The Daisy Ducks (19 page)

Many people wonder why anyone would choose to ride a
motorcycle when they could drive a car. Certainly a motorcycle is
much more dangerous and uncomfortable. But the difference between
even the hottest sports car and a good bike is the difference between
that sports car and a station wagon—times two. On a bike you can
lean into corners, matching the degree of lean with your speed and
the sharpness of the curve. After you've spent, say, three thousand
miles on a bike you get the feel of it, and soon you can make even
the sharpest curves all but disappear.

But the real reason people ride bikes is the feeling
of total freedom they give the rider. On a bike, even a trip to the
drugstore is an adventure. With the pavement slipping underneath you
in a blur, the ground surging up to kiss you on either ear as you
lean over in the turns, you are conscious only of speed, power, and a
sense of flight. Because after a while on a cross-country ride,
something strange and wonderful happens: the bike disappears. And
then it's just you, suspended three feet over the road, flying. The
closest thing to it is downhill skiing.

So I flew on and on down the interstate, with
Tinkerbell's magic dust on me. I stopped every two hours, then every
hour as the afternoon wore on. Riding a bike is strenuous; your
attention cannot wander, even for an instant. The noise, motion, and
vibration all contribute to the fatigue. My pace slackened sharply
after three o'clock. Toward four-thirty, I realized I was all biked
out for the day, and I rolled into the Holiday Inn at Winchester,
Virginia, where I took a room and soaked for almost an hour in a
steaming tub.

I dressed and shaved and thought about calling the
Boss. Mary had received my Mailgram by this time. The more I thought
about it, the less attractive it seemed. What was I going to tell
her? I thought up a little white lie to make things go smoothly. I
sprawled out on the bed and dozed for an hour, then went into the
dining room and ate. Roast beef,
au jus
.
It wasn't too bad, considering it had been frozen and was thawed in a
microwave. I ate lots and lots and returned to the room, where I
poured myself a Johnnie Walker and water and called Mary.

"Hello?"

"Hi Mary. Guess what?"

"I know what. You're nuts. I got the telegram
this morning."

"I'm in Virginia."

There was a sigh of resignation. Or was it
exasperation?

"Charlie. What the hell's going on? Are you
trying to see how much our marriage can stand before it snaps? I was
finally understanding why you didn't come with me to Schenectady and
you said you wanted to oversee the office renovations and now this.
It's too much —"

"I know, but listen. Brady Coyne called me after
you left. He's at this private fishing reserve in the Smoky Mountains
where they fish for brownies all year round. He asked if I wanted to
join him and, well, I just couldn't say no. It's been so long since
I've really been fishing —"

"What's this lodge called?"

"The uh, uh—oh hell, I forgot. But I have a
number to call him there when I get close. Listen, I'll call you
again when I get there tomorrow night, okay?"

"All right, Charlie. But behave yourself, and be
careful. Which car did you take, the Scout or the Audi?"

"The, uh, German vehicle."

"Oh. Well, take good care of it. And you be sure
to call me tomorrow night, okay?"

"Yes."

"Who else knows where you are? Did you tell the
kids?"

"No. You're the only one who knows. Susan knows
I'm not coming in until the redecorating's finished."

"Wait a minute, Charlie. Something's fishy. You
didn't tell Moe. Why not? You tell Moe everything."

"Uh, he, uh, was out somewhere. I couldn't reach
him. I packed and left early this morning."

I was getting increasingly nervous. Calling Mary
hadn't been such a good idea. Why didn't I listen to my instincts?
All I knew was that Brady was a safe bet; I happened to know that he
was down in Bimini, fishing the bonefish flats. Lucky stiff. It was
only a white lie. I just didn't want her to worry unnecessarily.

"Charlie."

"Yes?"

"Charrr-lie?"

"What is it, love? I don't think we should talk
much longer. I need my sleep."

"Give me the number of the fishing lodge where
you and Brady are staying, okay?"

"Uh, I can't. It's out in the bike."

