Suicide Lounge (Selena Book 3)

by Greg Barth

  He moved to the side and I moved in the opposite direction. We circled each other. I wanted to do what Choke taught me, strike fast, make the first move, end it fast. But Mozingo kept that long, fat blade between me and him at all times.

  Then he made his move. He came at me in a rush, the blade slashing fast and hard. It was large enough that I could track it as long as I didn’t flinch or turn away. I blocked the slashes with my cane. He hit it hard, the blade biting deep into the wood with every blow. He drove me backward. I stumbled but kept my footing. Still, he kept striking at the cane.

  With every blow, the cane was further weakened. He’d keep striking it until he cut through the cane, then he’d start on my arm. Once he cut through it, he could do whatever he wanted. I had to change my tactics fast.

  I spun away from him and backed up. He gave me no room, continued to advance. I pushed the cane out lengthwise and thrust it at his gut. He smacked it away with the knife blade. He slashed again. I backed up and ducked but caught the slash across my cheek. Warm blood spread down my face. I saw drops fall to the dirt below. Some streaked down my white shirt. I brought my blade up, but I was too slow. He blocked with his arm, and I merely nicked his elbow.

  So far, I was losing this fight.

  He backed up but turned sideways and slashed with his knife. I blocked. This blow went through the remainder of the cane and cut into my arm.

  Mozingo backed away. Catching his breath before coming in for the kill. He studied me from a distance of about ten feet. He paced back and forth in front of me, bouncing his knife in his hand.

  I saw movement off to the side in the distance, but I didn’t allow distraction in that direction. I knew what was in my peripheral vision. Enola stood at the edge of the garage. Her backpack full. Sloane was behind her, tugging at her to leave. Enola’s gaze was frozen on me. I couldn’t risk a split second’s glance that way. Her image froze in the edge of my sight. She didn’t want to leave.

  I kept my gaze fixed on Mozingo. My knife was bloody and slick in my hand. I was afraid most of the blood was mine.

  I couldn’t get close to him without going through that knife in his fist. I’d have to wait for him to come to me. Without the cane, I wouldn’t be able to block.

  I thought of Choke. I remembered the nasty wound across his back, the scar tissue thick with gristle. What was it he said? I won that fight.

  Choke taught that you had to be willing to be cut if you were going to fight with knives. It was going to happen. Better if you picked the place you got cut rather than leaving it up to your opponent.

  I took a deep breath.

  Mozingo charged, his left arm folded in front of him, protecting his balls. He held the Bowie knife high overhead.

  I kept my eyes on the blade. When he got close he started down with the knife. I dropped to one knee and put up my left arm. I kept it bent at the elbow, blocking my face. The blade came down fast, and I lost sight of it. Instinct took over. My arm seemed to adjust on its own.

  The blade pierced the back of my arm just below the elbow. It passed between the two bones in my forearm and burst forth through the tattoo in front. Electricity shot down the length of my arm to my wrist. My hand felt tingly and my fingers flexed on their own until they were drawn together in a claw. The blade was buried to the hilt in my arm. It had stopped just a couple inches from my face.

  I stood fast and pushed the bloody point away from my face. Mozingo pulled on the knife. I felt a grating against my bone. It hurt, but he stood in front of me, couldn’t free the blade from that angle.

  I couldn’t reach him. He finally stopped pulling on the knife and started pushing. He was stronger than me, and my muscles weren’t working right. I tried resisting, but my elbow bent and the point of the blade inched its way closer to my chest.

  I dug in, pushed back with all my might. My arm trembled, my bicep burned with exertion. The agony in my forearm was crushing. Still my arm bent back more and more until the tip of the blade rested against my chest. I felt the prick of its point.

  I reversed direction with my arm, jammed the blade into my chest. I felt the point of it penetrate the skin and muscle above my breast, hoping a rib or something would prevent the blade from penetrating my chest wall and hitting a lung or my heart or a major artery. Surprised, Mozingo lost his footing and stumbled into me.

  I’ve got you.

