The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists

by Norman Partridge

  Wyatt shrugged. “After you.”

  Curtain bristled, but he made a joke of it because he couldn’t afford to piss off the both of them.

  “You first,” he said. “I think I need a buffer.”

  Wyatt grinned. “I think you might be right.”

  Another quarter mile. The canyon widened, but that just meant there was more room for sunlight. They moved through it, three gringos on a sandstone griddle. Heat baked the soles of their boots, which kicked up plenty of dust that the man in the rear ate without a word of complaint.

  The dust was bitter, and Curtain was too dry to spit. He started thinking about the canteen he’d left with Jesus Sanchez. Leaving the canteen was a gesture meant to conclude the matter in an appropriately sardonic manner. In retrospect, it was a hell of a mistake. Curtain wanted a drink of water. Hell, he would have traded shares of Microsoft for one.

  The way Kirby was panting, it was a sure bet he wanted a drink too. Best not to mention the canteen. Things were touchy enough as it was. Besides, there was another canteen in the SUV. And they couldn’t be more than a half a mile away from it.

  Sure, they were in the sun, and it was noon sun.

  And this was August. And this was Arizona.

  But fuck it. The trail was highway from here on out. Thirsty or not, anyone could make the last half mile. A peg-legged man pushing a wheelbarrow full of steaming horseshit could make it.

  Let Kirby charge on like a damn fool if he wanted to. Curtain would remain calm. He wouldn’t let the heat burn him down, be it emotional or meteorological. He didn’t have to be in front to be the leader.

  Curtain shook his head. Just look at the idiot, he thought. Kirby hadn’t even put on any sunblock. The dumb Irishman was beet red.

  Beet red and slowing his pace.

  Beet red and planting his sizable ass on a rock.

  In the middle of the pack, Wyatt shook his head.

  In the rear, Curtain did the same.

  Kirby glared at them as they approached. “Wish we had that fuckin’ canteen,” he said.

  “Wishes are a waste of time,” Wyatt said.

  Curtain didn’t say a word.

  Like they say in the war movies, Curtain took point.

  In the lead again. Wyatt in the middle. Kirby dragging ass in the rear.

  Curtain wanted to laugh. Wish we had that fuckin’ canteen. The goddamned muscle-headed moron. Everyone knew it. Even Rita. She hated Kirby. She said he was the worst kind of jackass, and she jerked his chain every chance she got.

  Like that time in Puerto Vallarta. Curtain had some business down there. Bad business. He took Kirby and Wyatt along just in case things got rough, which they did. Afterwards, they went out to dinner together. It was one of the few times he socialized with the hired help, and he only did it at Rita’s insistence. Anyway, Kirby said he couldn’t read a menu in Spanish, but Rita knew that he couldn’t read at all. She told him to order the puta asada, and the idiot actually did. Wyatt had laughed like a son of a bitch and —

  Gunfire slapped at Curtain’s heels. He nearly pissed himself. He was yelling at Kirby before the reports had echoed off the canyon walls because he didn’t think this was one bit funny.

  He turned and saw:

  The dumb Irishman’s smile.

  The Glock in his very fast hand.

  The dead rattler in a tangle of white rock.

  “Carne muerta,” Kirby said, passing Curtain by.

  After that, Curtain didn’t want anyone behind him.

  Wyatt took point, and he didn’t take it slow.

  Kirby ran second, and he did take it slow. It was a lucky thing that he was fast with that damn gun, though. Not that Curtain was going to compliment the idiot. After all, he paid Kirby to be fast. The Irishman was only earning his money.

  Curtain could have passed the big man had he wanted to. The idea was tempting, because it would put him closer to a nice long drink of water and the best air-conditioning system available in a SUV. But he could wait. After all, it was his Mercedes and his canteen. He could stand the heat a little while longer.

  Besides, it could have been a whole lot worse. Sure. Like Wyatt said, he could have been Jesus Sanchez.

  Curtain stopped and looked down the canyon. It seemed they’d come a lot farther than two miles. The Mexican was back there somewhere. Across a sandstone griddle and down a rocky red throat, baking to death, bleeding in shadows that showed no mercy.

  It was dead quiet.

  Sanchez wasn’t screaming anymore.

