“Son of a—oh, come on,” I muttered.
“Some sort of problem,
“That pickup truck means trouble.”
“For us?” “For me,” I said. “Listen. Get out there and tell them I’m gone. Say some other police car came to pick me up, and I left the motorcycle here. Can you do that?”
“
“Best get everyone out of here.” I motioned to the women and children. “Maybe they’ll come in for me or maybe not, but it could get ugly.” I let my hand rest on the revolver.
He nodded and translated. The kid and my smoking buddy herded the rest from the concession stand. I backed into the shadows, watched through the window. The truck parked three feet from the Harley Davidson. Damn.
One man got out of the driver’s side, another from the passenger side. Both held shotguns. Damn. Damn. Damn.
I pulled my revolver, watched and waited.
The guy who’d been in the driver’s seat looked only vaguely familiar, a broad-shouldered cowboy with messy brown hair and a square jaw, maybe a couple years older than me. I recognized the passenger immediately.
Blake Harper was a rat-faced string-bean, with hunched shoulders and a bony chest. His greasy hair fell into his eyes and down past the collar of his plaid shirt. Patchy Elvis sideburns. He looked so thin and brittle and bony, I thought one good punch would knock him into a thousand pieces.
Blake had been Luke Jordan’s toady little kiss-ass sidekick in high school. Back then, he’d been too cowardly to try anything too ambitious himself, mostly he just stood in the background and laughed at Luke’s stupid jokes while Luke pounded some freshman or snapped girls’ bra straps. Upon returning home, I’d heard Blake had moved up the food chain half a notch, ripping off cars stranded on the Interstate and stealing mail from people’s boxes. All of it rumors and nothing ever proved. Finally, Blake tied a chain to an ATM machine, tied the other end to his pickup and tried to take off. A security camera caught the whole thing, and he ended up serving a couple years.
He got out of prison and returned to Coyote Crossing to resume toadying duties with the Jordans. Apparently, they had the whole roster of douche bags out after my ass.
A group of five Mexicans approached Blake and his pal, including the Mexican holding the length of pipe. Blake lifted his shotgun, and the Mexicans backed off. They traded words, but I couldn’t hear. The Mexicans finally moved off toward the bonfire, and I saw Blake and his buddy put their heads together to confer. They pointed, nodded, and Blake’s pal headed for the big Drive-in screen.
Blake came straight at me.
I backed up to the service counter, swung myself over, keeping my eyes on the window the whole time, Blake still coming with the shotgun in his hands, not in much of a hurry. I was aware of the doorway to the kitchen behind me, and I was banking there was a back way out.
I let the darkness of the kitchen swallow me as I eased back, stopping when my butt hit something solid, some kind of counter or stove maybe. I kept the door and window in view, still watching Blake’s steady progress. He drifted out of sight as he got close, and I braced myself for the front door to open, a tight grip on my revolver.
At first, I thought maybe Blake had changed his mind. I waited, and nothing happened.
Then the door slowly creaked open. Blake wasn’t going to blunder in. He was being careful, knew I might be in here. I only wanted him to go away.
The shotgun barrel came in first, then his hand and one of his legs.
I backed around behind the stove, made myself small.
Blake was trying to keep quiet, but his boots scraped against the grit on the floor. He poked the shotgun into every corner, searching. I held my breath. I didn’t have any doubt Blake was coming to splatter me with buckshot. Maybe I should jump up quick and shoot first, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to shoot anyone. I just wanted this long night to end. And anyway, Blake’s pal was out there someplace with another shotgun and would probably come running. If I shot at Blake and missed, it’d be two against one.
He came around the counter, and I heard him poking into cabinets. A second later he was right there, his silhouette in the kitchen doorway, standing there like the perfect target.
And I thought about it. I really did. It would be so easy to point the revolver and squeeze the trigger two or three times.
Blake peered into the darkness, hunched forward trying to see. He reached along the wall, looking for the light switch. When he found it, he flipped it up and down a half-dozen times, but there wasn’t any power. He muttered something under his breath I didn’t catch and took a step into the kitchen.
I pressed myself back into the dark corner between the wall and the cold steel oven. A trickle of sweat made an itch down the center of my back. More sweat in my eyes. My heart beat like some kind of
Blake’s head turned slowly one way, and then the other.
And then he backed out.
I heard the front door open and close again. I let out a ragged breath, put a hand on the oven next to me to push myself up, my knees all watery.
I saw the outline of a back door across the kitchen and went for it. I tripped on something and my hand went out. I hit a stack of pots and pans and they clattered and banged on the floor like the end of the world.
“Shit!”
I ran for the back door but didn’t make it. The room flashed and thundered, buckshot pellets scorching the pots and pans next to me. Blake stood half in the kitchen doorway, firing blind at the sound. I spun quick, shot twice, and he ducked back.
Blake screamed, “Harris!”
I knew I needed to get out before Harris arrived, but I kept low when Blake swung the shotgun into the kitchen again and blasted buckshot over my head. I fired again just for the noise to make him back off, and tried to work the rusted slide bolt on the back door. I heard him pump another shell and hit the floor again just before he blasted. I shot at his feet, and he backed off again.
“Harris!” Blake screamed. “Goddamn it, I got him trapped in the snack bar. Get your ass over here.”
“You’re under arrest, Blake.” It was worth a try.
“Fuck you, Toby.” He stuck the shotgun around the corner and shot the ceiling.
I holstered the revolver and pulled Karl’s Glock. I aimed a foot left of the kitchen door where I imagined Blake stood ready to rush in and cut loose on me with the shotgun. I squeezed the trigger four times, chewed up the wall. The smoke hung thick from all the gunfire. I heard a grunt and a thud out in the front area of the concession stand.
I waited a second, kept the automatic aimed at the doorway. I heard a muffled groan. Good. Blake got his. Lie there and bleed, you son of a bitch.
I bashed the slide bolt open with the heel of my hand, and it finally came loose. I kicked the door hard, and it flew wide. I rushed out, the Glock leading the way.
The back of the concession stand: an old dumpster, a rusted junk car. Crappy picnic tables.
The first blast peppered the wall next to me. I dove for the ground. I saw the flash from the second blast. I felt a sting along my left leg and grunted.
Harris.
I looked up to see him breaking the breach on his double-barrel shotgun, thumbing in new shells. I shot at him and the slug
I got to my feet, ran and dove behind the junk car. I raised up just enough to look over the hood. I waited for his head to pop out for a look, so I could blast it off. He stayed put.
“Harris!” I called. “Harris, come out with your hands up. Throw out the gun, and you don’t have to end up like Blake.”
Maybe that would shake him up.
He didn’t say anything and didn’t show his face. I was-n’t eager to show mine either. I crouch-walked around