  I got in close and thrust with my knife. He caught the blade in his side. I heard him grunt. I pulled the blade free and stabbed him again. Then I just kept at it. My arm thrust like a piston, withdrawing the blade and shoving it in again and again. The coke fueled my system and each thrust was faster than the one before, each stab went in to the hilt. The knife and my hand were soaked in his blood.

  Mozingo screamed. He grabbed the handle of his knife with both hands and ripped it free from my chest and arm.

  I looked down at the arm. A lot of blood, but the wound wasn’t spurting. I have no idea how he missed the major vein and artery in the arm, but I wouldn’t bleed out any time soon.

  It hurt, but I was more concerned about the tingling in my hand and my inability to flex my fingers.

  Mozingo stood in front of me. Blood soaked through his silk shirt. His face was pale.

  I thought one good thrust to his abdomen would do it. If I got him in the solar plexus, he wouldn’t be able to draw breath.

  I waited. If he bled, he would weaken. Then I could do it.

  Mozingo stood staring at me. He pressed his hand against his side. He lowered his knife. Mozingo walked over to the porch and sat on the step. He leaned his head against the post of the stair rail.

  I kept my eye on him.

  The girl with the wild red hair burst into tears and went to him. She sat next to him and put her arms around him. She pressed her face against his shoulder.

  Mozingo looked at me. The knife fell from his hand. The light faded from his eyes.

  I turned to Top Hat. “A deal’s a deal,” I said. “You’re on the side of the winner. Remember.”

  “You heard of the New Deal?” he said. “You got ten seconds to get down the road, Amanda. How’s that for a deal?”

  I pulled off my shirt and wrapped it around my arm. I couldn’t get it tight but could at least control some of the bleeding. I had a sports bra on. I was all but exposed, but I didn’t give a shit about modesty. I walked around the side of the truck and climbed in. I turned the Explorer around in front of the clubhouse. When I had the hood lined up with the road, I floored the gas.

  I could hear the redhead screaming behind me as I drove away.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Selena

  THE CONVERTIBLE WAS parked on the side of the road a quarter of a mile before I got to the municipal airport. I passed them by and kept going. They pulled in behind me and followed me to the airstrip.

  I pulled off in a parking area at the end of the strip. I got out, left the door open, stumbled to the grass, and collapsed on my ass. The blood had soaked through the shirt. My lap was wet from the heavy bleeding.

  Enola ran up to me. “Oh my god,” she said. “Call 911.”

  “No!” I said. “No. Just…no.”

  “I got a first aid kit,” Sloane said.

  “See what we got from Crowbar,” I said.

  Then they were running every which way. Sloane struggled to open a first aid box, then it came open and spilled its contents all over me. Enola called out names of this and that, shook pill bottles.

  I started laughing.

  “What is it?” Enola said.

  “You should see the other guy,” I said and laughed.

  “Did you—”

  “I damn sure did.”

  “What,” Sloane said. “No Mozingo?”

  “Nope. We might have a pack of pissed off bikers coming, depending on how you two made out, but you don’t have to worry about that one.”

  “Good. That’s good,” Sloane said. “Thank you.” She pulled my shirt aside and poured beta
dine solution on all my cuts. “Jeez,” she said when she got to my chest. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I don’t think any of this will hurt.” She poured an antiseptic on one of the cuts. I winced. “I mean it might hurt, but won’t…you know…damage.” She ripped open a packet of Wound Seal antihemorrhagic powder and poured some on both sides of my forearm, then my chest, then the other cuts.

  She applied a thick bandage around my arm. It soaked through with blood in spite of the powder. She then applied a pressure bandage on top of everything, and that seemed to help.

  “Hang on.” I leaned over and vomited in the grass beside me. I put my right hand out and Sloane held me up. I retched and heaved until nothing was left. “Thank you.”

  She then bandaged my chest and the other cuts.

  Enola came over with a handful of pills.

  “I’ve already had some Percocet. What are those?”

  “Antibiotics. I think.” She shrugged.

