Six Bad Things Part 37

--Ya s'posed ta be a cowboy? That it, you a cowboy?

He turns to face the guy with the shotgun.

--Hey, Ron, fella thinks he's a cowboy.

He knocks the hat off my head and the sungla.s.ses from my face.

--s.h.i.+t, ya ain't no cowboy.

Camo Hat finishes with me. He moves on to Rolf and looks at his dreads.

--An' who the f.u.c.k you s'posed ta be, Snoop Doggy Daaaaaawg?

He laughs and puts his hand on Rolf's shoulder. Rolf slaps it away.

--Uh-uh, dude.

Camo Hat guy stiffens and brings his weapon up in both hands. Ron s.h.i.+fts so he can blast Rolf with the shotgun without hitting his pal. Rolf puts his hand down. Camo Hat leans in and presses the crossbow against Rolf's forehead.

I lean away, not knowing how much blood might spray if he shoots that thing.

--Don' you f.u.c.k around with me, boy. This is a two-hundred-pound Exomag. I pull this trigger an' this bolt's gonna jump at three hundred and thirty feet per second. Know what that is in real numbers, boy? That's over two hundred miles an hour. It'll go clean through your skull and inta the next room and stick the guy in there.

Guy in there. Now I know where T is.

Terry flicks his cigarette. It bounces off the back of Camo Hat's neck and Camo jumps.

--Hey! Don't f.u.c.k around like that when I'm holding a weapon.

Terry waves his hand.

--Yeah, sure. How about this, Dale: you shut your mouth and just do your job and check them out.

Dale grunts, turns back to Rolf and starts to pat him down. Terry points at me.

--Wade.

--Yeah?

--What's the score?

--The score?

--What's the f.u.c.king score?

--I don't.

--Hey! Hey! Hey!

He lights a fresh smoke and points it at me.

--Think about it.

--Wh?

--Hey! Think about what you are going to say. What's the score?

I think about it.

--I don't know what the h.e.l.l you're talking about.

He gets up and shrugs his open s.h.i.+rt onto the floor. I don't think he's quite five seven, but he's made up for it with the weights. His skin is strained over muscles so sharply cut I can see the fibers and veins scrawled all over his torso. He looks like he'd pop if I stuck him with a pin.

--It's like this, Wade. I'm a team player. I go along, help out the team. Somebody needs to get hurt, they get hurt. But I like to know what the score is. Couple days ago, they tell me a Russian guy is coming around for Tim. No problem, I play. Problem is, n.o.body tells me the score. They don't tell me that Tim isn't supposed to know someone is coming for him, so I tell him not to go anywhere for a couple days, and what happens? He takes off. Tim goes missing. I try to find him. I play. Then the big bad Russian comes to town, and I don't have Tim, and suddenly my bosses want to rip me new a.s.sholes. And all of this, why? Because I didn't know the score. Now Sandy calls me, tells me a guy is looking for Tim. I play, I call the Russian. But I still don't know the score. And I want to know it, before the Russian gets here. Because I don't want any new a.s.sholes. So I ask again, what's the score? And you're gonna tell me or I'm gonna come over there and give you some free dental work.

Sandy jumps off the couch.

--Stop it!

Terry looks at her.

--Shut it.

--f.u.c.k you. This is my house and I don't want any more of this in my house. Just get out of my house.

He punches her. He b.a.l.l.s his hand into a fist and punches her in the mouth and she drops to her knees, blood pouring from her lips.

Dale turns to watch, but Ron keeps us covered with the shotgun.

Terry grabs her by her hair and yanks her to her feet.

--I said, shut it.

Blood is running down her chin and spattering her kimono. Terry lets go of her hair and she runs up the hall and I hear a door open and slam shut. Terry shakes his head.

--Chick wants to make some money, but thinks it should be easy, thinks n.o.body should get hurt.

I exhale. Because I know the score now. These clowns may be OK at roughing people up, but that's their limit. That twenty gauge is a small-game weapon. And a crossbow? Not what a pro is likely to carry. As for Terry, Terry's not a killer; he's a girl puncher. There are only three killers in this room, and we're all sitting on the couch. I can chill this out and put myself back in the driver's seat and all it's gonna take is a little talk. I open my mouth.

Hitler stops barking.

We all look.

T is slumped against the wall in the hallway. His eyes are glazed, only half open. His face is swollen and bruised and dry blood is crusted around his nostrils and lips, fingers of it dribbled down his neck. Hitler is standing next to him, teeth bared, straining forward, an invisible force holding him at bay.

Dale swings his crossbow around and aims it at Hitler.

--Control your animal, f.u.c.ker!

T slumps farther. Hitler edges forward.

--Control that f.u.c.kin' thing, boy!

Ron's mouth is shut, his shotgun still centered on the couch. I slowly raise my hand.