  His curses had fallen on deaf ears.

  No ears at all, really.

  Curtain wondered if the idiot had given up yet.

  He wondered if Jesus Sanchez had finally learned his place.

  When Kirby and Curtain caught up, Wyatt was leaning against the SUV. He looked as thirsty as Curtain felt.

  But right now, Wyatt couldn’t do Curtain a bit of good. Wyatt wasn’t the driver. He didn’t have the keys.

  Curtain said, “Give me the keys, Kirby”

  “Fuck that.” Kirby didn’t even look at him. He unlocked the liftback and grabbed the extra canteen.

  Curtain said, “Toss it here.”

  “Fuck that too.”

  Curtain bristled. It was his canteen. After all, he was the boss. But Kirby acted like he had forgotten all about that. He gave the canteen a shake, smiled at the enticing slosh.

  The fucker knew exactly what he was doing.

  One more chance, Curtain thought. I’ll give him one more chance.

  “A joke’s a joke,” Curtain said.

  “This ain’t no joke,” Kirby said. He raised the canteen, as if he were proposing a toast. “Here’s to assholes who can’t say thank you.”

  Curtain had been mad, but now he was boiling. If the big Irishman didn’t give him the first drink, he’d fire his Mick ass on the spot and let him walk home.

  With his very fast hands, Kirby unscrewed the cap.

  Before Curtain could say another word, the first bullet caught Kirby square in the chest. A second made a red puddle of his belly. Then Wyatt stepped over Kirby and shot the big man one last time in the head.

  “Jesus,” Curtain whispered. “Jesus!”

  Water burbled over the dry earth. Wyatt scooped up the canteen, saying, “He would have killed you, Mr. Curtain.”

  “Over a canteen.” Curtain shook his head in astonishment. “Over a fucking drink of water.”

  “No,” Wyatt said. “You and I both know that it was a little more complicated than that.” He stared down at the dead man and shook his head. “Some dogs just never learn to heel.”

  A moment of silence followed. Not out of respect for the dead man. It was just that there wasn’t anything else to say about Kirby.

  But there was more to be said.

  Curtain swallowed hard. “How about that drink?”

  Wyatt stared at the canteen. Curtain stared at it too.

  Wyatt smiled. “You want a drink, patron?”

  The last word slapped Curtain hard. Rita’s word. And the way Wyatt said it, you’d think he really wasn’t joking at all.

  Wyatt raised the canteen to his lips. He took a long drink, his Glock trained on his employer’s very thirsty belly.

  It came clear in Curtain’s head. The trip through Apache Canyon. Wyatt jockeying for position, always ending up in the middle of the pack instead of the back. Wyatt couldn’t do anything there. Not sandwiched between the two men he wanted to kill. Kirby was fast, and even if Curtain wasn’t, Wyatt wasn’t the kind to take chances. So he waited until they reached the Mercedes, and Kirby had a fistful of canteen, and —

  “I would have done it sooner, Wyatt began. “But — ”

  “You don’t have to draw me a diagram,” Curtain said.

  “I know. You’re smarter than that.”

  And that was the truth. And that was awful. Because Curtain could see it now, all of it. Wyatt and Rita. Christ, he wondered if they’d fucked down in Puerto Val
larta, right under his nose.

  And Jesus Sanchez… he wasn’t even in the picture. He really was a fucking stableboy, for Christsakes. Wyatt and Rita had played it all very smart, convincing Curtain that his wife wanted nothing more than the proverbial roll in the hay when she really wanted so much more.

  Curtain had to admit they’d make a good team. Different style than his, but good. More of a division of labor kind of thing — the girl with the MBA and the guy with the gun.

  They’d make a good team, if they had the chance.

  Curtain stared at the canteen in Wyatt’s hand. He wanted to smile, but he didn’t. He kept his smile to himself, and he spoke slowly, calmly…

  “About that drink… ” Curtain began.

  Wyatt smiled. A condescending smile. A smug smile.

  He said, “There’s a difference between being a fast study, and being fast.”

  Wyatt raised the canteen.

  Curtain went for his gun.

  But that wasn’t his game.

  Not at all.

