Through the windshield, I could see motorcycles, front wheels touching, handles overlapped, back wheels apart and leaning left, in two arcs along the curb, a dozen each, one inside the other. One tall seatback flew a red Nazi flag that looked like it had been used for a grease cloth. We slowed beside them: One had what I thought was a coon tail hanging from the high bar, but, when we pulled up and it went by the windowsill, I saw it was a dead cat, paws curled in, mouth and eyes dribbling, behind spinning galaxies of flies.

The sign over the door (we came up to the front entrance this time) had the letters P and E and A and a K that I could make out.

The cab door, opening, ticked the top of a chrome handlebar; we climbed down, edged between the bikes (the cat stunk!) to the sidewalk. The nigger pushed open the door.

I waited for Hogg, stepped in just after him—

A bottle shattered over the counter.

A girl screeched and ran at us.

The wop caught her, swung her, laughing: “Hey, honey, what’s ’a matter?”

Waving the ragged neck above the bikers clustered at the bar, Ape Townley turned left, then right (“Hey, man, it’s okay—” “Come on. Come on, man—!” “All right, man. Hey, all right—!”), and finally flung it against the plastic tabby stalking the sign above the mirror. PIEWACKET, it said, which must have been the bar’s whole name.

Near us, the bartender scratched his gray crew cut and, shaking his head, watched beer dribble the mirror, like clear snakes belly to belly.

Ape, laughing, broke away from the Monk and nearly fell. Big Chico caught him by one arm. Rat was at his other side, his shrill laugh cutting through the general shouting. Now Hawk got up to the bar and malleted the counter with his fist: “I want a fucking beer, too.” His other hand clawed between the denim flaps, blackrimmed nails and greasy knuckles furrowing dark belly hair, wet from the splash.

“I just gave him one,” the bartender said. “And he went and broke it.”

The other bikers laughed.

“You just gimme one!” Hawk shouted. “Gimme a fucking beer!”

“Yeah!” Ape called. “You heard him!” The Monk followed behind his gangling brother, grinning.

The bartender slid another bottle across.

Hawk grabbed it, raised it over his head.

“Hey, come on …” the bartender said, stepping back.

“Shit,” Hawk said, “I think I’ll drink this one.” He lowered the bottle.

Everybody laughed.

“Hey, nigger,” the wop was saying; the woman was tucked tight under his arm (she had very blonde hair, wire-framed glasses, and a very short, long-sleeved dress: purple. And purple nail polish), “I want you to meet my old lady!” The wop had his other hand on the nigger’s shoulder.