Roy started into the house, paused in the doorway. “What’s a man supposed to do? I mean for fuck’s sake, can you tell me that? How does a man know?”
I really couldn’t say what he was getting at, but I said, “We just do our best as we go along, I guess. And maybe it’ll seem like the right thing when we look back on it later.”
This seemed to satisfy him. He nodded and went inside. Howard followed him in and turned off the porch light.
I lit a cigarette and smoked my way back the way we’d come. What’s a man supposed to do? How does a man know? Damn right. Preach it, Roy. From the mouth of babes, the Good Book said. But once in a while a tumble-down drunk got it right too. Roy didn’t have the answers any more that I did, but at least he knew the questions. And that’s half the battle.
I smoked and walked and wondered if that was all bullshit or not.
When I got back to Main Street, I saw the Ford Mustang Mach 1 parked right behind my Nova.
CHAPTER SIX
I was halfway across the street, and they didn’t see me at first, the three Mexicans standing around the Nova looking through the windows. I froze, puffed the cigarette, and wondered what to do.
I didn’t do anything. They saw me first.
They nudged each other, pointed in my direction, stood up straight and moved away from the Nova. I could either haul ass or square my shoulders and get all Johnny Law.
“What seems to be the trouble here, gentleman?” I said.
I’m just not very smart.
They edged closer, taking it slow, looking me over.
All three wore silk shirts, buttons undone to reveal gold jewelry. The one in the lead wore a black shirt. His head was shaved, gold hoop earrings. The two behind him were in red, beards, various tattoos. It looked like somebody had driven though town and puked a Los Lobos tribute band into the street.
One of the redshirts fired off some syllables in Spanish, and I caught the word pistola.
The one in the black shirt looked me over again and shook his head. “No.”
My hand automatically went to my belt. No gun. Shit. It was still in the Nova.
The Mexicans grinned and came at me.
I plucked the Winston out of my mouth and flicked it at the lead guy’s face. It bounced off his cheek, orange sparks flying, not really doing any damage, but he flinched and pulled up short. I went low and jabbed a fist in his ribs, heard some of the air go out of him. A second quick punch for good measure.
Some personal history: When you’ve played guitar in as many roadside honky-tonk shitholes as I have, you learn to throw a few punches. You learn that hesitation can earn you a black eye and a fat lip.
The two red shirts closed in on either side. I felt the stars go off hot behind my eyes as a fist slammed into my face.
Some additional personal history: I always took more than I dished out.
They grabbed at me fast, trying to wrestle me down. I kicked out, connected my heel with something and heard a grunt. More fists in my gut and a blow to the back of my head, and I oozed down to the asphalt.
I lay there a second with the vague sense of them standing over me. Pressure on my chest. My eyes focused and I saw it was a boot, the bald one keeping me down with a foot on the chest. The other two went through my pockets.
I found my voice and managed, “What the hell, man?”
“Quiate tu boca.”
Right.
One of the red shirts yanked a set of keys out of my pocket, held them up and jingled them. “Aqui.”
They chattered at each other some more, and I got the idea they were talking about what to do with me. I thought about shoving the guy’s boot off my chest and making a run for it, but I still had cartoon tweety-birds circling my head, and I was hoping I could think of some better plan that didn’t involve me running and having three Mexicans jump on my back.
I got lucky. Headlights sparked into view at the end of Main, coming right toward our little scene in the street. The Mexicans jabbered at each other again, and one of the red shirts gave me a goodbye kick in the ribs before they all jumped back in their muscle car. They squealed the tires as they tore away from the curb. I flinched away as a tire came within three inches of my head.
I sat up, watched the taillights vanish the other direction out of town. I wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. The other car came up behind me, and I twisted to look, muscles sore, a vague pain through my whole body.
The kid stuck his head out of the window of the Trans Am. “You okay, man?”
I stood slowly, a miserable groan leaking out of me. “I told you to go home.” His mouthy pal wasn’t in the passenger seat anymore.
