American Outlaw - Jesse James [73]
Local fame was even part of the package. As our brand grew in recognition, the Long Beach and Riverside motorcycle freaks began to talk to one another, and I had gearheads coming by every day, just to hang around the shop.
“Whattaya say, Jesse, you got a job for me? I’m a dynamite painter, man, I can make candy flames shoot up at a moment’s notice! That gas tank of yours would look pretty fuckin’ bitchin’ with some custom flake, tell you that!”
Everybody seemed to want to be included. We were growing at such an absurd rate, with so many new orders coming in for custom bikes, that I was actually able to employ some of the more talented guys who came by. Again I expanded into Doyle’s studio, taking over another nice-sized chunk to use as a paint shop.
“Dude, you ever think about making T-shirts?” my friend Chino asked me one day. Chino was a fixture in the low-rider world, the accepted master of hydraulics and lowered Impalas with crazy rims. “Put that cool-ass logo on there, and I bet you could sell a load, man . . .”
So T-shirts with our Maltese cross got thrown into the mix, too. Right off the bat, they went like hotcakes. I’d pictured making only enough for the guys at the shop to wear, so we could be our own little gang, but the locals clamored for them, and we sold out our first thousand-order run in under two weeks.
I was feeling hot. The energy of success ran over me constantly, like a current of electricity. I wanted to work all day and drink all night. Sleep just didn’t interest me, and after a while, neither did home. I dug up a few friends from around the way who were still stoked to go out and get drunk on weeknights. Mike Newman, Baby Hud, Paul McFadden—they were all six foot two or bigger. Nobody fucked with us. If they did, it got ugly real quick.
“Let’s get us some beers,” Mike said.
“Let’s get us some trouble,” I countered.
Mike had a real saucy mouth on him. He was the worst fighter in our group, but for some reason, he was always the one starting shit. One evening, we were at a bar on Bayshore and 2nd, when he overheard some Long Beach City College football players doing some drunken bragging about their schedule.
“Hey, what was that team that fucked your knee up, Jesse?”
“Long Beach City College.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said Mike. “Hell, they were punks then, and obviously, they’re punks now.”
They looked at him, irritated. “And who are you, tough guy?”
“John Madden,” said Mike, pushing his bar stool out from under him and letting it thud onto the floor. “Can’t you tell?”
“Well, come on,” said their biggest guy. He swung at Mike, just missing smacking him in the mouth with the meat of his fist. When Mike tried to swing back, another football player clocked him in the side of the head. His head hit the bar with a dull thump.
“Oh, boy,” I said, putting down my beer and cracking my knuckles. “This just got fun.”
Hud, Paul, and I dropped into fighting stances and began to trade blows with the other players.
“Fellas, fellas!” cried the bartender. “We just freaking redecorated in here!”
My sparring mate was a big, baby-faced lineman. His skin was peachy-soft, blotchy from the alcohol. He couldn’t have been more than twenty.
“I’ll give you one chance to turn around, sonny,” I told him gently.
Instead, the baby lineman gave a guttural war cry.
“GRRRRRRRRAAAAAAARGGHH!” He came flying at me, his fist cocked back, the weight of his huge gut and man-tits all packed behind a big haymaker.
I dropped to my knees and punched him hard in the crotch. His face went purple. When he bent over, I kneed him hard in the face. Blood spurted up from his lips and nose. “I said you could leave. That’s really what you should have done.”
Our fight spilled out into the street. A random drunk jumped in, and hit me hard from behind with a forearm shiver. I collapsed to the ground, laughing in the excitement of the brawl.
“Hey, somebody’s watch is down here!” I yelled. I slipped the metal cuff over my wrist, and rubbed the back of my head absently. “Man, finally. I