saw wiped the smiles off everyone’s face.

Sydney the society lady had asked Jerry to dance, and Jerry had lived up to his name by being crazy enough to say yes. They were slow-dancing to some tune with a lot of sax. You’d need a crowbar to pry their pelvises apart. Sydney had her arms around Jerry’s waist, and she was grasping his cheeks—and I don’t mean on his face. Sydney must have a death wish.

Stephanie stalked over, grabbed Sydney by her artfully tossed hair, and pulled it back so hard I saw the
dye line on her roots. It must have been a sobering experience. Sydney looked terrified.

“Get
your hands off him, bitch,” Stephanie said in a low hiss, like a deadly snake. “Or I’ll kill you.”

I thought she meant it. So did Sydney. She was too scared to say a word. She didn’t even straighten out her hair, which stuck out at a stupid angle when Stephanie let go. Sydney looked around to see if anyone would help her, but we all pretended to be interested in the dancing or the drinks. Her date, Jack, was nowhere in sight, and nobody went looking for him. Sydney got herself into this, and she could get herself out. She worked her way toward the edge of the dance floor and then slunk up the steps toward the ladies’ room. Good. Let her hide out there for a while until she sobered up and Stephanie cooled off. Jerry had a sheepish grin on his face and looked rather pleased with himself, but I didn’t see him dance with anyone else. Stephanie went back to collecting money, and the bills the guys stuffed down her front were bigger than ever. I guess they were afraid not to contribute. I lost sight of Stephanie, Jerry, and Sydney, while I danced with two different guys. One worked at a furniture factory and the other wore the most gorgeous turquoise jewelry. He designed it himself. He was fun to talk to, but I wished Lyle, had been there, and I was mad at myself for missing him. This was one night when I didn’t have to work. I was there as a guest, not a columnist. I wouldn’t have to stay up late to write afterward. We could have had fun.

Then Sonny tapped me on the shoulder for a dance, and I didn’t waste any more time thinking
about Lyle. When I looked at my watch next it was almost midnight. I was dancing with a skinny biker named Mitch. He’d had enough beer to loosen up into a first-rate dancer. Sonny was dancing nearby with his cute blond wife, Debbie. When the music stopped suddenly, I heard Sonny tell her, “Oh, shit. Sydney’s started another commotion. Stay here while I see what it is.”

I couldn’t see or hear anything wrong, but I followed Sonny as he pushed through the crowd. Near the bar, I saw Gilly, a big ugly biker with a beer gut. He had his arms wrapped around Sydney in a bear hug. He was crushing her up against his chest and saying loudly “I thought you was looking for a big man, honey. I’m bigger than that Crazy Jerry and I can prove it.”

Sydney was struggling to get free, but she couldn’t. Gilly weighed three hundred pounds, and there was a lot of muscle embedded in that beer fat. Sonny walked up to Gilly. He was at least a hundred pounds lighter and a foot shorter, but he stared at the giant and tapped him on the arm. That’s all. Just tapped him. Gilly let go of Sydney like she might scald him. I wish I had that kind of power.

It looked like this encounter was going to end quietly. But then Jack, Sydney’s biker boyfriend, walked up out of nowhere and punched Gilly in the mouth, which hurt Jack’s hand pretty bad. Sonny and two of the other Harley wrestlers pulled them apart. It wasn’t much of a fight. Jack wasn’t really mad at Gilly. He just felt he had to do it. He saved his harsh words for Sydney. “You slut!” he screamed, while she cowered against the bar. “I’m not enough for you,
huh? Huh? You gotta go after two guys in one night? Rich bitch gotta have everything and everyone. Oh, bring your bike, Jack,’” he said, doing a simpering imitation of a woman. “‘I want to wrap myself around you and ride home with you in the rain.’ You’re so good at gettin’ guys, you can get another one to take you home.” Jack left her there and stormed down the stairs. Gilly seemed to be gone too, although I don’t know when he took off. Probably sometime during Jack’s speech.

We stared at Sydney. Her lip trembled and she started to cry silently. Dark streaks of eyeliner ran down her face. Some braid trim had pulled loose on her sleeve and a button was missing. She stumbled a little on her high heels, picked the gold button off the floor, and looked around for her little gold purse. Holding the handrail, she started unsteadily down the stairs. Everyone looked relieved.

“Shouldn’t someone go with her?” I asked. “She looks drunk.”

“She can call a cab from the lower lobby,” said Sonny. “There are guards out front. Let her alone. She’s caused enough trouble tonight.”

She wasn’t through causing trouble. But we didn’t know that.

“This is why we don’t want RUBs at the ball,” Sonny said. “They don’t know how to act.”

The bikers watching nodded, and I could feel the mood turning sour. Then the band broke into the official bikers’ anthem, “Born to Be Wild.” The King of Hearts wailed this song of freedom almost as well as Steppenwolf. Sonny revved up his black Harley and rode the centerpiece around the outside of the
dance floor. It rumbled over the music and vibrated the floor. I danced with Panhead, lost in the wild, roaring sound. After the song, I heard the band paging Crazy Jerry. They must have paged him on and off for half an hour. Finally Sonny came up to me, looking worried. “Francesca, we need you to be a judge for the Leather and Lace contests,” he said. “We can’t find Jerry, and he’s one of our judges. I don’t want to stir up any more trouble looking for him.”

You never know when a woman is going to have to represent her sex. I knew I shouldn’t have said yes. But it was after midnight, he was cute, and I was weak. So I agreed to be the only female judge at the Leather and Lace Ball. There were three other judges. Parker had gray hair, a broad, calm face, and a vest with the Viet Nam Veterans colors. Will was a lean guy in a black T-shirt. Streak was named for the speed he rode and the iron-gray streak in his black hair. I also heard he got his name for riding bare-assed through the downtown police lot on a dare. Streak just grinned when you asked where he got his name. He smoked incessantly.

Sonny explained our duties. “You gotta judge the Best in Leather—Female, the Best in Leather—Male, and the Best in Lace. Ladies’ leather competition first.”

“What are the criteria?” I asked.

“Just pick the best,” Sonny said, and shrugged. I could tell this wasn’t going to be the Pillsbury Bake-Off.

Eight women lined up in front of the bandstand. The first Best in Leather wore a lace body stocking
and leather chaps. The second entry wore almost the same outfit, but dropped her leather chaps and wiggled her butt. The men in the crowd cheered.