Click, whir, and the garage door started down again just as Tommy hit the sidewalk running. Bix was right behind him as he ducked inside. The fag was half in and half out of the car-a Beamer, wouldn’t you know it-and when he saw them he tried to crawl in and slam the door, lock himself in. But Tommy got there first, yanked it out of his hand, and jammed it open with his hip. Butterfield’s face twisted up at him, more pissed than scared, and quick he jammed his thumb against the remote hanging from the visor. The garage door stopped halfway down. Hell with that. Wasn’t gonna do him any good, he wasn’t going anywhere except down for the count.
“What the hell’s the idea? Get out of my garage!”
Tough-talking fruit. Bigger than the others, over six feet, all decked out in an expensive suit and tie, ugly bearded face… how the hell could Troy let an ugly bastard like that screw him? Tommy felt himself swelling up with heat and rage and excitement, until he felt ten feet tall. He could’ve taken on the biggest queer ever lived tonight, one on one. Didn’t need Bix, didn’t need anybody but Tommy Douglass and his little Louisville Slugger.
“You’re the one getting out,” he said. “Or we’ll pile in there and drag you out.”
“I know you. Gay bashers, breeder trash.”
Bix giggled. “That’s right, sweet thing. Ass-kickers R us.”
“Bastards!”
Butterfield came out sudden, kicking and swinging. But they were ready for him. He slammed a foot into the car door, but Tommy danced out of the way and as soon as the faggot came up on his feet Bix had him around the neck. Jerked his head back, legs spread so the bugger couldn’t back-kick his shins. Tommy shoved the greasy rag in his mouth, jabbed the head of the bat into his gut hard enough to put a hole right through him. Air went out of him in a gagging hiss. He doubled over in Bix’s grasp.
“Let go of him, man, he’s all mine.”
Bix let go and Tommy jabbed him again, same place, then belted him in the kneecap. Line-drive single! Butterfield went down on the other knee on the concrete floor. Tommy swung again. Crack! Two-bagger down the line! Again, on the side of the head this time. Crack! Triple up the gap!
“Hey, Tommy, hey, man, not so hard, you gonna kill him-”
“Shut up!”
The faggot was all the way down now, moaning and writhing, blood all over his ugly bearded face. Tommy took his stance, home-run stance, Barry Bonds getting ready to break McGwire’s record, and lifted the bat for the big blast All of a sudden he didn’t have it anymore.
Somebody jerked it out of his hands at the top of his swing.
At first he thought it was Bix, but then he heard Bix yell and then yowl with pain, and when he came around he saw there was somebody else in the garage, big son of a bitch he’d never laid eyes on before. Bix was sprawled over the back end of the BMW, holding his arm and trying to dodge another blow from the bat. The big son of a bitch swatted Bix across the kidneys and sent him spinning off the car onto the floor. Tommy unfroze and charged the guy, some goddamn faggot neighbor, fix him like he fixed Butterfield. Head ducked, arms reaching Something happened, he didn’t know what, but all of a sudden bright pain burst through his head and neck and his vision went cockeyed and he was stumbling off balance, then banging into something solid with his shoulder and the back of his head. Flashes of light went off behind his eyes. He blinked and pawed at his face and the light faded and he could see the big son of a bitch standing there in front of him, practically in his face.
“Had enough, Douglass?”
Knew him, knew his name!
“Who the… hell’re you?”
“Your worst nightmare, kid.”
“Bix!”
“He can’t help you. He just crawled out of here on his hands and knees.”
Tommy said, “Dirty bastard,” and didn’t know if he meant Bix or the big stranger. He pushed off the wall, blinking, trying to see straight, and took a swing at the face in front of him, but it was as if he did it in slow motion, as if his arm had lead weights tied to it — and there was another burst of pain in his neck and shoulder — and he was sitting on the floor and his head was full of more hurt and confusion and he couldn’t see anything this time, not even flashes of light. Blind. Oh God, he was blind…
All the fight went out of him. And all the anger and hatred and excitement and hunger for revenge, until there wasn’t anything left.
“Give it up, Douglass, you’re all finished.”
Finished. Yeah.
He didn’t move. Couldn’t have moved if he’d tried. Even when the darkness went away and he could see again, there just wasn’t anything left.
22
JAKE RUNYON
He backed away from where the Douglass kid sat dazed against the rear wall and went to check on Jerry Butterfield. Not as badly hurt as it’d first looked when he came in. Butterfield was up on one knee now, spitting out the residue of whatever they’d shoved in his mouth, holding the side of his head. Blood leaked through his fingers, made a glistening snake’s trail through his dark brown beard, but when he looked up his eyes were clear enough.
“Thanks,” he said. “Don’t know who you are or where you came from, but… thanks. I thought… Jesus, I thought they were going to kill me.”
They might have at that. The way Douglass had had that aluminum bat cocked-if he’d swung with all his strength, he’d have bashed Butterfield’s head in. Pure luck that Runyon had got here when he did, just as the two of them were ducking into the lighted garage. He hadn’t even had enough time to drag his. 357 Magnum out of the glove box. More luck there-that he hadn’t needed the weapon.
He said, “Better not talk, Mr. Butterfield. Just take it easy.”
“No, I’m all right. Not disoriented, just bruised and… cut. Bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“Head wounds always bleed like that.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Long story. Time for that later.”
“What’s yours, your name?”
“Runyon. Jake Runyon.”
“Help me up, will you, Mr. Runyon?”
“You sure you can stand?”
“Long enough to sit down.”
Runyon gave him a hand up, guided him through the open car door and onto the front seat. Butterfield had the presence of mind to sit leaning forward, so that the dripping blood spattered on the concrete floor instead of the leather upholstery. He fumbled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, pressed it to the gash in his temple.
“I just bought this suit,” he said. He was staring at the crimson streaks on his jacket and trousers. “Sixteen hundred dollars at Wilkes Bashford. Ruined now. You can’t get blood out of fabric like this.”
Runyon said nothing.
“Ruined,” Butterfield said again. He raised his head, squinting. “You sorry excuse for a human being,” he said to Tommy Douglass. “Tried to kill me and ruined my new suit.”
“Fuck you, faggot.”
They stared at each other across the empty space.
Douglass still sat in the same position, legs splayed out, like something discarded against the wall. He hadn’t moved the entire time. And the words he’d said to Butterfield had been a by-rote response, passionless, mindless. Runyon had seen dozens like him over the years, young and old, all races and colors. Big men when they had weapons in their hands and they were in control, capable of just about any act of violence. Shriveled little cowards when the tables were turned and they were on the receiving end, capable of nothing except feeling sorry for themselves. The one who’d scrambled out on his hands and knees, Bix Sullivan, was another cut from the same
