Fungo Summer 4

Fungo Summer 4: Baal

Danny Dale Dennis slowed his Newgo so to not pass the tiny, black on white, hand-painted Lonesome Dive sign planted amongst weeds and grasses. The Lone Dive sat on the corner of two seldom-used roads and no credible marketing consultant would ever recommend this location. Being over eleven miles from the next-closest watering hole did provide a compensating advantage, however.

Danny Dale pulled into the clay and gravel parking lot and spotted his cousin Ben’s matching white Newgo, the only other car on the lot. He pulled in next to his cousin who was parked close to the front door. Ben immediately ejected and moved unusually fast meet Danny Dale on his driver side.

“Let’s go inside,” Ben blurted out as soon as the window was rolled down.

“Can’t we talk right here?”

“No. I know the bartender. We go in, order two Cokes, sit at a booth and we both leave happy.”

“Are you sure this place is open?”

“No. They don’t open for another hour. Which is why we came here at this time. The bartender is a friend of mine.”

“We could have met at my house!” Danny Dale stated with a shade of anger.

“You will thank me later, Three D.”

Danny Dale pout-slammed his door behind him. Ben hopped and skipped to the front door and opened it for his cousin.

The barroom was predictably dark. Pool table. Games. Tables, booths, chairs. Most of the west wall was consumed by a painted plywood bar. To the left of the bar were the two washrooms. To the right was the kitchen. The bewhiskered barkeep dressed in a black pocket t-shirt stood with hands resting on the counter.

“Two Cokes, Steverino,” Ben yelled from across the room.  The bartender silently placed two cans on the counter, exited the bar and entered the kitchen. As soon as he exited, two large men emerged from the kitchen.

The larger man, who Danny Dale estimated to be six foot seven and who was almost as wide, planted himself at the kitchen end of the bar and crossed his arms. The smaller man, who was a few inches shorter and more beefy than muscular, walked behind the bar and exited to Danny Dale’s left. He too, struck a cross-armed pose.

Danny Dale had not yet cracked his Coke when he heard a noise behind him. A trio that spanned age race and girth entered the front door. His heart jerked when he saw the smaller, middle-aged white man bolt the door. A swarthy thirty something bloke calmly approached Ben and gently clasped his arm. “Come on,” he said gently.

 Ben jumped from his barstool and accompanied the man as unhesitantly as a groomsman to a bridesmaid; He held his head down, not even looking in his cousin’s direction. Danny Dale watched the couple exit and turned to face the two patrons who stood behind him.

“Hands on the counter!” a rotund, charcoal-skinned commanded in an ursine voice. Danny Dale did ask for credentials. He slowly placed his arms on the bar and tried to make sense of what was happening. Bunyanesque hands frisked him and removed his wallet, his keys and his phone and placed them in a plastic bag that read “Patient Belongings.”

“Now remove your boots,” the black man growled.

“I have a knife in my left…”

“Remove your boots.”

Danny Dale sat in a chair placed by itself ten feet from the bar. He methodically removed his left boot, and then his right. He glanced up at the shaved black head that stared back at him through something that resembled welding goggles. The gargant turned his gaze to the inside of Danny Dale’s left boot, where he had concealed his blade. He left the knife in its sheath and placed both boots in a second hospital bag. “You’ll get these back if you’re a good boy,” he said in summary. He then placed both bags behind the bar and returned to stand behind Danny Dale’s chair.

On cue all four men removed their windbreakers and folded them in unison. Windbreakers on a Tennessee morning? Who but the police…and suddenly a uniform came into focus! Danny Dale gasped. These were not police. These were members of The Club.

The Club! The most feared gang on Planet Earth. The Club! Founded by a man named Stuart Garfield but who was always referred to as Baal. The Club billed itself as the one percent of the one percent.

They were not the biggest motorcycle gang. They did not use their brand name to sell t-shirts and tote bags. They were not the most famous but they were the most notorious.

Baal had originally called his two wheel thugs, Satan’s Sadists. Then he learned that was the title of an old cheesy biker movie. He tried all sorts of monikers referencing dark forces and pain infliction only to find that another bike gang or worse yet, a death metal band, had already staked their claim. Not wanting to invite comparison with a lesser gang or a bunch of pansy rockers, Baal decided to call his fraternity, The Club, the informal name they had used all along.