  BUCKET OF BLOOD

  Highway 50 cuts a ragged wound across the belly of California, finally ripping across the border into Nevada. A little slice north and you’re in Virginia City. And when you’re done there — and if you’re lucky — it’s east on 50 until 95 slashes south.

  Tonopah… Scotty’s Junction… Beatty and Amargosa Valley and Indian Springs.

  And straight on into Vegas.

  According to the AAA California/Nevada TourBook, the trip should take nine hours.

  We say fuck the AAA California/Nevada TourBook.

  Me and Mitch, that is. We’ve got us a Mustang convertible, and it’s tanked to the gills with Chevron Premium. Two sixes of iced Pacifico in the trunk, bricks of every kind of cheese known to man because Mitch can’t control himself in a grocery store, an old Hamm’s Beer display sign that lights up and an authentic Jayne Mansfield hot water bottle and a dozen matchbooks from various incarnations of the Mustang Ranch (because Mitch can’t control himself in an antique shop, either), T-shirts from every tourist trap along the way, and a couple of pairs of swimming trunks.

  No swimming tonight, though. The cold desert air bites like a pissed-off rattlesnake tossed onto smoldering campfire coals, but we’ve got the top down anyway.

  Even though we’ve got the heater cranked full blast, I’m shivering behind the wheel — leather coat zipped up tight, face numb as the hide of a zombie that stumbled off a midnight movie screen. Mitch is a hardcase, of course. No coat for this boy — he’s wearing that T-shirt. The one he got up the street from the Bucket of Blood Saloon while I bided my time, stretching the last sip of a three buck beer that I couldn’t afford.

  It’s an eye catcher, the shirt is. Bullet holes cratering high on the chest, bright red blood driving over the legend:

  SLOWEST GUN IN

  VIRGINIA CITY, NEVADA

  The sign over the batwing doors said Bucket of Blood Saloon. Inside, Big John Dingo stood straight and tall, black eyes shining like fresh tarantula blood, lips twisted into a snarl.

  “Fill yer hand, ya sorry sonofabitch!”

  “Hold on,” Mitch began. I’m not ready — ”

  “Not with yer pecker, idiot!” the gunfighter growled. “Fill yer hairy palm with a six-gun, ’cause I’m about to blow yer pimply ass south of eternity!”

  The batwing doors swung open. Big John clutched a fistful of Colt .45 while Mitch made a grab for his pistol.

  Mitch missed the holster entirely. He was laughing way too hard — one hand searching for his pistol, the other wrapped around a beer.

  The gunfighter’s pistol sparked. “HAHAHAHAHA!” he screeched. “Another pencil-dicked pilgrim eats it! No one outdraws Big John Dingo! I can fuck longer and draw faster than any man alive! I never come up for air! I live on pussy and hot lead! Drop a quarter, ya redneck peckerwood! Try your luck! HAHAHAHAHA!”

  Mitch swigged beer and turned away from the mechanical gunman.

  “More quarters?” the bartender asked.

  “No.” Mitch laughed at the mannequin as the batwing doors closed on the tiny booth. “Where the hell did you get this thing?”

  “Used to be in a drug store over in Carson City. A kid’s game, right along with the gum machines and the fiberglass pony ride. Of course, the gunfighter didn’t talk like that when he was outdrawing six-year-olds. My boss hired a fellow who did a little work on him. He juiced the gunfighter’s speed a little, recorded a new tape and — ”

  “You think your boss would sell it?” Mitch interrupted.

  “Well, I don’t know… ”

  Mitch drained his beer. “What do you think, Kurt? Would the crowd down at the bar love this thing, or what?”

  I nodded. “Sure they would. But what about you? I mean, can you imagine listening to Big John Dingo all night long, every night?”

  The mechanical gunfighter kicked into gear as if on cue. “C’mon ya candy-assed cocksuckers! Yer dicks are wrapped in Tom Jones’ old socks! Ya got cojones the size of goober peas! Ain’t a one of you man enough to take on Big John Dingo!”

  Mitch set his empty beer on the counter. “I guess it would get old pretty fast.”

  “Good Tom Jones line, though,” I said.

  Mitch did some business with the bartender, stocking up on Bucket of Blood Saloon souvenirs. A T-shirt, a coffee cup, even a cassette tape featuring Big John Dingo’s witty repartee. In just under three minutes, Mitch dropped thirty bucks and change.

