razor. Then I used adhesive tape to strap the knife, actually the handle of the knife (four inches long; the blade lived inside), to the inside of my now smooth-as-a-baby’sbottom inner thigh. Right up next to the old nut sack.
Not that the retractable knife would be anything I could get to quickly. More like a last line of emergency defense. But it was better than going out naked.
I did take the nine millimeter along for the ride, but stowed it in the glove compartment, as I drove out of Boot Heel into a desert enjoying the kind of sunrise where a blob of bright yellow and a horizon of brilliant orange blazed under a purple sky.
I was running early, as I intended. I didn’t even bother to stop for a McMuffin. If there was anything hinky about this invite-I was not familiar with Stockwell’s handwriting, and couldn’t be sure he’d left me the note-I wanted to get there before anybody else, friendly or otherwise, and have a good look around.
The sun was climbing when I got to the isolated world of gas amp; eats, but mine was the only car. I’d beat everybody here. Hooray-now what? I parked in the usual area, as if Ginger had been here to direct me, and just walked over and prowled around the place, looking in windows-diner unoccupied, the garage side too-and headed around back. I was fifteen minutes ahead of when “A.S.” had asked me to be here.
I tried the back door to what I presumed was the kitchen, but somebody on the other side opened it first, hard, pushing me back, and two familiar bearded faces stepped out, Skull first, followed by Juke, both in their biker leathers and denims.
To their standard ensemble had been added guns in their fists and they wore the wild eyes of guys whose courage came from uppers. They were on me before I could do a fucking thing, one on either side, and they hauled me through the grease-smelling kitchen and around the counter into the diner.
The tables had been swept aside onto the borders of the room and a single chair-chrome and worn padded plastic, sparkle-red-was waiting.
Juke gave me a pat-down but did not go anywhere near my balls. Which meant I had a chance at getting out of this mess. I wasted no time berating myself, because I don’t think under any circumstances I could have seen exactly this coming. No cars had been out front because they’d arrived on their cycles, and I’d glimpsed those at kick-stand ease in the kitchen when I was dragged through.
And why in hell would anybody hold me captive on a movie set that was maybe half an hour away from a film crew showing up?
They shoved me into the chair and Juke did a little maypole dance with duct tape, tying me into the chair, binding me tight. Some of the tape was on the flesh of my arms. Just a couple of trips around my chest. Nothing around my legs. I began wondering how much I could accomplish tied into a chair with just my legs free.
Probably not much, considering they both had little snubby. 38s. Matched pair-S amp; W Model 15 Combat Masterpieces. Two-inch barrel, full-size grips. Somebody bought those for these clowns, or anyway provided them with the weapons, which were too fucking good for them.
Right now skinny Skull, the smarter and more dangerous of the two, was horse-laughing, showing off yellow teeth and a missing incisor in the midst of his scraggly Fu Manchu facial hair. Laughing so hard his leather vest was flapping over his hairy, bony torso. He had a broken, blood-weeping heart tattoo, by the way-on the wrong side of his chest.
So not that smart.
“You got a bogus call sheet, sweetcheeks,” Skull chortled, ponytail swinging. “Today’s shoot got canceled.”
Bandana-headed Juke saw an opening for a funny. “Like maybe your ass gonna get canceled!”
Both of them laughed at that. Higher than fucking kites.
Now I did start to blame myself-any time you’re bested by dipshit trash like this, who else is there to blame?
“What do you boys want?” I asked.
Skull slapped me. He had some rings on-one a skull ring, I’d wager-and it cut the corner of my mouth. I tasted blood.
“Speak when you’re the fuck spoken to,” he said, with a curl of the upper lip that I might have found comical in other circumstances. I chose not to point out that they had in fact been speaking to me.
Then they did something I found odd.
They let me sit there.
They went over to a booth and put the guns on the tabletop-they were seated by the window just to my left and over a ways, near the door-and they played cards for pills.
Each biker had little piles of what I figured were amphetamines. Like poker chips, the colors varied-pale shades of purple, orange, green. Those were the pills. Mixed in were bright orange capsules. I wasn’t paying close enough attention to determine if any of these were worth more for betting purposes. I did figure out they were playing draw poker.
In addition they were drinking cans of beer-Miller, champagne of beers, nothing too good for my hosts-and it didn’t take me long to realize they were holding me for somebody. I had a hunch I knew who that somebody was, but the way they had dug in-cards, smokes, beers, ignoring me-made me figure they weren’t expecting my real host for a while yet.
So there I sat with a stiletto strapped to my thigh and my arms pinned to me. I could almost reach my waistband with either hand, but I was in full view, and that knife was well below where I could reach.
“Guys,” I said.
“Shut-up,” Skull said.
“I gotta piss.”
“Go ahead and piss.”
“Just piss myself you mean.”
Juke said, “Don’t bother us! We’re busy!..Two kings.”
Skull said, “Three tens.”
“Aw, fuck you, Skull! Nobody’s that fuckin’ lucky.”
Skull took no offense, shuffling what looked to me like greasy cards. “I am that fucking lucky. You are looking at the lucky fucker who is that fucking lucky.”
I said, “I piss myself, fellas, it’s gonna smell in here. Worse than you two already do.”
That at least got their attention.
Both ugly faces turned my way. I had a better view of Juke than Skull, not that that was a privilege. But I did sort of enjoy how his face turned bright red under the wispy carrot-color beard and the way his little eyes popped in their pouches.
Then they turned back to their game, not mad enough to come over and cuff me or anything.
Absently, Skull said to me, “Shut the fuck up, asshole.” Then to Juke: “Wanna cut?”
“Bet your ass I wanna cut,” Juke said. “These all the cards we got?”
“These are all the cards we got. Hell, man, they’re your cards!”
“My cards maybe. But not my fuckin’ morning.”
I said, “You think the guy you’re holding me for wants to have to talk to somebody who smells like ten kinds of piss? Let me use the fucking can already.”
Skull sighed grandly and threw the cards on the table. “Jesus! You are more fucking trouble than you are worth.” He swiveled in the booth and glared at me. “You know the cans in here aren’t working. Water’s shut off. You were here the other day. You see a honeywagon out there? Not fuckin’ hardly. Hold your goddamn water…Aces and fours.”
“Fuck you, Skull! Shit! Jesus.”
Skull was laughing and hauling in pills.
“Then walk me outside,” I said. “Look, you want me to piss myself? I’ll piss myself. That’ll get you in solid with your boss.”
Juke said, “He’s gettin’ on my fuckin’ nerves, man.”
“You wanna walk him out for a piss,” Skull said reasonably, “walk him out for a piss. But he’s all yours. You gotta unwrap the Christmas present, and wrap it the fuck back up. Whole enchilada.”
“No biggie,” Juke said, and got up and came over quickly, saying back to his partner, “Anyway, I gotta piss, too. You know what they say about beer. You can’t buy it, y’can only rent the sumbitch.”
