Shotgun Opera

by Victor Gischler

  Andrew took a pack of Parliament cigarettes from his pocket, shook one out, and put it in his mouth.

  “You smoke?” Mike asked.

  Andrew shrugged. “On and off.”

  “Not in here.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  Mike shook his head. “The smoke gets into everything. Outside.”

  Andrew went to the front door, opened it a crack. “It’s really dark out there.”

  “It’s night.”

  “No, I mean really, really, no streetlights, pit of hell dark.”

  Keone giggled, ran past him out into the night.

  “So the question is,” Mike said, “are you as brave as a twelve-year-old?”

  Andrew rolled his eyes. “Shit.” He took a disposable lighter out of his pocket, flicked the flame, and held it in front of him as he went out the door and shut it behind him.

  Linda laughed. “He’s okay. What’s the problem?”

  “No problem.” Mike sipped coffee.

  “Oh, bullshit. You can’t stand the kid. It’s all over your face.”

  “I just wasn’t ready for him.”

  “I still don’t understand what he’s doing here,” Linda said. “You didn’t invite him, and it doesn’t seem like he wants to be here.”

  Mike shifted in his seat. “It’s complicated.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s your way of saying don’t ask.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean it that way.”

  “That’s okay.” Linda ran a finger absently around the rim of her wineglass. “You’re cut from the same cloth as Jacob, my husband. You’re both closed off. You don’t talk. I never understood that about him. Such ugliness on the job every day. Why do the men who need to talk most always wall themselves off?” She got a faraway look in her eye. “Purse snatchers don’t carry guns. They don’t turn and shoot you.”

  “I’m sorry, Linda.”

  She put her chin in her hand, rested her elbow on the table. “How long do you have to live out here in the wilderness before you forget everything?”

  “You can forget your troubles,” Mike said in a small voice. “But they don’t forget you.”

  A long silence stretched.

  Linda drew breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. “I’m a lot of fun at a dinner party, huh?”

  Mike forced a smile.

  Keone came through the front door, an impish grin wide on his face. He held something cupped in his hands.

  Mike came to attention. “What do you got there, boy?”

  Keone ran to the table, dropped the object in the middle and ran back out the front door again, screaming laughter.

  Hairy legs. The thing Keone had dumped on the table scurried among the dirty dishes.

  “Shit.” Mike fell over backward in his chair.

  Linda shrieked.

  Mike regained his feet, grabbed the salad bowl, dumped out the remaining lettuce and trapped the tarantula under the bowl. The bowl shook for a few seconds, the big spider’s legs flailing against the inside.

  Mike flopped back into his chair. His heart beat a mile a minute.

  Linda stared openmouthed for a second, then broke into braying laughter.

  “Yes, very fucking hilarious,” Mike said.

  “You were terrified.” Laughter overcame her again. She started to hiccup.

  “You screamed,” Mike said. “You were scared too.”

  Linda fluttered her eyelashes. “I’m a girl. I’m allowed.”

  A knock at the front door.

  “You don’t have to knock,” Mike shouted. “Just come in.”

  “He’s afraid you’ll spank him,” Linda said. “You better let him in. He’s the only one brave enough to take the spider out.”

  Another knock.

  “Hell.”

  Mike got up, went to the door, turned the knob, swung it open. “I said you didn’t have to—”

  He saw a blur of wood. It hit him in the forehead. Lights exploded behind his eyes. His knees went watery. He was vaguely aware of Linda’s scream. A flash of purple. The axe handle came around again and smashed him in the ribs. The pain stabbed, took his breath away. He went down. The world tilted, and bells rang. Another strike across his back.

  Linda screamed again and there was shuffling and a loud smack.

  Mike set his jaw, made fists. He had to get up. He grunted, got up on one knee.

  Another sharp hit at the base of his skull. Everything went black, his face bounced off the wooden floor. The hot buzzing in his ears, the weight that seemed to push him down and down and down.

  18

  Mike’s eyes flickered open. He had no sense of time. He saw floor, the chair and table legs. What was he doing down here? Oh, yeah. Somebody had beat the shit out of him with a piece of wood.

  Linda. He had to see if she was okay.

  He closed his left eye, then opened it and closed his right. He couldn’t get the left eye to focus. Bleary. It must have been knocked out of whack with the hit at the back of his head.

  He grunted, struggled to his hands and knees.

  “You awake. Bueno.” Deep voice, thick accent.

