North Dakota Dan had driven all the way from Bismarck; he’d hooked up with Lucky Pierre at Twin Cities Tattoo in Minneapolis, and they rode together down to Madison, Wisconsin, where Badger Schultz and his wife, Little Chicken Wing, were waiting. They’d picked up the Fronhofer brothers at Windy City Tattoo in Chicago, and rode together into Michigan; they hit snow in Kalamazoo and Battle Creek, but they still made it to East Lansing in time to have a party with Flipper Volkmann at Spartan Tattoo. The next morning, they rode with Flipper to Ann Arbor, where Wolverine Wally joined them. They had some understandable difficulty clearing Canadian customs, but they picked up the 401 in Windsor and rode through the rain to Kitchener and Guelph, where they met a couple of Ontario tattoo artists Jack had never heard of. (He still couldn’t remember their names.)
There were riders heading north from Louisville, Kentucky, and three cities in Ohio, too. Joe Ink from Tiger Skin Tattoo in Cincinnati, and the Skretkowicz sisters from Columbus—one of whom was the ex-wife of Flattop Tom, who joined up with the sisters in Cleveland.
The contingent from Pennsylvania, too numerous to name, included notables in the tattoo world from Pittsburgh, Harrisburg, Allentown, and Scranton—and Night-Shift Mike, from Sailors’ Friend Tattoo, rode the long way north from Norfolk, Virginia. There were motorcycles in the circular St. Hilda’s driveway with license plates from Maryland and Massachusetts and New York and New Jersey, too.
From the voices raised in song—one could hear them booming from the chapel, the
“But how many of you know ‘God Save the Queen’?” The Wurtz had asked them. To the bikers’ uncomprehending silence, Caroline had said: “Well, I
By the time Jack got to St. Hilda’s, she had them singing. Most of the tattoo artists didn’t know which queen they were singing to save—but it was for Daughter Alice, which is why they’d come, and the sound of their voices seemed to warm them. They stood dripping in their wet leathers; the smell of the road, oil and exhaust, mixed with the smell of their well-worn gear, their wind-blown beards, their helmet-matted hair. Thrilled, the boarders’ choir faced them from the safety of the altar. The girls’ voices sounded like those of children among the bikers, who were mostly men.
The organist, a pretty young woman who was as new to St. Hilda’s as the twit chaplain, was making mistakes; even Jack could tell she was nervous, and that her errors were increasing with each new mistake she made.
“Calm down, Eleanor,” Miss Wurtz told her, “or I’ll have to take over, and I haven’t played an organ in
While Eleanor took a short breather, Jack introduced himself to his mom’s friends. “The good-lookin’ Jack Burns,” he heard Night-Shift Mike say, appraising him.
“Daughter Alice’s little boy,” one of the Skretkowicz sisters said.
“I’m the other Skretkowicz,” the other sister told Jack. “The one who was never married to Flattop Tom, or to anybody else,” she whispered in Jack’s ear, biting his earlobe.
“Your mom sure was proud of you,” Badger Schultz said. His wife, Little Chicken Wing, was already dissolved in tears—and it wasn’t even noon. They had hours to go before Alice’s memorial service.
Caroline clapped her hands. “We’re still rehearsing—we’re rehearsing until I say, ‘Stop!’ ” Miss Wurtz called from the altar area. Eleanor, the organist, seemed almost composed.
“I didn’t know you could play the organ, Caroline,” Eleanor said—more audibly than she’d meant to, because Jack and the bikers had suddenly stopped talking.
Glancing in Jack’s direction, Miss Wurtz blushed. “Well, I had a few memorable
Under The Wurtz’s direction, they sang and sang. The pure, girlish voices of the boarders’ choir were no match for the beer-hall gusto of the bikers, who—as they recovered from the damp chill of the March roads—shed their leathers. Their tattoos rivaled the colors of Jesus and his surrounding saints on the chapel’s stained glass.
Jack slipped away. He knew that Miss Wurtz could
Out in the circular driveway, two more riders had arrived; they were parking their motorcycles alongside the others. Slick Eddie Esposito from The Blue Bulldog in New Haven, Connecticut, and Bad Bill Letters from Black Bear Season Tattoo in Brunswick, Maine. Their creased leathers were streaked with rain and they looked stiff with cold, but they recognized Jack Burns and smiled warmly. Jack shook their icy hands.
He’d thrown on some old clothes at Mrs. Oastler’s—jeans, running shoes, a waterproof parka that had been Emma’s and was way too big for him. “I’m just going home to change my clothes for the service,” Jack told the newly arrived bikers. They seemed mystified by the girls’ voices coming from the chapel. “The others are inside, practicing.”
“Practicing
“Come on, Bill—let’s go sing with ’em,” Slick Eddie said.
“Are you comin’ back as a
“Not today,” Jack told him.
They were going inside the building when Jack heard Slick Eddie say: “You’re an asshole, Bill.”
“Of
Jack went back to Mrs. Oastler’s house and stretched out in a hot bath. Leslie came into the bathroom in her black bikini-cut underwear; she put the lid down on the toilet and sat there, not looking at him. “How many of them are there?” she asked.
“About thirty motorcycles, maybe forty riders,” he told her.
“Most of the tattoo artists your mother knew weren’t bikers, Jack. The bikers are just the tip of the iceberg.”
“I know,” Jack said. “We better call Peewee.”
“We better call the