“Who was that just drove off?” he asked.
“Bad guys.”
“You going to chase them?”
“Can’t. They got my keys.” I patted my pockets, was surprised to feel a lump and pulled out my set of keys. “Wait.” I looked at them. Yep. They were mine. I snapped my fingers. The Mexicans had grabbed Roy’s keys. Ha. Take that, fucking beaners.
“I’m serious this time,” I told the Trans Am kid. “Get home.”
He shrugged and drove away.
I thought about going after the Mexicans, but it was still three against one, and I hated to admit it, but that Mustang could blow the doors off my Nova. What the hell did they want with me keys? Had they come all the way to Coyote Crossing to steal my Nova? That would make them the world’s worst car thieves.
I went inside the station and cranked the radio. I tried to raise the chief, and when that failed I tried Billy or anyone at all. This was bullshit. Somebody was always supposed to be on duty, either here or listening on the scanner at home. I flipped over to a couple of other channels we used and tried calling all the same people. Nothing. Where the hell was everybody?
I suddenly wanted to feel the weight of my revolver on my belt real bad. I went out to the Nova and fetched my gun, paused when I heard an engine. Maybe a street over. Maybe two streets. Sounded like a big V-8. I got back inside and sat at the desk, swung out the revolver’s cylinder. Just as I thought, no bullets.
I opened the top drawer. Fished around for a box of .38 caliber.
I pushed back from the desk when I heard the big engine again, closer this time. I didn’t doubt it was the Mustang. I went to the window, peeked through the blinds but couldn’t see anything. I went through the back room and opened the door to the alley, stood there a moment listening. Quiet.
The alley stank like trash. It was still so damn hot. I stepped out, looked up and down, trying to catch any little hint of movement in the shadows. I didn’t hear or see anything, but then a light in the firehouse window caught my eye. Wasn’t supposed to be anyone in there, although the town council certainly wouldn’t feel the need to inform me if they were doing some work on the place. What kind of work at this time of night, I couldn’t guess.
I should probably take a look. I was wearing a badge after all, and they hadn’t fired me yet.
I went back inside and grabbed the revolver off the desk, clipped it to my belt. Okay, let’s see what’s in the firehouse. I headed down the alley, my hand resting on the revolver. My own breathing sounded a little too loud in my ears.
Simmer down, dumbass.
I listened at the backdoor of the fire station. All I heard was dead wood. I tried the knob. Unlocked. I swung it in, waiting for the hinges to creak, but they didn’t. I entered a kitchen, florescent lights buzzing overhead. I expected the place to smell musty and unused, but it didn’t.
I paused, surveyed the kitchen counter. Unopened cans of beans. A big stack of paper plates. Jugs of supermarket water. Had the state passed the new budget? Maybe the firefighters were moving back in. I wondered if that meant there wouldn’t be enough in the budget to put me on full time. Like it mattered anyway. I was sure Krueger would take my star away in the morning.
I walked through the kitchen, down a short hall and found another door which lead into the garage.
I cracked the door and looked inside. The lights were on, and a truck was parked there. A big moving van. The words Budget Movers still showed through where they had been painted over. Somebody had taped over the little windows of the garage door to keep the light from showing on the street.
I heard movement and held my breath. Voices.
The door crack didn’t let me see too much, but I was-n’t ready to barge in yet. I shifted around, strained to see and hear. A couple of guys standing in back of the truck, mostly out of sight. The elbow and leg of one just in view. A black shirt and jeans. I closed my eyes, put my ear to the door crack.
The first voice was probably in English but with such a thick Spanish accent, I couldn’t follow what he was saying. The other voice was clearer and in English. I held my breath, strained to listen.
Billy.
It was Billy’s voice, and I could almost hear what he was saying. The two seemed to be arguing, but it wasn’t too heated. Nothing too passionate, just a disagreement about something or other. But since I just had my ass stomped by some Mexicans, you can bet your sweet ass I was curious what Deputy Billy was doing in a supposedly closed up firehouse, talking to a Mexican, hell, maybe even the guys who’d kicked me in the ribs.