  Mike felt a hand on his collar. He was jerked up, dumped in a chair at the dining room table. Dizzy. He held his head and tried to look at his assailant. He had to close the bad eye to focus.

  The man in front of him was short, but wide, powerful chest and arms. Hispanic. He wore a ridiculous purple suit, flashed gold teeth in his wicked smile. An axe handle dangled from one hand, a revolver stuck in the man’s belt.

  “Are you okay, Mike?” Linda asked.

  “ĄQuiete tu boca! No talking. I ask the questions, okay?”

  Mike glanced at Linda. He still had one eye shut. She had a fat bottom lip, a bit of blood at the corner of her mouth, but otherwise seemed okay.

  The sinister purple suit brought up the axe handle, wiggled it three inches from Mike’s face. “Andrew Foley. I want him. Where is he?”

  “He left,” Mike said. “He was here before, but he’s gone now. What do you want with him?”

  “Gone, you say.” The Hispanic put the axe handle under his arm, dug into his jacket and came out with a cigar and matches, struck the match, puffed the cigar hot and glowing.

  Now, while he’s lighting the cigar, Mike thought. It was his chance to make a move. But Mike sat frozen. He was still light-headed, and there was a sharp, tight pain in his side. The axe handle had probably taken out a few ribs, bruised them anyway. Mike sat there like a useless lump.

  The man looked at Linda, exhaled smoke. “Andrew no esta aqui, eh? Like the old man say, verdad?”

  Linda opened her mouth, shook her head, and shrugged.

  “He say the boy is gone. That’s true or no?”

  “He’s gone,” Linda said.

  “Too bad.” He gripped the axe handle tight with both hands, swung it around. “I maybe have to help you remember where he went, yes?”

  Mike cleared his throat. He needed to get his second wind, stall for time. “What’s this about? I think there must be some kind of mistake. We didn’t do anything.”

  The Hispanic guy ignored him, pulled back the curtains on the front windows, and peered into the night. “Dark as shit out here. You live in butt-fuck, Egypt, man.”

  “We told you he ain’t here,” Mike said. “What do you want? Money?”

  “What’s in those other rooms?” He pointed with the axe handle. “He in there, maybe?”

  “A bedroom and a kitchen,” Mike said. “Over there’s the bathroom. Have a look if you want.”

  Mr. Purple Suit circled the table, still swinging the axe handle. He glanced into each room. “Maybe we just wait, eh? And Andrew Foley will be along.” He puffed the cigar, filled the room with a layer of gray-blue smoke.

  Mike had to do something. Any minute Andrew or Keone would come blithely through the front door, and that would be the end of them all. Mike understood the situation almost instantly. This was Andrew’s hired killer. Somehow he’d tracked him to Mike’s home. And when he killed Andrew, it was doubtful he’d leave any live witnesses behind him. Mike would have to make a move. Soon.

  * * * />
  Enrique Mars leaned in close to the woman, his cigar two inches from her face. He puffed, and her eyes watered. “Do I make you nervous, chica?”

  She flinched away from his hot breath but said nothing.

  In his peripheral vision, Mars saw the old man squirm. He spun, swung the axe handle in a wide arc, bringing the end to a stop right under Mike’s chin. “You don’t like me to mess with her, old man? Is this your bitch? You fuck her, eh?”

  The old man lifted his chin, met Mars’s gaze. Some tough old shit, eh? Mars recognized the type. Probably the jefe with the big balls back in the day. But this wasn’t back in the day. This was right now, and Mars was the man. And he was tired of fucking with this feeble old motherfucker and his black bitch. He wanted answers, and he wanted them right fucking now.

  Mars grabbed a fistful of the woman’s hair, tugged sharply. She yelped. Her hands flew up, grabbed Mars’s wrist. She struggled.

  He yanked her hair hard. “Shut up. Be still.”

  She froze, her hands still holding Mars’s wrist.

  Mars set the axe handle aside, leaned it against the wall. Still holding her hair, he took the cigar from his mouth with his other hand. He grinned, the cigar hovering an inch from her face. He looked at the old man.

  “I brand her for you, yes?”

  “We told you he isn’t here,” the old man said. “What do you want us to do?”

  Ortega had told Mars the old man was a relation of some kind to Andrew. Of course he’d want to protect him. He’d need to get tough. “You tell me where he is or when he comes back. You tell me now, or I make her hurt. We can do this all night if you want.”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  Mars raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes?” He briefly touched the glowing cigar tip to the exposed skin on the woman’s arm.

