Page 22 of Road Rash

I hear him call in. “Person of interest in the Backwoods shooting, Jim “Slim” Cummins, is now a person of interest in the possible kidnapping of Betsy-Grace Jones.”

Fuck. I feel sick. I trusted him. I sent her off with him.

How could I have been so stupid?

The place is packed. I stop to scan the room but don’t see him. He might be at the field where most of the clubs’ camp and the stage is set up for entertainment or he’s at the motel.

The deputy, obviously reading my mind, tells dispatch, “We need units down at the field to check for a man named Doc Beauchamp.”

Doc Beauchamp ain’t a hard man to pick out in a crowd. He’s a plastic surgeon. Wears his silver hair pulled back into a short ponytail with the top in longish spikes. It’s real California, or what I think of as California. He spends his free time in the gym working out, has a dark tan and has had chin and jaw implants. The man’s like sixty years old without a wrinkle on his face and manages to fuck eighteen-year-olds. That shit ain’t right.

The deputy and I run down to the motel. It’s just down the street from my bar and so only takes a couple of minutes.

Drake has a kid named Logan working the desk. Young kid, maybe nineteen, I think. As everyone tries to blend in during the rally, Logan’s no exception. He looks ridiculous. Red T-shirt under a faded denim jacket, both with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders so all the babes can get a good look at his arms. He’s wearing matching faded jeans, tucked inside biker boots and a folded red bandana tied around his forehead, you’d think to keep his mess of blond hair back but he uses too much product in it. That shit ain’t moving, even without the bandana. His mom opened a cafe about a year ago.

“Hey Old Man,” he says to me. “Deputy. What can I do for y’all?”

“Doc Beauchamp. Room number?”

He freezes in his spot. “That legal?” he asks the deputy.

The deputy nods. “Jonesie might be in trouble.”

“Sheeit,” the kid mumbles and starts typing. “Doc Beauchamp. Gary Beauchamp is stayin’ in room 107.”

“Thanks, Logan,” I call over my shoulder as I run from the lobby, then I turn right to head for the rooms. The deputy and I stop in front of room 107 and I start pounding on the metal door.

It takes a few minutes for the door to open. “Doc Beauchamp?” The deputy asks.

The man nods. “What’s this about?” he asks as a young woman with her bent bare leg and bare arms and shoulders exposed laying under a messed-up comforter calls, “Come on, babe. What’s takin’ so long?”

I bend in to get a look at her face. It’s Taye Emmons, her dad works at the mechanic shop in town. “Taye? You even old enough to be here?”

Doc whips his head to look at her. “You said you’re eighteen.”

“I am,” she says. “Turned eighteen last month.”

“You heard her, she turned eighteen last month,” he grumbles. “That all you need?”

“We’re not here because of thegirl.” The deputy makes his point putting emphasis on the word girl. “Need information on Jim “Slim” Cummins. You know where he’s stayin’?”

“Here, I think. I can’t believe he actually showed. The man had to file bankruptcy. He’s in the middle of a divorce, yet at Christmas time he bought himself a new Harley.”

“Where’d he get the money?”

“I don’t know. Probably not by any legal means. He recently lost a major malpractice lawsuit. Got himself addicted to pain pills after crashing his last bike. Some asshat ran him off the road. His wife and I, and some of our other friends tried to get him help. It didn’t work. He was seeing patients while high. Bad, bad scene.”

“Any idea why he’d make the trip here?” the deputy asks.

“He had a good life. It’s ruined back home. Here, he’s still Slim. That, and the drugs are cheap—just an assumption,” he tacks on fast at the end. “I don’t go near that shit.”

“What’s his bike look like?” I’m losing patience with this conversation.

“Red and Chrome Ultra. That’s all I know. Now, you mind if I get back to my guest?” he asks with an arrogant tone.

“Have at it,” the deputy answers. Then as Doc Beauchamp closes the door on us, he calls in the description of the bike we’re looking for.

While he does that, I pull out my phone and press Slim’s contact. I have all my regulars programmed in my phone. It rings. And rings. Voicemail picks up. “Hey, Slim, it’s Old Man.” I don’t let on that I know his game. “Thanks for helpin’ with Jonesie. Either take her to the farm or tell me where to meet to grab her.”

If he’s innocent, he’ll call back, I try to convince myself.

Shit. Hands to hips, I drop my head coming to terms with one undisputable fact:

He’s not calling me back.

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