So yeah, I was going top find out more.
I opened the door just enough to scoot through then shut it back. I crouch-walked to the front of the truck, put a hand on the hood. Cold. It had been parked here a little while, or anyway, it hadn’t just arrived. I eased my way down the other side where there was a narrow aisle between the truck and a bunch of oil cans and tools and other stuff that had collected up against the wall. I went on my belly by the rear tire, lay there flat and stone still, trying to control my breathing.
“I told you these ain’t even the right ones.” Billy’s voice. Exasperated. The jangle sound of keys. “I tried every one of them three times.”
“You said get the keys from him and I did,” insisted the heavily accented Mexican.
“Hell, you probably got the keys to that piece of shit Nova.”
Now that was just fucking uncalled for.
The Mexican muttered something I didn’t catch. They talked so damn fast.
“You better watch your Goddamn mouth,” Billy said. “This isn’t my fault, remember? You people are the ones fucked this up. Where the hell is Juanita, anyway?”
The Mexican said something again, talking too low to catch.
“Good then,” Billy said. “Keep her out of the way and go find the boy again and get the right keys this time.”
Mumbling.
“Yes, right now, Goddamn it. We got to get this shit back on the rails.”
The Mexican mumbled one more time and walked back toward the door I’d just come through. I watched his steps under the truck and recognized the boots. I’d seen one of them up close, standing square on my chest. I was-n’t eager for a replay of that situation.
The door slammed shut, and the Mexican was gone.
Billy shuffled his feet and said, “Shit.”
Okay, time for me to back the fuck out of there and call in the Marines.
I backed right into a stack of oil cans. They tumbled and clattered across the cement. Son of a bitch! Just like some dumb shit in a Three Stooges movie.
“Who’s there?” Billy came around the truck.
I stood up quick, tried and failed to look casual.
“Toby.” Billy’s face got hard like I’d never seen before. “How long you been there? What did you hear?”
“Just saw the light on, thought I’d better check it out.” I tried to play it cool but couldn’t stop my head from looking around for an escape route. “But I guess you got everything under control here.”
He took two real slow steps toward me. “I told you to go home, Toby.”
“Yeah.”
“We’re … uh … hiring some guys to fix up the firehouse,” Billy said.
“That Mexican and two of his buddies just kicked my ass.”
Billy shook his head. “No, not this guy. You’re thinking of somebody else.”
“No I’m not.”
“I said you’re thinking of somebody else,” Billy said. “You need to trust me on this.”
“I just saw the guy, man.”
“Jesus, Toby, you’re not making this easy. You could play along, you know.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“It’s a shame. A damn crying shame, but there’s a whole lot of shit going on here that isn’t any of your business, and you’ll mess it up if I let you blab it around.”
I forced a laugh. It sounded scared. “Blab what, man? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I won’t blab.”
“Uh-huh.” He reached for the fire axe hanging on the wall, hefted it, testing the weight.
I thought this real quick: Billy wasn’t wearing his gun. I was.
My hand fell to my holster, but it was a bad play. Billy was already on me, the axe coming down fast. I threw up my hands to catch the handle as Billy barreled into me. We tumbled back into the oil cans and tools, something hard digging into my back, but I didn’t let go of the axe.
He sat on my chest, put all his weight into the axe. The blade hovered over my nose and edged closer. I cocked my head to the side and lifted up, opened my mouth wide as I could and bit into his knuckles. He hollered. Blood sprayed hot and salty into my mouth. He hung onto the axe, so I bit harder, grinding the teeth in until I hit bone.
Billy howled into a screech and let go, blood splashing over the two of us like an exploded ketchup packet. I spit out a wad of flesh then shoved the axe. The flat of the blade caught him good on the chin, and he tumbled off me.
I stood and ran, still clutching the axe to my chest.
A hand grabbed my ankle. I went flying, landing hard on the floor.