  She yelped, jerked her arm back.

  “Stop it!” The old man was halfway out of his chair.

  Mars stuck the cigar back in his mouth, used the free hand to draw the pistol from his waistband and point it at the old man’s gut. “No, no. You behave, okay?”

  The old man sank back into his chair. Mars would have to watch him. The old guy looked calm, but he was ready to move. Mars could see he’d gotten a rise out of him. He stuck the revolver back in his pants, took the cigar out of his mouth again.

  “Maybe this time I stick it in her eye,” Mars said.

  The old man tensed. Mars was sure he was gearing up to try something. Ridiculous. Why didn’t he just tell Mars what he wanted to know?

  Mars shrugged. Nothing to do but show he meant business. He brought the cigar up to the woman’s eye.

  “No!” She tried to twist away, but Mars held her tight by the hair. “Tell him, Mike. Tell him about the thing Andrew left. That’s what he wants.”

  Mars froze, looked back at the old man. His face was blank.

  “What is this you say?” Mars yanked her hair for emphasis. “Talk.”

  “Andrew left something here,” she said. “He told us to keep it for him. That’s why you’re looking for him, isn’t it?”

  What’s this? Some kind of trick maybe. Still, Ortega hadn’t told Mars why this Andrew Foley was marked for death. Perhaps he’d taken something valuable, yes? Steal from the wrong people and you get dead pretty fast. So perhaps Mars could pick up a bonus for himself. What Ortega didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  “What is this thing? Talk now.”

  “I don’t know what it is,” she said. “He never told us. He just said it was valuable and to take care of it while he was gone.”

  “You’re lying.” Mars yanked her hair again, slapped her across the face. “Stop wasting my time.”

  She blinked back tears. “Mike knows. Mike, tell him.” She looked at the old man with pleading eyes.

  “Well?” Mars demanded. “You have something to tell me, or do I go back to work on her?”

  The old man looked only lost and confused.

  * * *

  Linda was looking right at him, but Mike just didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Then it hit him. It took a split second for him to understand. Linda was trying to buy time or cause a diversion or something. Mike was momentarily surprised. He hadn’t considered she’d be capable of subterfuge under pressure like this. He’d always thought of her as sassy, but she was evidently much tougher than he’d thought.

  But having begun her diversion, she wasn’t sure where to go from here. She was dumping the ball off to Mike, and now he had to run with it.

  “We didn’t open it,” Mike said. “It was a small package. It couldn’t be much.” Mike’s eyes shifted to Linda and narrowed. “You shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “He’s going to kill us.” She was a good actress. Or maybe the terror was real.

  “He’s going to kill us anyway.”

  Mars snapped his fingers. “Hey! Remember me? I say who dies or not, okay? Maybe you give me this thing, and if it’s good, I let you live.”

  “How do we know you won’t double-cross us?” Mike said.

  Mars circled the table, got in Mike’s face, blew smoke in his eyes. “What you think’s going to happen? I hold all the cards here. I should kill you, then I can take my own sweet time ripping this cabin apart and I find the package anyway.”

  They held each other’s gaze for long seconds. Mars puffed his cigar.

  When Mars spoke next, his voice was low and calm and slow. “Now tell me where this package is. If you’re fucking with me, if this is some kind of trick, it won’t work. I’ll cut off your balls and shove them down your throat. Now where is it?”

  Mike hesitated. Then, very deliberately, he shifted his gaze from Mars’s eyes to the overturned bowl on the table. Then he looked back at Mars.

  Mars followed Mike’s line of vision to the table, noticed the big upside-down bowl in the center. He reached for the bowl. “What? Under here?”

  Mike tensed. This was it.

  When Mars flipped over the bowl, the tarantula scuttled directly at him, hairy legs flailing like a nightmare.

  Mars’s scream was high-pitched and girlish; he lurched backward, rocked on his feet, unbalanced.

  Mike leapt out of his chair, upended the table toward Mars. Dishes flew, clattered on the floor. Mike was already moving, fists flying toward the purple Hispanic. He was appalled at how slow and heavy he felt. He swung for Mars’s chin, had to keep the bad eye closed so he could aim.

  Mars had recovered, swatted the punch away and kicked Mike in the balls. Mike sucked air, tried to keep his feet but ended up on his knees. He couldn’t get his breath. He felt like he was going to throw up, the ache from his balls spreading through his whole body.