Mulligan’s. It looked like it was originally a banquet hall, but the owners decided pool tables, video games, and air hockey would be a better use of the real estate. I’d never seen any cars in the parking lot, and the last time I’d stopped in, on a Friday night, the place was like a morgue.
There was no bartender on duty, and when we went to the adjoining hotel lobby, the kid at the reservations counter said the bar was only open on weekends.
We walked outside, squinting into the bright heat of the day. I put on my sunglasses and said, “Let’s go check out the local knife and gun club.” We drove to the west end of town and stopped at South Lake Tahoe’s only true biker bar, a ramshackle, red-painted A-frame called The Ho-down Club. A rust-bucket Chrysler and a collection of Harleys were parked out front, where a bearded, overweight man in a black leather vest tended to a smoking barbeque. He eyed us as we walked to the entrance.
“What’s going on, kemosabe?” Cody said.
Inside, cigarette smoke swirled in the shaft of light from the doorway. Apparently The Ho-down was not buying into California’s anti-smoking laws. We sat at a corner of the bar waiting for the bartender, an older fellow who looked like country singer Willie Nelson, to finish his conversation with a long-haired biker and his bitch, a bleached blonde with huge breasts that had to be implants. She caught my eyes on her and shot me an evil smile. I nodded and looked away, thinking this one belonged to the clan, for their use whenever the mood struck.
After a minute the bartender made his way to us. “What’s drinkin’, men?”
“Diet Coke.”
“Two,” Cody said.
I paid with a ten, and pushed the change onto the tip rail. The bartender scooped up the cash and dropped it into a glass pitcher behind the bar.
“You guys want lunch? We got five-dollar burgers fresh off the grill.”
I shook my head. “I’m looking for a guy, name’s Jason. An Irishman with black hair and Asian eyes. Shoots a good game of pool. Seen him around by chance?”
“Don’t sound familiar. He a local?”
“No, he’s new in town.”
He shrugged and started walking away.
“Hey,” I said, pulling a folded sheet from the pocket of my Levis. “Take a look at his picture, would you?”
He gave the page a cursory glance, then raised his eyes to mine. His face was screwed up in a grimace, the skin age-spotted and folded, his stained teeth clenched inside his gray beard like rotted eggs in an abandoned nest. He put his paw over the paper and learned forward on his elbows, his voice not much above a whisper. “We get all sorts in here, but I haven’t seen anyone resembling your friend. You’re free to ask around, but I wish you wouldn’t, you know what I mean?” He cut his eyes toward a handful of bikers sitting on the other side of the place. They were in full road gear—boots, black leather chaps, arms wrapped in ink, their faces grainy and wind burnt.
“How about one of them burgers, boss?” Cody said.
“Make you a deal—I’ll give you one on the house, just take it to go.”
“We mean no trouble,” I said.
“Mister, you don’t look like you’d back away from it either. And sometimes it don’t take much to bring it on here.”
“Call me if you see him. I’ll make it worth your while.”
He looked at me with bleak eyes. The biker and his female friend were now staring at us.
“You can get your lunch from Frank,” the bartender said, motioning toward the front door. “On your way out.”
“Let’s boogie,” I said to Cody.
“It’s a little too early for heavy metal anyway, Dirt.” Cody eased himself off the barstool, looked around the room, and said, “Y’all have a nice afternoon now, ya hear?” He grinned and waved, then followed me outside.
We watched the man at the grill wrap a couple cheeseburgers in tinfoil, then drove across the street to a public campground and ate at a picnic table in a grove of pine
There was no bartender on duty, and when we went to the adjoining hotel lobby, the kid at the reservations counter said the bar was only open on weekends.
We walked outside, squinting into the bright heat of the day. I put on my sunglasses and said, “Let’s go check out the local knife and gun club.” We drove to the west end of town and stopped at South Lake Tahoe’s only true biker bar, a ramshackle, red-painted A-frame called The Ho-down Club. A rust-bucket Chrysler and a collection of Harleys were parked out front, where a bearded, overweight man in a black leather vest tended to a smoking barbeque. He eyed us as we walked to the entrance.
“What’s going on, kemosabe?” Cody said.
Inside, cigarette smoke swirled in the shaft of light from the doorway. Apparently The Ho-down was not buying into California’s anti-smoking laws. We sat at a corner of the bar waiting for the bartender, an older fellow who looked like country singer Willie Nelson, to finish his conversation with a long-haired biker and his bitch, a bleached blonde with huge breasts that had to be implants. She caught my eyes on her and shot me an evil smile. I nodded and looked away, thinking this one belonged to the clan, for their use whenever the mood struck.
After a minute the bartender made his way to us. “What’s drinkin’, men?”
“Diet Coke.”
“Two,” Cody said.
I paid with a ten, and pushed the change onto the tip rail. The bartender scooped up the cash and dropped it into a glass pitcher behind the bar.
“You guys want lunch? We got five-dollar burgers fresh off the grill.”
I shook my head. “I’m looking for a guy, name’s Jason. An Irishman with black hair and Asian eyes. Shoots a good game of pool. Seen him around by chance?”
“Don’t sound familiar. He a local?”
“No, he’s new in town.”
He shrugged and started walking away.
“Hey,” I said, pulling a folded sheet from the pocket of my Levis. “Take a look at his picture, would you?”
He gave the page a cursory glance, then raised his eyes to mine. His face was screwed up in a grimace, the skin age-spotted and folded, his stained teeth clenched inside his gray beard like rotted eggs in an abandoned nest. He put his paw over the paper and learned forward on his elbows, his voice not much above a whisper. “We get all sorts in here, but I haven’t seen anyone resembling your friend. You’re free to ask around, but I wish you wouldn’t, you know what I mean?” He cut his eyes toward a handful of bikers sitting on the other side of the place. They were in full road gear—boots, black leather chaps, arms wrapped in ink, their faces grainy and wind burnt.
“How about one of them burgers, boss?” Cody said.
“Make you a deal—I’ll give you one on the house, just take it to go.”
“We mean no trouble,” I said.
“Mister, you don’t look like you’d back away from it either. And sometimes it don’t take much to bring it on here.”
“Call me if you see him. I’ll make it worth your while.”
He looked at me with bleak eyes. The biker and his female friend were now staring at us.
“You can get your lunch from Frank,” the bartender said, motioning toward the front door. “On your way out.”
“Let’s boogie,” I said to Cody.
“It’s a little too early for heavy metal anyway, Dirt.” Cody eased himself off the barstool, looked around the room, and said, “Y’all have a nice afternoon now, ya hear?” He grinned and waved, then followed me outside.
We watched the man at the grill wrap a couple cheeseburgers in tinfoil, then drove across the street to a public campground and ate at a picnic table in a grove of pine
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