I scrambled to one knee, turned in time to see Billy coming at me again, full-blown murder in his eyes. I swept out one handed, the axe biting into Billy’s shin. He grunted and went down right in front of me. I stood, swung the axe over my head. Billy looked up, his eyes blinking wide with terror a split-second before the axe bounced off his skull, the strike vibrating up through my arms, a shock of pain in my wrists.
A slash down his forehead fountained blood. He screamed and screamed and screamed. I swung the axe again, and it lodged deep in the side of his neck. More blood. I’d never seen so much.
Billy sprawled flat on his back, his whole body twitching like he was being electrocuted. It seemed to go on forever, his legs kicking out, hands shaking. Finally he settled down, eyes wide open to nothing.
I flung myself on the garage door, fumbled with the latch. My face was burning up. I couldn’t breathe. I got it open, raised it and stumbled out to the street, gulping air. I went to my knees and puked. Cold sweat blossomed on my forehead, and I started shivering.
My head swam. I gave myself a moment, breathed in through the nose and out through the mouth. I didn’t want to see or hear anything, didn’t want to think. I just wanted to kneel there with my eyes closed until the world stopped spinning. When I felt settled enough, I went back inside the firehouse.
I went through Billy’s pockets and retrieved Roy’s keys. Then I fished another set out of my pocket, not my own keys but those belonging to the late Luke Jordan. The back of the truck was locked with a padlock. I tried three keys and the fourth one fit.
This time I planned to be ready. I pulled my revolver.
I slowly lifted the latch. I took a deep breath, mentally counted one, two, three, and threw the truck door open.
A swarm of Mexicans ran over me. The sudden silence erupted with yelling and shouts in Spanish. I yelled too, backed away, panicked. I jerked the trigger at the mass of bodies coming at me. Click. Click. Click.
I hadn’t loaded the gun.
They bumped and shoved as they ran past. I screamed. But they went around me, flooding through the open garage door, and they were all out on Main Street now, maybe forty o
f them. Mostly men, but some women too, and I think I saw a child. The night was alive with the chatter of Spanish in the air. I got caught up, found myself standing in front of the firehouse, the Mexicans melting into the night like a fistful of brown pebbles tossed into a dark river.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The racket of fleeing Mexicans faded, and I stood again in the hot still night. I blinked into the darkness, forcing my heartbeat down to something human. They’d gone off in every direction. I wouldn’t have known how to start rounding them up even if I’d wanted to. I went back in, looked at Billy’s corpse. I pulled out my Winstons with shaking hands, lit one and smoked.
I always wondered if I’d have to kill somebody one day, but I never thought it would be Billy, or anyone I knew, anyone I worked with. Once, I was in this fight in a little shithole lounge outside Amarillo. The place got out of hand, and we tried to stay out of it, but some of these motherfuckers got up on the stage and this big biker got a hold on our drummer. The drummer was a little scrawny guy, and I could see that biker was about to break him into a dozen pieces.
I swung my guitar as hard as I could, and the crack on the biker’s skull was so loud, it stopped the rest of the fight, everybody looking up to the stage as this beefy son of a bitch went flopping off the stage, blood pouring into his eyes. I was scared then, worried I’d killed the guy. I checked the hospital three days in a row until I heard he was going to be okay, and then I hauled my ass out of town.
But there wasn’t any power on Earth going to bring Billy back. There was an axe lodged in his neck, and I’d put it there. Billy’s wife was a red-haired woman with freckles named Cindy. She taught fifth grade. I tried to remember if they had a kid or not and then very quickly stopped trying to remember.
Don’t think about it.
I heard somebody clear his throat, and I spun quickly, my hands going to the revolver on my belt. Never mind it didn’t have any bullets.
The Mexican loitering in the frame of the garage door was short and dark, broad flat nose. Black hair down past his neck. He wore dirty jeans and a stained undershirt. Sandals. He held up his hands like whoa, pal. No trouble here. He pointed at my cigarette, motioned with two fingers at his mouth.
The Deputy Page 5
