Lightnin' Jack Stillar (standard:drama, 2426 words)
Author: Walt	Added: Oct 19 2006	Views/Reads: 3826/2177	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Ever meet a one-legged motorcyclist? Meet Lightnin' Jack Stillar... ( language!)

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

"They get the guy who did it?" 

"Naw, fucker got away. But I got the bastard's licence plate number and
a good picture of his face right up here," he said, indicating his 
head. "Every fuckin' summer I spend two weeks looking for the whore. 
I'll find him - and it'll be a sorry fuckin' day for the bastard when I 
do!" 

The Harley was dirty. The blow-by from the engine had coated everything
with a fine film of oil that gathered every bit of dust and grime from 
the highway. Normally bikers keep their machines clean - always a 
problem with the big flathead twins, so I figured Jack had been on the 
road for a while and not had a chance to clean the machine. "You from 
around here?" I asked. 

"Naw, from St. Catherines. I'm on my holidays. Looking for that fucker."


"You think he's from northern Ontario?" 

"Yeah. I think he may have changed his fuckin' plates, but the last word
I got was that he was from this area. This is my third year of looking, 
but I'll find the whoremaster." 

I had the cover off the distributor and was working on the small screw
that held the points in place. "You ride with anybody?" I asked. 

"Naw, not really. Used to ride with the Outlaws but when I lost my leg
some of them thought I would be too much trouble - so I just keep to 
myself mostly. I go to the clubhouse once in a while to see a couple of 
the guys I liked. Who did you say you rode with?" 

"Oh, it was just a bunch of guys - mostly Honda Gold Wings - that kinda
stuff. It was just weekends.  We'd head up to the Haliburtons or over 
to Collingwood - anywhere we could find good roads." 

"Yeah, know what you mean. I used to like those back roads. Now with the
fuckin' sidecar, I can't corner as good as I'd like too, so I just 
cruise around." 

It only took few minutes to install the points and replace the cover.
"Well, that should do it," I said standing and brushing the gravel off 
my jeans. 

"Thanks, man. It takes me a little longer. I have to take the leg off
when I ride - too hard to get the fuckin' thing over the tank when I 
get on or off the bike. Is there anywhere around here where I can buy 
you a beer?" 

"Naw, that's okay," I said. 

"No, come on - just one. I gotta stop somewhere soon and get a bite and
a place to bunk." 

It never hurts to have one more contact when you are working undercover
drugs. I had been trying to get in with the crowd at the Saddle Me Inn 
and this might be a chance. And it was a hot and humid day. "Okay," I 
said. "My name's Burt Sedgewick," I offered my hand. 

"Jack Stillar," he said. "There some place near here where we can get a
beer?" 

"Sure, Jack - about two miles ahead, on the right - Saddle Me Inn." 

"Saddle Me Inn? Jesus H. Christ, what kind of a fuckin' place is that?" 

"Well, it used to be a truck stop, but mostly it's trying to be a strip
joint - only all they got is skinny girls!" 

"Sounds like my kinda place. Meet you there." 

From the vehicles in the parking lot, it looked like a normal night at
the Saddle Me Inn. Several old half-tons, a big green Ford Mudder with 
its oversized wheels, three bikes and the '75 pink Caddie that belonged 
to the owner of the bar. I waited while Jack attached his leg and 
grabbed his cane. The cane was metal, and at first glance, looked like 
the same kind of cane that you see old gaffers hobbling around with as 
they navigate the sidewalks downtown. Lightnin' Jack's cane had a large 
head that had been bronzed and worked into what looked like a bear's 
head. I could see that this design was more function than form. His 
cane would be a real weapon in a bar fight. 

"Harry, get us a couple of draughts," I said as we sat at a table near
the bar. I nodded to a couple of the guys I recognized, but their 
attention was on the big biker. Jack looked even wilder with his helmet 
off, his long hair suffering from a case of helmet head. 

The skinny gal who worked for tips delivered the two glasses of draught
and before she could leave the table, Jack had tilted his glass back 
and drained the ten ounces of Molson's in one long satisfying swallow. 
"Two more, sister," he said to her in his large, booming voice that 
carried around the room, then turning to me he asked, "Where's the 
pisser, Burt?" 

