Read Online If Rock and Roll Were a Machine by Terry Davis - Free Book Online Page B

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    A wooden shed ran the length of the cinder-block building. The door of the shed was open. Bert peeked in and his eyes went big. Old motorcycles leaned one against the other, packed tight as anchovies in a can, from the sunlit doorway into the darkness at the end of the shed. The chrome and rust cast a dull sheen and made Bert imagine gold shining through the dust of years. The air was thick with the smell of old grease and rubber gone to rot, and he caught a whiff of leather.
    The next thing Bert caught was a hot, hard jab above his right kidney. He gasped and threw up his arms.
    â€œYou’ve seen our stash,” the voice said. “Now we’ll have t’ waste ya.”
    It wasn’t Shepard and it wasn’t his partner.
    â€œTurn around,” the voice said.
    Bert turned. It was the biker who had come to football practice with Shepard, the guy who wanted to beat up Coach Christman, the guy with the big arms, the guy who didn’t need big arms because he carried a gun, the guy Bert had called the police on. He held the sprayer level with Bert’s chin.
    â€œYou the kid bought the Sportster?”
    Bert nodded.
    â€œWorld’s best buy on a motorcycle,” the guy said. “We’ll have to let you live. Thanks to your acuity and decisiveness, there’ll be a hot tub on the Shepard estate.I myself plan to be the first Shepard soothed in its balmy effervescence. I may have to fight my brother and my nephew for the honor,” he said. “But I’m up to it.” He extended his hand. “Steve Shepard.”
    Bert lowered his arms. “Bert Bowden,” he said as he shook hands. He wanted to smile, but he wasn’t sure it would be prudent.
    â€œBert,” Steve said, “I want you to experience something of the sensation your purchase will bring to others.” He lowered the sprayer and blasted Bert in the chest.
    It was just one pull of the trigger, just a quick squirt that left a latitudinal line through the word “Shepard’s.” It startled Bert, though, and he stumbled back into the shed like he’d been shot. He fell against an old bike’s front fender.
    Steve tossed the sprayer in the air, the red hose trailing like a piece of intestine.
    Dave caught it above his head.
    â€œBilly Gibbons!” Steve said. “I knew it was you. I just needed to see that guitar in your hand.”
    Steve turned to Bert. “Guy here probably introduced himself as Dave Ward, right?” He didn’t wait for Bert to respond. “Actually this is old Billy Gibbons, famed ax-man for ZZ Top. Does bikes when he’s not on the road with the band. But then a pup like yourself wouldn’t know ZZ Top.”
    Bert wanted to say he’d seen Dave’s resemblance to Billy Gibbons right away, but he didn’t.
    â€œLet me guess,” Steve said. “Your favorite song stylist is . . .” He closed his eyes, dipped his head, and put hisfingers to his temples. In a few seconds he raised his head and made a face that suggested enlightenment. “Tiffany!” he proclaimed.
    Barfola, Bert wanted to say.
    But Bert couldn’t have gotten a word in because Steve went right on talking. “Big Billy Gibbons!” he said. “How ’bout a tune?”
    Dave held the pressure wand like a guitar. “This’n goes out to Steve Shepard,” he said. Then he leveled the wand and let fly.
    â€œMama!” Steve yelled as he ran into the shop. “Mama!”
    Bert walked back into the sunlight. He looked at Dave smiling and holding the wand nozzle-down, leaning on it like a cane. “You’d think that man was on drugs,” he said.
    No shit, Bert thought. He nodded his head.
    â€œBut he ain’t,” Dave said. “It’s just Shepard juice, I guess. Scotty’s like that too when you get him goin’. The difference with Steve is he’s goin’ all the time.”
    Steve was