Shotgun Opera

want him. Where is he??

?He left,? Mike said. ?He was here before, but he?s gone now. What do you want with him??

?Gone, you say.? The Hispanic put the axe handle under his arm, dug into his jacket and came out with a cigar and matches, struck the match, puffed the cigar hot and glowing.

Now, while he?s lighting the cigar, Mike thought. It was his chance to make a move. But Mike sat frozen. He was still light-headed, and there was a sharp, tight pain in his side. The axe handle had probably taken out a few ribs, bruised them anyway. Mike sat there like a useless lump.

The man looked at Linda, exhaled smoke. ?Andrew no esta aqui, eh? Like the old man say, verdad??

Linda opened her mouth, shook her head, and shrugged.

?He say the boy is gone. That?s true or no??

?He?s gone,? Linda said.

?Too bad.? He gripped the axe handle tight with both hands, swung it around. ?I maybe have to help you remember where he went, yes??

Mike cleared his throat. He needed to get his second wind, stall for time. ?What?s this about? I think there must be some kind of mistake. We didn?t do anything.?

The Hispanic guy ignored him, pulled back the curtains on the front windows, and peered into the night. ?Dark as shit out here. You live in butt-fuck, Egypt, man.?

?We told you he ain?t here,? Mike said. ?What do you want? Money??

?What?s in those other rooms?? He pointed with the axe handle. ?He in there, maybe??

?A bedroom and a kitchen,? Mike said. ?Over there?s the bathroom. Have a look if you want.?

Mr. Purple Suit circled the table, still swinging the axe handle. He glanced into each room. ?Maybe we just wait, eh? And Andrew Foley will be along.? He puffed the cigar, filled the room with a layer of gray-blue smoke.

Mike had to do something. Any minute Andrew or Keone would come blithely through the front door, and that would be the end of them all. Mike understood the situation almost instantly. This was Andrew?s hired killer. Somehow he?d tracked him to Mike?s home. And when he killed Andrew, it was doubtful he?d leave any live witnesses behind him. Mike would have to make a move. Soon.

* * *

Enrique Mars leaned in close to the woman, his cigar two inches from her face. He puffed, and her eyes watered. ?Do I make you nervous, chica??

She flinched away from his hot breath but said nothing.

In his peripheral vision, Mars saw the old man squirm. He spun, swung the axe handle in a wide arc, bringing the end to a stop right under Mike?s chin. ?You don?t like me to mess with her, old man? Is this your bitch? You fuck her, eh??

The old man lifted his chin, met Mars?s gaze. Some tough old shit, eh? Mars recognized the type. Probably the jefe with the big balls back in the day. But this wasn?t back in the day. This was right now, and Mars was the man. And he was tired of fucking with this feeble old motherfucker and his black bitch. He wanted answers, and he wanted them right fucking now.

Mars grabbed a fistful of the woman?s hair, tugged sharply. She yelped. Her hands flew up, grabbed Mars?s wrist. She struggled.

He yanked her hair hard. ?Shut up. Be still.?

She froze, her hands still holding Mars?s wrist.

Mars set the axe handle aside, leaned it against the wall. Still holding her hair, he took the cigar from his mouth with his other hand. He grinned, the cigar hovering an inch from her face. He looked at the old man.

?I brand her for you, yes??

?We told you he isn?t here,? the old man said. ?What do you want us to do??