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 fuck 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 fucking 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 hell you’re talking about.
He gets up and shrugs his open shirt 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, nobody 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 assholes. 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 assholes. 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.
– Fuck 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 balls 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 nobody should get hurt.
I exhale. Because
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, fucker!
T slumps farther. Hitler edges forward.
– Control that fuckin’ 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 bitch.
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 Hitler in midair, passes 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 shins 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 Hitler 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 cushions and flings it at Ron as he swings his gun back in our direction, pumping another shell into the chamber. Ron ducks and Rolf jumps across the table at him.
Terry rolls and squirms around as Hitler 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 gushing 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 butt, 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 glass 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.