  She had a bottle of Pepsi also. I held out my good hand. It shook too much to be able to handle the pills or soda. I opened my mouth and she tossed the pills inside one at a time, feeding me a swallow of Pepsi after each one.

  I felt nauseous but I kept them down.

  I looked down at my hand. It was drawn up in the same claw position as before. Maybe I felt more sensation in the fingers, but it was hard to say. If the nerve was damaged, there’d be no recovery. Time would tell.

  Sloane put a sling over my shoulder and gingerly placed my arm in it.

  “You guys get anything?” I said.

  “Some,” Enola said. “Should be enough.”

  “You think? Do me a favor and bring me my knife and shotgun.”

  Sloane brought them over and placed them on the ground beside me.

  I lay back in the grass. The sky spun overhead. “Wake me if you see a plane land,” I said.

  “What if the bikers come?”

  “Then shoot me.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Selena

  SOMEONE LEANED OVER ME. I saw only their silhouette against the night sky. My body was nothing but a throbbing mass of pain.

  “They’re here,” a woman’s voice said.

  I sat up. I saw a light in the sky coming down closer, then an airplane took form as it descended and settled on the landing strip.

  I put out my right hand. The shotgun was there.

  “Help me up,” I said.

  She pulled me by my right arm. I wobbled in the grass until my legs warmed up.

  “Can I get you anything?” It was Enola.

  I stood shivering. Everything hurt, some places more than others. “Water,” I said.

  She walked away.

  I watched the plane taxi down the stretch of blacktop, the lights on its wingtips flashing. When it came to the end of the strip, it angled off onto another lane and turned to prepare for take-off. The small airport didn’t have jetways or machines to push the planes around with.

  Enola brought me the water. I couldn’t get the cap off, so she twisted it for me. I took a long drink.

  “My cane,” I said.

  “I didn’t see it.”

  That’s right. Mozingo smashed it to pieces.

  “A bump,” I said.

  “I’ve got you,” Sloane said. She came over with my vial and gave me a fingernail full.

  “Little more,” I said. She scooped another pop for me.

  I stood there shivering and sneezing while the drug sank in. I sipped at the water.

  The plane stopped when it was adjacent to us. I bent and picked up my shotgun. “Bring the stuff,” I said. I saw two of everything.

  The door to the plane opened and a set of steps were pushed down. A man I didn’t recognize was the first one to descend. I didn’t need to know him to know he was just muscle.

  I was surprised to see the next person. Choke. Wearing a denim shirt with the sleeves pushed up over his elbows. He had on jeans, boots, and a belt with a silver and turquoise buckle. His short dark hair flipped over on top in the night breeze.

  Then Lyman came down the stairs quickly. He wore sunglasses even though it was night. He had on khakis, a dark polo shirt, and a light gray blazer. He stepped up to the front of the group.

  A fourth man, smaller than the others, descended the steps. He carried a bag with him, walked off in the direction of a nearby hangar. I assumed he was the pilot Lyman had brought to take Ray Gun’s jet back to Nevada.

  I sensed there was at least one other person on board the plane.

  “Welcome to Tennessee,” I said.

  “I don’t hear good things about this place,” Lyman said. “New partners let good pilots get killed here.”

  I had to stare a couple seconds before everything settled into view. “Nothing I can say, Lyman.”

  “You got my money? Along with the extra?”

  “We’ve got some of both.”

  He shook his head and looked around. “Am I hearing things here? Are you telling me you don’t have my money?”

  “We’ve got most of the money, and most of the shipment, but not all of either. I figure we split with you fifty-fifty.”

  “You figure what?”

  “I’m running about a quart low, man. Please don’t make me repeat myself all night.”

  “Whatever you’ve got, we’re taking. One hundred percent. Get over it.”

  “It isn’t going to work that way.” My head swam as I said the words.

