the stand against him!'
Edwards was still wrapped up inside his own head but when Cruez's shadow preceded him out into the dining room, and Edwards got a gander of the behemoth extracting that long, way goddamn long-barreled. 357, he got back in cop mode fast.
He hopped up and ran forward as Cruez broke completely from the darkness of the kitchen. Edwards whispered, 'Christ.'
Cruez's expression contorted and his facial muscles ground together into a frown. 'We didn't see any llamas. We saw cows.'
The front sight of the Magnum had snagged on the bottom of his shoulder holster. That was another reason not to carry the damn things, no holster was long enough to hold them properly.
Reb did the best thing she could've done under the circumstances. With Crease sitting there bleeding, the sheriff failing to come up with the fifteen g's, now some piece of a mountain climbing into her house, she just cut loose. It was weird, definitely proving she had some schizoid tendencies of her own. She let out a wickedly eerie laugh that sent the creeps up Crease's spine.
It was a titter tinged with desperation, guilt, fear, and the underlying wish to take everything back from the last twenty years or so.
Good thing Edwards was ready to shoot somebody this time. He pulled his gun and pressed the barrel of his. 38 on Cruez's Adam's apple and shoved hard.
It was a move that would've put a normal guy down, but Cruez was wired differently. His thoughts banged around inside that skull and became blunt and lost all their force. He didn't feel pain like other people. He was still yanking at the Magnum.
Edwards said, 'That what you planning to do, you llama thief? You go to hell, Canadian!'
Rebecca's cackle had died down but was still sputtering at the back of her throat. She looked drunk, out of it. Crease said, 'Reb, the keys, okay?'
'I don't know where they are!'
'They're right there on the table.'
Edwards had a little more steel and sand to him than Crease had thought. The sheriff didn't want to just blow Cruez away. He stood his ground. He thumped the monolith in the throat again, and then pistol-whipped him. Three, four, five times, the. 38 coming down hard across Cruez's nose, his chin, his forehead. Spatters of blood whipped against the wall. Cruez was still reaching, and now the barrel was finally starting to come free.
Crease was this close to letting out that cackle himself. His cool was mostly gone, but sometimes the coolest thing you could do was get off a chuckle at the right time.
Reb fumbled for the handcuff keys. She wasn't going to get to him in time. The sheriff had played it wrong, he shouldn't have tried to chip away at Cruez. He could've bashed the guy in the head with a shovel all day long and not left a dent.
Cruez, the moron, could've easily swatted the sheriff aside but he was too intent on drawing his weapon. He wasn't exactly the most adaptable guy in the world.
Yeah, that laugh, everybody made it now and again. There always came a time when you had a what the hell moment of clarity and realized just how ridiculous your life had made you. Like him yelling about llamas.
Oh yeah, you had to laugh.
Crease's hands were starting to do their thing. They were pulling at the back of the chair and the wood had begun to splinter, cracking as loudly as rifle shots. The chair gave out and Crease went with it, hit the floor and tucked himself in tight, working his arms down around his thighs, his legs, his shoes. Cruez was bringing the Magnum out while Edwards continued to clobber him.
Crease's bundle was on the table. His gun, the butterfly blade, the Bowie knife. He got his cuffed arms all the way around and out in front of him and jumped to his feet. He wasn't sure he was going to be fast enough. His hands were flashing out, the left taking the Bowie, the right the pistol. Cruez had the Magnum out but Edwards was too close to him, he couldn't quite get it pointed the right way. The sheriff finally realized he'd made a mistake and turned his own gun around in his hand, ready to blast Cruez. But the butt was slippery with blood and he couldn't get a good enough grip on it.
And here you were thinking today that a fire would be nice. Some wine, the smell of fall wafting in around you.
Crease tapped the point of the Bowie against the back of Edwards' hand hard enough to make him drop his slick gun. Crease gestured him away towards the couch. Then he pushed the. 38 against Cruez's crotch and said, 'Okay, that's enough, let's settle down now.'
'What?'
That was about as much as you were going to get out of Cruez at a time like this.
'Talk to me. Why are you here?'
'I'm not left-handed.'
'I know that,' Crease said. But he realized Cruez was trying to tell him more but couldn't find the words. The eyes in that bloody, misshapen head looked like holes poked into clay with a stick.
'Tucco know you're here?'
'No.'
'How's Morena?'
'What?'
'How is she?'
'Bored.'
'What do you want?'
The blood coated his face looking like somebody had used a roller to go straight up the middle of it. 'I'm not left-handed!'
Crease said, 'You're the right hand. That's okay, everybody knows you're the right hand. You're Tucco's man. His best man.'
'Yes.'
'You're the top dog, the big cheese, right? Not me, you. You're the honcho. You're the prince of good fortune, the duke of the deal.'
Cruez's shoulders hitched as he took a deep staggered breath. For a moment he appeared to be a very large deformed child who had climbed a neighbor's fence to get his ball and couldn't find it anywhere. You never knew what was going to defuse a situation. A little extra cash, a line of coke, a well-timed joke. Whatever it took, it was usually better than the alternative.
'Tomorrow,' Cruez said, walking out the front door. Crease knew what was going to happen next and wanted to shout about it. Cruez shoved and swung the screen door opened so hard that it collapsed off its hinges. He said, 'Tucco and me, we'll see you then.'
~* ~
Reb was standing there in the center of the living room, arms crossed across her chest, grasping her elbows. Crease saw her again the way he had the other day, for the first time in ten years, with her storm-blown hair sweeping across her throat, her fiery eyes full of anger and faint dignity. She was taking a stand because it was all she had left. She wasn't about to run or try to make a grab for Edwards' gun on the dining room floor. That scam was over, and she'd missed the train.
She said, 'Crease, I'm sorry.'
She meant it, as much as she was able. 'I still need the keys, Reb, all right?'
The sheriff was sitting on the couch. He'd grabbed the wine on his way over and was drinking from the bottle, a little out of sorts. Reb got the keys and uncuffed him, her and Edwards trying not to act like they'd just been smacking him around a few minutes ago. Maybe the sheriff knew he'd been out of his league tonight. Crease was from a different world now.
'He really gonna bring llamas down from Canada?' Edwards asked. 'Probably loaded with dope, right? That's how they do it? Open 'em up and stuff in the balloons and then stitch them back up again.'
'From what I see, you two are about perfect for each other. How about if you just tie the knot and let everything else drift away, huh?'
'I asked,' Edwards said. 'She told me no.'
