I could barely whisper. “Not one dime,” I said.
“That’s enough.” Roy cut me off with a sharp glance. “Say another word, and I’ll throw the both of you out.”
Big John headed for the door. “I got a gun of my own,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
“Wonderful,” Roy said.
A second later the bartender slammed a shot of whiskey onto the bar.
I drank it straight down.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” I said. “I’ve got to find my buddy. That girl… Doreen… you know where she lives?”
Roy nodded. “Apartment above a T-shirt shop. Across the street, about a half a block up.”
Jesus. That wasn’t much help. Every other store on the street was a T-shirt shop. “What’s the name of the place?” I asked.
Roy looked me dead in the eye.
“Big John’s,” Roy said, and then he sighed.
Happiness. Yeah. I know the definition of that.
Scotty’s Junction in your rearview mirror and Vegas comin’ up.
“Let that motherfucker try to mess with us!” I yell. “His ass didn’t know what he was in for!”
Mitch doesn’t say a word. I wonder if I’ve gone too far. I’m damn happy about the money. I’m happy about Big John, too. But Mitch isn’t.
Maybe it’s Doreen… Maybe that’s it… Maybe he’s worried about her.
Hell. He doesn’t have to worry. Big John isn’t going to lay a hand on Doreen. Not anymore.
I glance over at Mitch, at his T-shirt. At those bullet holes. I want him to be happy. I want us to be like Yul Brynner and Steve McQueen, headed for boot hill in The Magnificent Seven.
What was it Steve asked when those lousy sidewinders took a shot at Yul?
“You get elected?” Yeah. That was it.
I ask Mitch, “You get elected?”
He doesn’t say a word. So I say them for him.
“No, but I got nominated real good. ”
“You don’t want to mess with him,” Roy said. “Big John Dingo’s a real asshole. He’s been around town for a few years now. Blew in with a string of schemes that were gonna make him rich. He thought so, anyway. First it was the Big John Dingo Gunslinger machine. He fixed that old relic up for us, got the idea that he was gonna sell them things to every bar in the nation. Of course, reality sort of disabused him of that notion. Then it was the T-shirt shop. Then… well, poor Doreen… Shit, she ain’t the homecoming queen, but ain’t no girl deserves to have her man turnin’ her out.”
I heard what Roy said, but I was about three steps past him. “Let me borrow your gun.”
“Let me call the sheriff.”
“No,” I said. “We don’t have time for that. Dingo’s crazy. He said he was going after his own gun. And if he finds Doreen with my buddy — ”
“He don’t know the fella’s your friend. Hell, Doreen with another man… that’s just business as usual, as far as Big John’s concerned.”
“Oh, yeah. He won’t mind finding another man banging his girl after some lucky son of a bitch made a fortune off a quarter that he dropped on a barroom floor.”
“Don’t forget him gettin’ run off by a geriatric bartender with a gun,” one of the barflies put in.
“Yeah.” Roy sighed. “You boys maybe have a couple of good points there.”
“You bet your ass we do,” I said. “Let me borrow your gun.”
Roy stared down at the pistol. Then he glanced at the three buckets of dollar coins resting on the bar.
He squinted at me. “Can’t loan you my gun,” he said. “But might be you could get me to sell it, if the price was right.”
I pushed one of the buckets his way.
“I don’t know… ” Roy said.
I pushed another bucket across the bar.
Roy smiled. “That’ll about do her.”
If Mitch doesn’t want to talk, that’s fine with me.
Maybe he wants to pout. Maybe he wishes he would have hung around, tried his luck on the slots instead of chasing after Doreen.
He’s used to bailing me out. He’s used to it.
But that’s not what happened tonight.
Tonight the shoe was on the other foot.
Tonight it was my turn.
Maybe Mitch can’t handle that. I don’t care. I stare down at the bucket between his feet.
I don’t care at all.
Let him pout.
I shove a tape into the cassette deck.
I pump up the volume and punch the gas.
The not-so-bright lights of Beatty, comin’ right up.
I stepped onto the plank sidewalk — the gun clutched in one sweaty hand, the bucket of dollar coins cradled under my other arm — and I almost bumped into him.
Mitch, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, wearing a SLOWEST GUN IN VIRGINIA CITY T-shirt and carrying a bag of high-priced souvenirs.
“Shit,” he said, spotting the gun in my hand. “What the hell are you doing, Kurt?”
I’m holding onto this damn bucket of dollars, I thought. That’s what I’m doing. You damn near made me spill my money all over this fucking sidewalk —
“Kurt,” Mitch said. “Hey, Kurt. What’s up with the gun?”
“Did you see him?” I asked, glancing over Mitch’s shoulder at the empty street.
“Who?”
“Dingo.” I shook my head, trying to clear it, but shaking my head only made me feel the punch I’d taken, and my ears started ringing again.
“Who are you talking about?”
“John,” I shouted, barely able to hear myself. “John Dingo. Did you see him?”
“Big John Dingo?” Mitch laughed. “Sure I saw him. He walked straight out of the Bucket of Blood