I indicated the faint light at the far end of the room. Lightnin' Jack
headed that way, and every head in the room watched the big biker as he 
moved along with his slightly hesitant gait. Judging from the way that 
Jack downed that first beer, I was getting a bad feeling in the pit of 
my stomach that this could turn out to be a long night. He stopped at 
the table where the local bikers were drinking and said a few words. 

Jack had washed up and combed his hair and beard while he was in the
'pisser' and he looked almost respectable. A few minutes under the care 
of a barber, a shirt and tie, and this guy could pass for a business 
man. "What do you do for a living, Jack? I asked after he had sipped a 
little from the second beer. 

"I work at a small auto parts supplier - I am a machinist by trade. I
run of those computerized jig welders as well as doing some lathe work. 
It's a living. What about you?" 

"I work at the veneer plant - about ten miles eat of here. You probably
passed it on the way into town." 

"That the place with the fuckin' ugly smell?" 

"Yeah, that's it. You got any family?" 

"Just a daughter. Fuckin' wife left me when I lost my leg. Ran off with
some whoring jack from the States. She was into the drugs too much for 
me anyways." He reached into his old wallet that was chained to his 
belt and pulled out a photograph of a very pretty young lady. "This is 
Samantha. She's going to university in the fall," he said with some 
pride in his voice. 

"Nice looking girl," I said. "We have two boys - seven and five. In
fact, Jerry has a T-ball game tonight. I'll have to get going soon." 

"That's okay man, I'm going as soon as I finish this beer," Lightnin'
Jack said. 

"Hey, stay and have as many as you like," I said, hoping that this would
be my way out of a long night of drinking. I was thinking that Jack was 
not going to be of any help in my work and only a beer-guzzling biker. 

"Naw, I only have two glasses. Fuckin' cops are always pulling me over
and I don't want to give them any excuses to hassle me." 

"Yeah, I know what you mean. They see a guy alone on a Harley and they
have to lean on him." 

"Yeah, they're not nearly so keen when the whole fuckin' gang is out for
a ride!" He bottomed up his glass and waved to the waitress, indicating 
that he wanted the bill. "Is there a motel around here where I could 
get a room for the night, Burt?" 

I thought the North Star Motel would likely take Jack and offered to
call ahead for him. I know the young night clerk at the North Star and 
sometimes use him when I need a room.  When I went to use the telephone 
at the end of the bar, Jack walked back to talk to the three bikers. 

"It s all set. The North Star is okay - you can park the bike around
back so nobody will bother it. Just tell Harry, the clerk that I sent 
you." I gave Jack the directions to get to the North Star. 

"All right, man, I appreciate that." He gave the guys at the table a
thumbs up and we left the room. "That guy is going to get me a couple 
of joints. I need a smoke to ease the fuckin' ache in the leg before I 
go to sleep." So the boys were dealing, after all. The stop had been 
worth something. 

Lightnin' Jack and I exchanged telephone numbers in case we were ever in
each other's town. I included his name and the number in my monthly 
report and the Harley man slipped from my mind as easily as he had made 
my acquaintance. It was near the end of September when we have our OPP 
golf tournament that my boss brought up the name of Lightnin' Jack 
Stillar. 

"You remember suggesting that we add a guy by the name of Stillar to our
list of possible sources, Burt?" he asked just as I was lining up my 
second shot out of a clump of bushes on the right side of the fairway. 

"Yeah. Guy had only one leg - rode a Harley with a sidecar," I replied. 

"Real good suggestion, Burt. He's a policeman." 

"What? You're kidding!" 

"Yeah, been undercover for over ten years. We tried to get him to come
out when he lost the leg, but he convinced us that he was so deep into 
the Outlaws that he had to stay. Lightnin' Jack gives us a lot of 
really good info." 

"And that story about looking for the guy that ran him off the road?" 

"Bullshit, Lightnin' Jack was struck by lightning at a biker's rally. It
hit him while he was sleeping in a tent under a tree. Are you going to 
hit that ball or what?" 


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