Part 13 (1/2)
”Who were the others?” Kit pressed on.
Now I wanted to strangle my nephew.
”Two were bomb victims. One was a little girl accidentally killed during a drive-by shooting.”
”Mon Dieu,” said Marie-Claire, abandoning the commitment to English.
I reached for my Perrier, desperately wis.h.i.+ng I'd paid attention to her so I could dodge with a question about Renaissance veneers.
”Are you counting the young woman whose bones were found in St-Basile-le-Grand?”
I turned at Crease's question. Though his voice sounded casual, his eyes had a glint I hadn't noticed before. If he had hopes of a story, he wouldn't get it from me.
”No.”
”Have you identified her?” He reached for his wine.
”No.”
”Who are you talking about?” Kit asked.
”Near the grave of two of the bikers we also found some other bones. It's a young woman, but we don't know who she is, or if she's connected with the Vipers. Her burial could predate their owners.h.i.+p of the property.”
”Is that what you think?” Crease.
”I don't know.”
”Who are the Vipers?”
I was fast restructuring my opinion of my nephew's social skills.
”They're a puppet club for the h.e.l.ls Angels.”
”No way!”
”Yes, way. And they and their brothers in arms are responsible for almost one hundred and twenty deaths in this province over the past five years. G.o.d knows how many others have disappeared.”
”The bikers are killing each other?”
”Yes. It's a power struggle for control of the drug trade.”
”Why not just let them?” asked the actor. ”View it as a form of sociopath self-regulation.”
”Because innocents like Emily Anne Toussaint, who was nine years old, get caught in the cross fire.”
”And maybe this other girl?”
”Maybe, Kit.”
”Do you think you'll be able to prove that?” Crease.
”I don't know. Claude-Henri, please tell us about your film.”
As the producer spoke, Crease picked up the Chardonnay and reached for my empty gla.s.s. I shook my head, but he continued. When I placed my hand over the rim, he laughed, lifted it off, and filled the goblet.
Seething, I pulled my hand free from his and leaned back in my chair. I cannot tolerate people pressing liquor on those who don't want it.
My nephew's voice brought me back to the conversation. Isabelle had turned her spotlight on Kit.
”Yeah, I went with my daddy. He's in the oil business. We drove up from Texas in a big old Winnebago. Pop's idea. He wanted to do this bonding thing.
”We swung by here to drop off Auntie's cat, then east and into Vermont at Derby Line. Pop had this trip planned better than the invasion of Normandy. That's why I remember all the names.
”Anyway, we camped near this town called Westmore and fished the Willoughby River for salmon. The salmon are landlocked, and when they run in the spring it's a big deal. I guess real fishermen view it like some kind of holy place.
”Then we gunned south to Manchester and fished the Battenkill, and my daddy bought all kinds of c.r.a.p at the Orvis factory. Casting rods, fly rods, and other stuff. Then he motored on to Texas in the 'Bago, and I dropped in on my aunt the biker buster.” He raised his gla.s.s to me, and everyone followed suit.
”It's kind of weird,” Kit continued. ”Because my daddy bought me a motorcycle about a year ago.”
I was dismayed but not surprised. Howard was my sister's second husband, a West Texas oilman with more money than sense, and a defect on the double helix that made him incapable of monogamy. They'd divorced when Kit was six. Howard's approach to fatherhood was to lavish toys and money on his son. At three it was ponies and motorized toy cars. By eighteen it had changed to sailboats and then a Porsche.
”What kind of motorcycle?” asked Isabelle.
”It's a Harley-Davidson. Pop's really into Harleys. My bike is a Road King Cla.s.sic and he's got an Ultra Cla.s.sic Electra Glide. Those are both Evos. But Pop's real love is his old knucklehead. They only made those from 1936 to 1947.”
”What do those terms mean?” asked Isabelle.
”They're nicknames that refer to the design of the engine head. The Evolution V2 motor was first produced in the early eighties. Originally it was called a blockhead, but that tag never really stuck. Most folks refer to it as the Evo. A lot of the bikes you see today are shovelheads, made from 1966 to 1984. From 1948 to 1965 it was panheads, before that flatheads, which came out in '29. It's easy to identify the era of production by the design of the engine head.”
Kit's interest in bikers was nothing compared with his ardor for bikes.
”Did you know that all modern Harleys descend from the Silent Gray Fellow, the first bike to roll off the line in Milwaukee back at the turn of the century? The Silent Gray Fellow had a one-cylinder twenty-five-cubic-inch motor capable of three horsepower. No hydraulic tappets, no electric starters, no V-twin engine.” Kit shook his head in disbelief.
”A modern Twin Cam engine displaces upwards of eighty-eight cubic inches. Even an old '71 FLH, at seventy-four cubic inches, has an engine compression ratio of eighty point five to one. And today they're pus.h.i.+ng nine to one. Yeah, we've come a long way, but every hog on the road today can trace its bloodline back to that old Silent Gray Fellow.”
”Aren't there other motorcycle manufacturers?” asked the actor.
”Yessir,” Kit agreed, his face and voice showing disdain. ”There are Yamahas, Suzukis, Kawasakis, and Hondas out there. But they're just transportation. The British made some good bikes, Norton, Triumph, BSA, but they've all gone out of business. The German BMWs were impressive machines, but for my pesos Harley is the only show in town.”
”Are they expensive?” Claude-Henri.
Kit shrugged. ”Harley doesn't make low-end cycles. It's not cheap equipment.”
I listened as my nephew talked. He had the same reverence for and knowledge of motorcycles that Marie-Claire had for furniture. Perhaps the timing of his visit was fortunate. He could help me understand this strange world I was entering.