  And he wasn’t done yet. “Want another round?” he asked, his wallet still open.

  I shook my head.

  “C’mon. I’m buyin’.”

  “No. I’m okay.”

  “C’mon.” Mitch sidled up on the barstool next to me. “Ease off a little. Stop worrying. I thought you were going to leave all that money shit behind for the weekend. Sure you’re hurting now, but what was it you said?”

  “This too will pass.”

  “Yeah. It fuckin’ will. Things will come around for you, same way they came around for me. Right now you’re hurting, and I’m not. It’s as simple as that. So let me buy you a — ”

  Mitch left it there. Suddenly, he was staring over my shoulder, transfixed, and I knew that look.

  I knew what I’d see before I even turned. She’d be tall and dark. Thin. That was a given. When it came to women, Mitch definitely favored a certain type. Genus Gen X, species Morticia Adamsette.

  But this one wasn’t dressed in black, which was kind of a surprise. She wore a white T-shirt with faux bullet holes that streamed equally faux blood.

  “Hey,” Mitch said. “Where’d you get that shirt?”

  “That’s not the question,” she said.

  Mitch raised his eyebrows. “What is?”

  “The question is what you’ll give me for it.”

  They laughed. Mitch bought her a drink. Her name was Doreen. Past the expected pleasantries, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t get in the way. Hell, I could barely afford my own drink, let alone someone else’s.

  Mitch and Doreen talked about T-shirts until that went dead, and then they found something else to talk about, and pretty soon I noticed that Doreen’s hand was on Mitch’s thigh.

  Doreen made the inevitable trip to the Ladies’, and Mitch got down to business.

  “You mind?” Mitch asked.

  “No, man,” I said. “Go for it.”

  “You okay? I mean, you’ve got enough money, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Go on. Have fun. If I’m not here, I’ll be in the car.”

  Mitch and Doreen left together, heading for the shop that sold the SLOWEST GUN IN VIRGINIA CITY’ T-shirts, which was where Doreen worked. She said that she lived in a little apartment above the place, and there was only one reason I could think of for her to impart that particular information.

  The bartender and I traded grins as Mitch and Doreen crossed the plank sidewalk outside the saloon. The old guy was all ruined around the eyes and someone had stove
in his nose a long time ago. Even though he worked in a saloon, he looked like he managed to spend a lot of the time in the sun. According to his nameplate, his name was Roy and he hailed from Albuquerque, New Mexico.

  That info didn’t do me any good — I’d never been to Albuquerque. But Roy knew how to keep a conversation moving without any help. Just as smooth as Johnny Carson, he asked, ‘“Nother round?”

  I thought about my wallet first.

  Then I thought about Mitch… and Doreen.

  “Why not,” I said. “Maybe I’ll be here awhile.”

  “Knowing Doreen, I can practical guarantee it, amigo.”

  Roy grinned and opened a bottle. I had four bucks in my pocket, the last of the money I’d brought on our trip. A weekend getaway — some gambling, a few thrift shops, a few tourist traps. We were heading home tomorrow, anyway. If Mitch got lucky with Doreen and I ended up spending the night in Mitch’s Mustang, eating crackers and cheese and drinking Pacifico, that would suit me just fine. Most nights I didn’t do that good at home.

  Feeling fuck-it-all magnanimous, I peeled off three bucks for the beer, tipped Roy my last dollar, and raised my bottle.

  “Here’s to true love,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Roy said, soaping Doreen’s lipstick off her empty glass. “Right.”

  My hands are angel white in the moonlight. Mitch — head back, eyes closed— wears the beatific expression of a saintly corpse. Trapped between his Converse All-Stars is a change bucket, the kind slot players use to collect their winnings. This one’s from the Bucket of Blood Saloon. A first class souvenir. It’s half full, brimming, contents gleaming in the moonlight.

  Get me to Vegas, one of those five star casinos with five buck slots, and I’m putting that bucket to work for me.

  Maybe it’s the bucket that’s lucky. Maybe the shiny contents. Or maybe it’s me.

  One thing’s for certain — I can’t lose.

  Not tonight, anyway.

  I’ve got to get to Vegas.

  Before my luck runs out.