Vanilla Ride

Joe R. Lansdale Vanilla Ride

ALSO BY JOE R. LANSDALE

In the Hap and Leonard Series

Savage Season

Mucho Mojo

The Two-Bear Mambo

Bad Chili

Rumble Tumble

Captains Outrageous

Other Novels

Freezer Burn

A Fine Dark Line

The Bottoms

Sunset and Sawdust

Lost Echoes

Leather Maiden

For all you Hap and Leonard fans. Bless your little weird hearts.

The pistol is the devil’s red right hand.

—Steve Earle

Man turns everything into a weapon. Even his tongue.

—Hap Collins

1

I hadn’t been shot at in a while, and no one had hit me in the head for a whole month or two. It was kind of a record, and I was starting to feel special.

Brett and I were upstairs in our little rented house, lying in bed, breathing hard, having just arrived at the finish line of a slow, sweet race that at times can seem like a competitive sport, but when played right, even when you’re the last to arrive, can make you feel like a winner.

In that moment, life was good.

Brett sat up and fluffed her pillow behind her back and pushed her long bloodred hair to the side with one hand, shoved her chest forward in a way that made me feel mighty lucky, said, “I haven’t had that much fun since I pistol-whipped a redheaded midget.”

“You don’t know how romantic that makes me feel,” I said. “I think Little Hap just went looking for a place to hide.”

“I thought he just came out of hiding,” she said, and winked at me.

Thing was, she actually had pistol-whipped a midget. I was there. She was trying to find her daughter and save her life, but still, it was ugly, and I was a party to it. I will say this, however, in favor of the midget: he took his beating with stoic pride and refused to take it while wearing his cowboy hat, an expensive Stetson. He wanted it right on the skull and that’s where he got it.

“You know, I think they prefer being called dwarf instead of midget, or little people,” I said.

“No kidding. I don’t know about the rest of them, but the one I worked over, I just call him Pistol- Whipped.”

“Do you ever feel bad about it?”

“Nope.”

“He died, you know.”

“Not from the pistol whipping.”

This was also true. He ended up dead another way, but, man, that had been some pistol whipping. She had also set her ex-husband’s head on fire and put it out with a shovel, which is a far cry from a water hose. My sweet baby, at times, could make a man nervous.

She said, “Speaking of little guys,” and took hold of my crotch.

“Little guys?” I said. “That’s supposed to fire me up?”

“No. I’ll fire you up.”

She chuckled and slid over close and I took her in my arms and we snuggled. Things were looking operational when there was a knock on the door.

Typical.

I looked at the clock on the nightstand. Eleven p.m.

The knock came again, louder.

I got up and pulled on my robe and bunny slippers, and cursed. “Keep that thought. I’m going down to kill a late-night Bible salesman.”

“Will you bring me back his head, please?”

“On a platter.”

2

Downstairs, I went to the window, eased back the curtain and took a peek. Two big black guys, one supported on a stick, were standing on the steps. My best friend, Leonard Pine, and an ex-cop buddy, Marvin Hanson.

I opened the door.

“Sure isn’t good to see you,” I said to Leonard.

Leonard pushed on in. He was decked out in cowboy boots, jeans, a faded snap-pocket shirt that was a little stretched across his broad shoulders, and a shit-eating grin. “Now that’s no way to be,” he said.