--Everybody just take it easy. No one has to get hurt if we all just take it easy.

Sandy emerges from the hall behind T.

--T! No, T.

Terry shakes his head.

--Stupid b.i.t.c.h.

T lifts his left hand, from which a pair of handcuffs dangle, and points at Terry.

--Hitler! Auschwitz!

Hitler launches himself at Terry.

I put my feet on the coffee table and shove it.

Dale fires his crossbow.

It sounds like someone striking a steel wall with a plastic plank. The bolt hits. .h.i.tler in midair, pa.s.ses so quickly through his left hind leg that it looks like a magic trick, and plunges into T's calf, pinning him to the wall. The coffee table hits Terry and Ron in the s.h.i.+ns just as Ron pulls his trigger. He stumbles, the barrel of the Remington jerks up, and a load of birdshot blasts a hole in the wall just over Rolf's head. Terry falls flat on his back, his head slamming against the floor, and he gets a perfect view as. .h.i.tler soars over him and crashes into the love seat.

Sid pops up from the couch, his hand flying to his gun just as it slips down into the leg of his baggy jeans. Rolf grabs one of the sofa cus.h.i.+ons and flings it at Ron as he swings his gun back in our direction, pumping another sh.e.l.l into the chamber. Ron ducks and Rolf jumps across the table at him.

Terry rolls and squirms around as. .h.i.tler scrambles back at him. Terry lunges backward and strikes the coffee table, and that's all the running away he gets to do. Hitler latches on to the closest target. Terry starts to scream like a dying rabbit.

Sid's gun slides down his pants leg, out the cuff, and clunks to the floor, and Dale swings his crossbow at him like a pickax. Sid leans back, the crossbow whistles past his face, Dale is dragged off balance, and Sid grabs the back of his neck and pushes him down to the ground.

Rolf has grabbed the barrel of the Remington and is lurching around the room with Ron as they struggle for control of the weapon. Blood is gus.h.i.+ng out from between Hitler's locked jaws as he jerks his head from side to side. I'm almost grateful for Terry's screams, for keeping me from hearing the tearing sounds.

I grab my money and phone and step over to T. He's out cold, keeled over on the floor, the fletched shaft of the bolt sticking out of his leg. I grab hold, and yank. The bolt doesn't budge. It's gone through his leg and the Sheetrock of the wall and sunk itself deep in a 2x4 stud. I look over my shoulder.

Rolf has forced the barrel of the shotgun into the air and grabbed Ron's throat with his free hand. Ron is still holding the b.u.t.t, his finger on the trigger, but has his other hand on Rolf's throat. They swing around in a circle a couple times, and then Ron pulls the trigger, blowing a hole in the ceiling, and Rolf yelps and lets go of the gun. Sid is kneeling on Dale's back; he's grabbed one of the Veuve bottles and has it raised in the air. I turn my head, but hear the sound as the thick gla.s.s shatters against the back of Dale's skull.

I try to get a grip on the arrow, but it's too slick with T's blood. I wrench at it anyway and my hand slides off and I end up tugging it to the side, opening the wound farther. T groans, but stays unconscious.

I need to get out of here.

Terry has stopped screaming. I look. Rolf is bent over, his arms wrapped around Ron's waist in a bear hug while Ron brings the b.u.t.t of the gun down on his back, trying to break the hold. Sid is rising, dropping the jagged, b.l.o.o.d.y neck of the champagne bottle as he reaches for one of the two others. Dale is motionless on the floor, shards of gla.s.s sticking out of his scalp and neck. Hitler is looking at me. He has released Terry and is standing on his chest looking at me as I try to free T.

I stand up. Hitler takes a step toward me, gingerly placing his wounded leg down, and then lifting it into the air and holding it there. I take a step away from T, and Hitler takes a step closer.

Ron has beaten Rolf down to his knees, but Rolf refuses to let go. Too late, Ron realizes someone is coming at him from the side, and Sid's bottle arcs toward him before he can bring the shotgun around. The bottle splinters against his face, the gun goes off, one of the silk-covered lamps explodes, Hitler flinches and blinks, and I turn and run.

The door next to the bathroom is open. I lunge through it, spin, see Hitler running at me, and slam the door closed just as he crashes into it. The force of two two-hundred-pound bodies colliding sends us both hurtling backward. I hit a wall and watch him scrabble on the bare wood floor of the hall and come back at me. I kick the door and it bangs closed and latches as he piles into it, cracking the lower half, and starts trying to dig through it.

I turn and get only a glimpse of a big bra.s.s bed with a leather jacket draped on one of the posts and bloodstains on the sheets. I tear across the room to where Sandy is climbing out the window with an Adidas bag around her shoulders. She's crying and trying to pull the bag loose from where it's gotten caught on the window lock, and doesn't know I'm in the room until I yank the bag's strap free and shove her out the window to fall a few feet into the flower garden outside. I get one foot on the sill, then dive back into the room, grab the jacket from the bedpost, and jump out the window.