  He took his sunglasses off and snapped them closed. He shoved them down into his blazer pocket and stepped up closer to me. “I take good care of you by getting you back home from Vegas. I put you on my plane with enough shit to jumpstart your little crack-billy business. I send you a full shipment, also burning jet fuel, with a U.S. Navy pilot to get it to you, and it was a goddamned C.O.D. delivery. Then you lose my money, my pilot, and my drugs. Then I have to fly my own ass out here to finally collect. It’s going to work that way. The only thing up for debate is whether or not you’re still drawing breath when this plane takes off. I mean, shit. Look at you. Just fucking look at you. You’re pale as a ghost. Your eyes look all yellow like I don’t know what. You’ve got more bandages than Boris Karloff, Lon Chaney, and Brandon whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is all put together. It wouldn’t take much to put you down.”

  “Try it,” I said.

  “The fuck?”

  “Try it.”

  “You want me to fucking kill you? Is that it? That’s a single-shot shotgun you’ve got there. I don’t think you can even lift the thing. Your arm in the sling like that, what are you going to do? Fire that thing with one hand? You’d have both arms in a sling. Besides, there’s three of us. More on the plane.”

  “There’s three of us too,” Sloane said. She stepped closer to me. Enola came up beside her. I felt like a pygmy among amazons.

  “How’s your daughter doing these days?”

  “Excuse me? Are you trying to threaten me? Is that some lame ass attempt at a threat to my family?”

  “The guy in the freezer in Nevada,” I said. “I helped you with that. I helped you.”

  “And now you get to help me again.” Lyman waved at the men next to him. “Guys.”

  Choke and the other man came forward. They stepped around behind us and took the backpacks. The goon shouldered his. Choke carried the other in one hand.

  Choke looked over at me. “Sorry, kid,” he said. He turned to Enola. “Get her to a hospital. Please.”

  They walked back to Lyman.

  “I’d like to say it’s been real nice knowing you, but quite honestly honey, you’ve been a serious pain in the ass.”

  The first goon started up the stairs back to the plane. Lyman turned to follow. Choke was the last in line.

  “Lyman,” I said.

  He paused at the door and turned to me. “Yes.”

  “Your brother in prison. He said you’d test me.”

  “He’s a dumbass prick, but, yeah, he was right. I’ve done that already.
”

  “I’ll fight you for one bag,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes. “I’ve never met a woman that wanted to die so bad.” He turned to Choke. “Deal with these cunts, please.”

  Choke nodded. He walked up to me, stood inches away. He looked into my eyes. “You’d kill me?” he said.

  I held eye contact with him. “I would.”

  “Here tonight? Over drugs and money?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned in closer to me. His stare only intensified. “I don’t want to die by your hand. I don’t want to die for money and drugs.”

  “I saw her, you know. Ela-Nalin.”

  “Yes, I can see you did.”

  “You’ve seen her too.”

  “Yes, and you can see I have.”

  “And you have your scar.”

  “And you now have yours. It will be with you always. It’s a place for the pain to go out of you when you need it to.”

  “Choke, did she…I don’t know…smell funny to you?”

  He chuckled. “You’re like me. You’re doubting it was real.”

  “Yeah, stupid question.”

  “She smelled like honeysuckle on a humid night in May.”

  I gave him my best bullshit look, lowering my eyelids, twisting my mouth, and making small nods with my head. “They got honeysuckle in Arizona?”

  “No. That’s why it was most special to me. It reminded me of…someone. Long ago. What did she smell like to you?”

  I shrugged. “Kinda like her.” I pointed to Enola.

  Choke smiled. He looked at Enola. “She’s a special one. I can tell.”

  “God. Don’t let her hear you say that, please. She’ll be all like, ‘I’m so special. Look at me.’”

  “You can come to Arizona with me. I know someone that can help with the arm.” He looked back at Lyman watching us from the plane doorway. “He won’t kill you. I won’t let him.”

  “You know there are people in Vegas that want me dead. Others want me arrested. I appreciate the offer, and I know you’d protect me. Thanks, but no. Maybe someday.”

  Choke nodded.

  “Come on,” Lyman said. “Deal with it.”