"Oh, well as soon as you- Did you say out in the
bike?"

"Huh? Course not. Why would I say that?"
Dammit!

"Yes you did. You said, ‘Out in the bike.' I
heard you."

"Naw. Bad connection. I said it wasn't where I
like. "

"Bullshit. You said bike."

“
Uh-uh. Like."

"Bike."

So we went on with that for a while, then said a
civil good-bye and hung up. I could tell she suspected. The one thing
about Mary is this: she always finds out. Always.

I drew up the covers and studied the map. I was a day
and a half away from Robbinsville, North Carolina, reputed home of
one William L. Royce, former USAF commando. The phone rang.

"Charlie."

"Hiya hon. What's new?"

"Cut the crap, Charlie. You lied to me. I called
Brady Coyne's office and guess what?"

"It was closed, that's what."

"Uh-huh. But his tape machine was working just
fine. His message said he was in Bimini."

"Oh."

"Yeah. And guess what? I called the Burkes, too.
I knew you'd ask Jim to feed the dogs while you were gone."

"Yep. I didn't want them to starve."

"I asked him to take a stroll over to our house
and look in the garage."

A chill went up my spine.

"He reported to me that both the Scout and the
Audi are in the garage. Your motorcycle's gone. So you did say bike."

"I am a responsible adult, Mary. I can do as I
please."

"Hah! You're a six-year-old—ask any of our
friends. And how can you expect me to be happy, or respect you, when
you lie to me and carry on and —"

"Mary —"

"No! Now I order you to tum right around
tomorrow and head straight back to our house before you get yourself
killed. I know where you're headed, pal: you're headed for that
little town in the mountains where that wacko mercenary lives, aren't
you?"

"Can't we just discuss —"

"No!” She was crying now. "You come right
back . . . before I. . . before —"

Then she broke down and hung up. Damn.

I tried to call her back, but the line was busy. Then
the phone rang again. I picked it up.

"Listen Mary, I just—"

"This isn't Mary," said a gruff voice. "Is
this Bird-Brain Adams?"

"Speaking," I said. "Listen, Brian,
why don't you just —"

"No. Why don't you just listen. You're in
trouble again, bubblehead. Mary just called me. After hearing your
latest shenanigans, I'm not surprised she's upset."

"There are no shenanigans. I have a week or so
to spare and I'm taking a motor trip. I don't see that it's any
business of yours or the Concord Police Department."

"Hell it isn't. It may interest you to know that
I have many friends on various police forces around the country. I
know a lot of powerful people in the Carolinas, too. If you don't
turn around pronto, I'm going to unleash my influence down there: you
won't know a moment's peace. They'll follow you wherever you go, day
and ni—"

"Yeah, well I'm not going to hold my breath,
chief. Mary put you up to this. I think you'd just better let it be."

He replied that this would not happen. He said that
he and his agents were going to follow me like yesterday. He hung up.
I was almost asleep when the phone rang a third time. It was Dr.
Morris Abramson, my former friend. He informed me that after hearing
Mary's description of what I was up to, he was convinced I had lost
my reason. Accordingly, for my own good, he had no choice but to
notify the appropriate people and have me confined to a lunatic
asylum.

"Oh is that so?"

"Absolutely. And when they get you in harness,
fella,
dat's it
.
They'll put you in a little tiny room wit' padding. It won't even
have a window. Just a lightbulb high up, so you can't strangle
yourself wit' the cord, and a li'l tiny slot to peek in at you once a
week."

I pictured the scene in my mind. It was grim. But I
thought of the bright side.

"Heck Moe, at least the weekends won't seem to
fly by like they do now."

"Remember Doc, you've been warned."

Then he hung up. Ominous, especially for Moe, who can
barely bring himself to swat a fly. I was down; I fell back on the
pillow and sighed. My own best friend turned against me. But just
before I fell asleep the phone rang yet another time. It was Moe
again, calling to apologize. I should have known. The world's biggest
sap.