Sandy is still picking herself up. I hook the bag strap and start dragging her after me as I head for the path that runs to the front of the house. Sandy screams and tries to pull free. I wrench her to me, wrap my left arm around her neck, and lock my hand over her mouth. She struggles and scratches at my arm and I give her a hard shake, still pulling her along.

--Sandy. Stop it. You'll die if you don't stop. You'll die.

She stops, but I keep her in the headlock, my hand over her mouth. We round the side of the house and start down the short path to the gate that opens onto the driveway. I stop at the back door and peek through a gap in the curtains.

It's awful.

Dale is still immobile, unconscious or dead. Ron is on his back, rolling from side to side, his face covered with both hands, blood streaming from between his fingers. Terry is still alive and has somehow gotten himself flipped over, inching himself toward the front door, leaving a snail-trail of blood in his wake.

Sid has recovered his .45 and is standing over Ron, watching him writhe. He starts to raise his foot. Rolf has Ron's shotgun and is pointing it up the hallway. T has come to and is holding his hand in the air, out toward Rolf, warding him off. Hitler is barking in the hall.

I start to look away, but I'm too late and I see it all. Sid's foot coming down on Ron's face. Rolf pulling the trigger. The blast that was deafening in the small room is just a m.u.f.fled pop out here.

Hitler stops barking and T screams and struggles to pull his leg free of the arrow holding him prisoner. That's all I can take.

I haul Sandy to the gate and look over it. Nothing. A quiet street, everyone at work or inside resting up for a late s.h.i.+ft. I push the gate open and start down the drive toward T's Chrysler, holding his jacket collar in my teeth, feeling at the pockets until I find the keys. I walk around the car, open the driver's side door, and shove Sandy inside, pus.h.i.+ng her ahead of me into the pa.s.senger seat. She pulls the door handle and tries to climb out. I grab at her and get a handful of hair, pull her in, and get the door closed. I let go of her hair.

--They're killing people in there, the guys I came with are killing people. We have to go. You have to go with me.

She doesn't move, so I go to stick the key in the ignition and miss. I try again and miss again and grab hold of my shaking right hand with my shaking left hand and manage to guide the key home. I start the car, over-revving, and drop the gears.h.i.+ft into drive as the front door of Sandy's house flies open and Sid and Rolf run out.

Sandy screams and I jam my foot down. The tires spin and smoke and we fishtail away from the curb as they run to the sidewalk. I straighten the car out and we're in the middle of the street, speeding away. I look back and see Sid pointing his gun at us and Rolf grabbing him and pulling him back up toward the house before he can shoot.

And we turn the corner and drive away, the trail of blood behind me stretched longer still.

WHEN I was a kid and I'd do something stupid, Dad would sit me down and ask me, "What were you thinking?" I'd shrug and say, "I dunno." He'd nod and put a hand on my shoulder and say, "You weren't thinking, were you?" And I'd say, "No, I wasn't." He'd tell me he knew I wasn't thinking, because he knew I was a smart kid and if I stopped and thought things through, I'd do the smart thing. All I had to do was stop and think and I'd do the smart thing. Always.

How am I doing now, Dad?

I DRIVE us back to Boulder Highway, take a left, drive up the road, and pull into the first parking lot I see: The Boulder Station Hotel. I park the Chrysler near the other cars in the lot, leave the engine running, and reach under Sandy's seat. The plastic bag snags on something and I give it a yank and it tears and the guns and the boxes of ammo spill out onto the floor next to Sandy's feet. She gives a little shriek at the sight of the guns and pulls her feet up onto her seat as if the footwell were full of spiders. I flip the cylinder open on the Anaconda, pop open the box of Magnum sh.e.l.ls, and start to load the revolver. My hands are still shaking, it's hard to get the rounds in their chambers, but I manage. I close the cylinder and turn around in my seat and look out at the highway through the back window. I give it a couple minutes and see no sign of Rolf and Sid chasing us. I turn around.

Oh, my G.o.d. Oh please, Jesus. I close my eyes and see Terry crawling, trailing blood. Oh, Jesus, what have I done? I open my eyes and see the gun in my hand and raise it and press the barrel against my forehead.

--Jesus, oh, Jesus. Make it stop, please make it stop.

--Nonononononono.

Sandy is pressed against the pa.s.senger door, still in her kimono, blood still trickling from her mouth, staring at me, as I'm getting ready to kill myself. I pull the gun away from my head and drop it in the back-seat.

--It's OK.

--Nonono.

--It's OK, Sandy. It's over. It's OK.