Seconds later the two men are riding right on my tail. We’re doing seventy-five miles per hour, almost eighty. They’re spread out, one behind me on the left, the other behind me on the right. Both of them have their weapons drawn. I hit the brake just a little and they zoom past, both looking back at me as the same time. I do a quick eeny, meeny, miny, moe, and then I raise the gun, fire at the man to my right. The bullets hit him in the back. He goes down hard, the bike scraping against the highway, spitting up sparks.
The other man points his gun back at me. He starts firing. I duck and swerve off to the left and—shit—lose the Glock in the process.
The man veers wide to the right. He glances my way, starts to drop back. I accelerate. I push it hard, watching the glowing needle go up to eighty, eighty-five, ninety, and I concentrate on the highway, on the cars and taxis and tractor-trailers, swerving from one lane to the next, knowing the man is right on my tail. No way is he going to try to take another shot, not at this speed, but then again I have run into dumber dipshits, so maybe this one will surprise me.
I try calling Nova or Scooter, but my voice is too muffled because of the helmet. Besides, the transmitter only goes up to two miles, and if everything went accordingly, they should already be headed to the garage.
The interchange is coming up fast. I make a split-second decision and veer right, merging onto 515. I continue on for maybe a tenth of a mile and then slow for the exit. Next thing I know I’m back on Las Vegas Boulevard. Driving up three blocks and then pulling over onto the side of the street, I jump off the bike, take off my helmet, and glance back the way I came.
Roland’s man has kept up and is coming my way.
Making sure he sees me, I wait another moment and then turn and start down Fremont Street.
Despite the late hour, the place is packed. At this time of night, the freaks have come out. I figure with my outfit I should blend right in, but still I get a few stares, even a whistle. I glance back, expecting to see Roland’s man having ditched his bike, following me now on foot. But I’ll be damned if the crazy son of a bitch hasn’t driven up onto the sidewalk. He’s revving his engine as he maneuvers around people trying to scurry out of his way, and he has the gun in hand, as if he isn’t making himself conspicuous enough.
If there is a God, he’d have police swarm on this stupid schmuck right now, but maybe God’s busy playing craps at the Golden Nugget. I am by myself, surrounded by people, and without looking back—with just sensing it—I know Roland’s man has seen me.
I approach the Four Queens, quickly dart into the casino. If I draw some stares, I’m not aware of it, because I keep my focus on the entrance. I position myself to the side, the helmet in my hands. I wait. Listening to the sounds of the casino, listening to the hushed murmur of disembodied voices, I can just hear the motorcycle approaching. I hear it shut off.
Roland’s man appears moments later. He still has his gun out in one hand. I figure, what the hell, for anyone watching now it’d be self-defense, and as he takes a step forward I wind up my arm holding the helmet and smash it right into his face.
He goes down hard. The gun clatters to the ground. I kick it out of his reach and keep wailing on him with the helmet. It’s just like déjà vu, like I’m back in the bedroom with Jerold. Only now I have a captive audience, people having gone silent watching. The only sounds are the bells and whistles of the slot machines. I smell sweat and cigarette smoke and the distant aroma of the buffet. The man’s face has become a bloody mess.
I stand up straight, drop the helmet, and turn back to everyone staring at me.
“This bastard just tried raping me!” I shout.
Then I walk away, dipping low to pick up the gun, concealing it in my shirt as I disappear into the moving crowd of freaks.
Nine
The boys aren’t happy with me.
Scooter hasn’t spoken to me since I’ve returned to the garage. He keeps himself busy packing up his computers on the table. Every couple seconds he glances back at me with a scowl as he chomps on his gum.
I guess it doesn’t matter though. Nova does enough talking for both of them. Standing in front of me, his arms crossed, he says, “Just what the fuck were you thinking?”
“You mean back at the hotel? I was thinking about staying alive. Besides, what the hell do you care? Not like you had to do any hard work.”
“Actually, for your information, your little friend over there and I ran into some trouble. One of Roland’s men was hanging out by the garage entrance.”
I roll my eyes, shake my head. “God, just how many henchmen did this bastard have?”
“He came at us with his gun drawn. He even aimed the fucking thing at my head.”
“Well,” I say, crossing my arms now to match Nova, “judging by the fact you’re standing here telling me this captivating story, I’m guessing you made it out alive.”
“Just barely. The fucker actually took a shot at us. I had to bat the gun away, hit him in the throat, break his