Under the Ace of Clubs Flag, Baal broke all of the old biker rules and conventions. He let it be known that membership was open to all races and ethnicities. He would further thumb his nose at the iron horse establishment by allowing Japanese and European bikes. They would expand their interest to include ATV’s, willing to traverse mountain and swamp and to boldly go where no Harley had gone before.

In addition to setting high and measurable standards in fighting and mechanics and criminality, in addition to their ongoing tests of courage and loyalty, The Club had one standard that set them apart from other organizations. Each member had to enjoy perpetrating pain and suffering on people and animals and they had to display their passion on an ongoing basis.  

A brief, noxious silence filled the barroom. Then, the kitchen door swung open and a small, middle-aged man with black and gray hair emerged. Danny Dale immediately recognized that the new arrival was also wearing The Club colors, the originally white vests that did not hide blood stains and featured all sorts of patches involving cartoonish dogs and cats and women.  The older man approached with monkish silence and positioned himself on an invisible mark.

“Good morning, Mr. Dennis,” the serious face stated clearly. It was then that Danny Dale recognized the man standing an arm’s length away. It was Baal! He had aged since the last mug shot that news sites displayed, but yes, it was Baal.

“Good morning,” Danny Dale replied.

Dramatically removing a phone from beneath his vest, he glanced at the screen and showed it to Danny Dale. “Do you recognize this house?” he asked in a soft voice.

“Yes,” Danny Dale replied.

“Who lives there?”

“My mother.”

“And who lives here?”

“My father.”

“Actually, the house is in your stepmother’s name,” Baal said with an air of confrontation. Danny Dale refused to acknowledge kinship with his father’s second, third or fourth wife.

“Who is this?” Baal continued.

“My nephew,” Danny Dale said with a dry throat. “He’s like nine,” he added. It was then that Danny Dale noticed the loose=hanging necklace that draped around against his inquisitor’s breast. Teeth! He squirmed in his seat and looked closer. Yes, those were definitely of human origin.

Baal concluded the slideshow with a series of questions. “Does your wife think Dr. Riegel is a good doctor?” “Does your stepson like Dr. Tallman?” “When the time comes, will you bury Queenie in the backyard?”

Danny Dale answered the inquiries with brief responses. His eyes were glued to the bracelet. There was blood on those teeth. Dirty, dried blood that had turned brown.

“Your employer will ask you to sign a series of affidavits disavowing the contents of the news reports. You will sign whatever is put in front of you.”

“I already signed affidavits for the reporters,” Danny Dale whimpered.

“I am not surprised.”

“If I contradict that affidavit, I can be charged with perjury.”

“You signed them under duress.”

“What duress?”

Baal moved close enough to touch noses. “Duress,” he said slowly and deliberately. He then moved away and told Danny Dale to pay attention because there would be no written instructions. Specifically he told them what to say to a grand jury.

You and your coworkers joked about a confession machine but they did not believe that one really existed. There were three dimensional gaming headsets now on the market and the inmates were sometimes allowed to wear them. When in doubt, say you cannot recall. We will review the transcripts.

Baal dragged a chair and placed it perpendicular in a close but not crowding distance.”What we are doing today, would cost a fortune. And we wouldn’t do it anyway. But look around you. These men are my brothers. My family.”

Danny Dale scanned the room as instructed.

“One of our bothers is in a jam,” Baal explained. “And we will do anything to help our brother. Do you understand?”

Danny Dale nodded.

“The mafia never bothers the families,” Baal explained. “But we do.”

Silence. A long slow silence.

“This isn’t all bad. Your employer is willing to overlook the fact that you failed to disclose that you had a first cousin employed at Amerijail, so long as you both keep it secret. “He then briefly expounded on Amerijail’s expansion and Danny Dales prospects for advancement.

“If you help out my brother, our families will be friends.” Baal extended his hand to Danny Dale, who gripped it gently.  Baal clamped the younger man’s hand with alarming strength. “But if you let my brother twist in the wind, our families will be eternal enemies.”

Baal released his grip and stood up. He slowly walked toward the kitchen door. He did not look back. He did not say another word.