"It was to scare you," he admitted. "Mary
thought it might make you turn around and come back."

"Tell Mary I shall turn around and come back. In
just a few days. She cannot control my entire life. Okay? Now I'm not
going to do anything stupid. And, if you'll recall, a major reason
for this journey is the advice you gave me."

He wished me luck. God bless Moe. As soon as the lump
in my throat subsided a bit, I slept. But just before my mind started
the lazy, crazy-quilt mosaic of unrelated thoughts and images that
marks the drifting off, I knew I had not been altogether truthful
with him. The main reason for my solo journey south was simple: I
wanted the adventure of it.

In the predawn darkness I awoke with the traveling
fit still upon me. I was out of bed and dressed before live and on
the road soon afterward. When I stopped for coffee at seven I was
past Staunton. I ate breakfast in Roanoke, took a break, and pushed
on. I entered North Carolina before noon, going south on Interstate
77. By one I was on I-40, headed west for the mountains. But where
were they? The land all around me was flatter than any I had been
traveling through. Were they a myth? I passed through Hickory and
Morganton with no sign of the fabled Southern Highlands.

And then, at the little town of Old Fort, it
happened. I could see—far ahead, and to the left and right as
well—an awesome purple swelling in the distance that seemed to
reach halfway up the sky. The road tilted upward into a hill. The
hill went on, without dipping even slightly, for five miles. I
downshifted the bike into fourth, then finally into third gear, with
the throttle well opened up. The high-torque, low-revving engine
pulled me up that huge incline making a noise like a Singer sewing
machine. The hill wouldn't stop. I passed semitrailers slowed to a
crawl, their diesels roaring with a deep brassy whine as they
struggled up the mountain. My ears popped, then popped again. The air
took on a rarefied quality, with the aroma of pines and spruces. The
sun was getting low in the sky now and sent undulating shadows along
the sides of the mountain ranges. Far off on any horizon, the
mountain ranges were set one behind the other in layers, like
gigantic frozen ocean waves. The colors of the ranges varied with the
distance. Close ones were bright green. The farther ones were
turquoise, and the ones farthest away purplish blue or even bluish
gray with the distance. The sky was blue and gold. My, it was pretty.

At the top of the big hill the highway leveled out a
bit into a series of sweeping curves that wove through mountain
peaks.

Then there was the little town of Black Mountain.
Pulling off the interstate to gas up, I swept into a Shell station
that sat on a tiny plateau surrounded by wide valleys and high,
greenish-blue mountain walls. I kept looking and looking to make sure
it was real. Real, all right, and gorgeous. The attendant was waiting
for me with the nozzle. He was experienced; he knew how much
motorcyclists appreciate not having to get off their bikes and lower
the kickstand unless they're ready. I filled the tank, handed back
the hose, and swept around to the side of the station, where I
parked. I pulled a Mountain Dew from the soft drink machine—it
seemed appropriate—and guzzled. Two more bikes pulled in, a big
Yamaha cruiser and a Honda Goldwing Aspencade. The Honda had full
fairing, twin tufted bucket seats, a stereo system, a cabled intercom
system, bags and trunk, and two sets of extra running lights. It
looked like a Chris Craft. The riders parked their machines and came
over to where I sat on the station apron. They had taken off their
helmets and stowed them in the trunks; they wore billed caps. Both
tipped their hats at me before sitting down. I liked that.

"See you got one a them Kraut bikes,"
drawled Honda, lighting a Winston. "Them's good bikes I hear.
But expensive."

"Uh-huh. And slower than some, too. But they do
last a long time. Where are you from?"

"We're from Sylva. Little bitty place between
Asheville and the Smokies. I'm Pete and this is my ridin' partner,
Jimmy." We shook hands all around, and they began to talk about
riding in the mountains. How they could talk. I enjoyed every minute
of it. Pete must have offered me cigarettes a dozen times. We bought
coffee, and they asked if I wanted to ride with them "for a
spell." I said sure.