It was the Friday after Labor Day and, thankfully, it was quite in The Bucket of Blood. Only ten of the guys from the motorcycle club, including myself, were in the bar that night. Fewer and fewer of the members were coming to the bar on the weekends, and I thought I knew the reason why.
When we had first formed the Buccaneer's Motorcycle Club, there would be, at least, fifty people in The Bucket of Blood every Friday and Saturday night. Now, most of the members, along with their wives and girlfriends, were avoiding the place on the weekends altogether.
It was around 10:00 PM, and I sitting alone, down at the end of the bar, when I heard a couple of motorcycles pull into the parking lot. Winger and Chops walked into the place about a minute later. They were both laughing as they said hello to Suzy, the barmaid, and ordered themselves a couple of beers. After being served, they walked down to the end of the bar to talk to me.
Winger said, "Evening, Prez." He continued, "Guess what? Another one, in a minivan, just pulled into the parking lot."
Chops grinned, showing off his fake gold tooth, and said, "How much do you want to bet that she's having 'car trouble', Prez?" as he used his fingers to make air quotes around the words "car trouble". Chops was a dentist, in real life, so the fake gold tooth was his "trademark look" for motorcycle club functions.
Winger laughed and chimed in, "Oh, yeah! More car trouble!" He continued, "And, I'll bet that her cell phone is dead, too!" He finished, "So, how much do you want to bet, Prez?"
I sighed and said, "Evening, guys. No bets from me tonight, thank you very much."
About two minutes later, a thirty-something, bleach-blonde woman walked into the bar. Sure enough, she walked up to Suzy and said, "Do you have a telephone in here that I can use? My car just broke down and my cell phone batteries are dead."
Winger snorted, and Chops almost choked on his beer when we heard what the thirty-something woman had just said.
I sighed and looked up at the ceiling. I thought to myself, "Yes, it's another one." I reflected that none of us had seen this coming when we had first formed the motorcycle club, and, Butch, the owner of the bar, had changed its name from "The Village Tavern" to "The Bucket of Blood". First, it was the undercover state cops, the undercover FBI agents, and the undercover DEA agents coming into the bar, every other week, to try to buy crystal methamphetamine. Then, it was the undercover ATF agents coming into the bar, every month, to try to buy machine guns and assault rifles. Not long after that, it was all of the soccer moms coming into the bar, every weekend, to try to get gangbanged.
The thirty-something woman did have good features and a very good figure. But, as was usual with these women, she was wearing way, way too much "please fuck me" makeup and she was dressed really slutty. The woman had teased-out, shoulder-length, platinum-blonde hair and big, pretty, dark-brown eyes. As she also had thin, plucked, dark-brown eyebrows, I was positive that her natural hair color was not platinum-blonde. I estimated that she would have stood about 5'6" in her stocking feet, but she looked much taller in those slutty, clear-plastic 4" high-heeled sandals.
Those slutty sandals were really eye catchers. They were held on her feet by long, shinny-black satin ribbons, that criss-crossed their way up her shapely calves, almost to her knees. It was almost impossible to avoid looking at them.
As I looked the woman over, I thought to myself, "My god! Where in the world do these soccer moms ever find shoes that are that slutty?"
As the platinum-blonde woman talked on the phone, I studied her more carefully. Her lip gloss was bright red and had been applied to make her mouth look bigger than it actually was, and she was wearing way too much blush on her cheeks. The color of the nail polish on her inch-long fingernails, and on her toenails, matched the color of her lip gloss. Her eyelashes looked almost an inch long, so they were probably false, and her black eyeliner and dark-smoky eye shadow gave her the smoldering look that she had, obviously, worked very hard to create.
In addition to the slutty shoes, the woman was wearing a shinny-black satin, short-sleeved bolero jacket over a sheer-black top, with the hint of a black-lace bra underneath. A tight, mid-thigh length, black leather mini-skirt and shear-black, back-seamed, Cuban-heeled stockings completed her outfit. She had a figure that I guessed to be about 36-26-34 with nice, C-cup breasts. All-in-all, she looked to be a rather pretty soccer mom, whose current choice of clothing and makeup practically screamed the words "Look at me guys! I'm being a total slut tonight!".
I looked at the thirty-something woman's hands and saw that she was not wearing any rings on her fingers. Her only jewelry appeared to be a pair of small, gold stud earrings. The only accessory to her wardrobe was a very small, shinny-black purse.
I thought to myself, "Yep, this one's a married soccer mom, for sure!"
As I turned back to my beer, Psycho, my tall, willowy, redheaded girlfriend, walked into the bar. She said hello to Suzy and then came over to me. Psycho smiled, said hello to Chops and Winger, and kissed me on the cheek. She said in her husky, sexy voice, "Looks like we've got another customer at the bar tonight, Prez."
I sighed and answered, "Yes. Yes, it does." I continued, "Thankfully, there's only one of them tonight."
Psycho was wearing her denim "property patch" vest, skintight denim jeans, and a pair of 3" spiked-heel, black leather ankle boots. She had her own motorcycle and was, actually, a full-fledged, voting member of the club. She insisted, however, on wearing a property patch vest, because she said that it made us look a lot more like a real outlaw biker club. I suspected that Psycho had watched way too many Hell's Angels movies in her younger days.
Psycho laughed gaily and said, "Well, Prez, it's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it!" She continued, "Duty calls. I'm going to go over to talk to her." As she was walking away, she added, over her shoulder, "Since it's obvious that none of you guys are going to do it!"
I smiled to myself and shook my head as I watched Psycho's ass wiggle away in those skintight denim jeans. Her hips were slim, but she had a well-padded, apple-bottom ass, that I never got tired of watching. I loved Psycho dearly, but I also knew that the trouble that the club was having was partially her fault.
A couple of minutes later, Buck came back into the bar from the parking lot. He had gone outside to have a look around, right after the thirty-something woman had walked into the bar.
Buck walked over to me and said, "Our platinum-blonde's minivan is registered to an Eric Robert Williams and a Mary Anne Williams, from a couple of towns over. Mary Anne is 35-years-old, and her husband is 40-years-old. Do their names mean anything to you, Prez?"
I shook my head and answered, "No, I don't recognize the names, Buck." Winger and Chops shook their heads "no", as well.
Buck said, "Well, their other car is parked right across the street. I assume that Mr. Williams is the guy that's sitting behind the wheel right now, and that he's waiting for his wife."
I said, "I suspect that you're right, Buck." I continued, "Why don't you ask the other guys if they know anything about these people?"
Buck said, "O.K., Prez." Then he, along with Winger and Chops, walked to the back of the bar. The rest of the guys from the club were hanging out back there, next to the pool tables.
Buck was a private investigator in real life. From what I had seen, he appeared to be a damn good one. Buck had the connections to find out who the owner of the minivan was from the van's license plate number. He was also able to get the information about the minivan owner's other vehicles.