'I won't be but a minute.' Eddie scooted toward the cantina, almost knocking over a waiter coming through the swinging door. He moved through the kitchen to the rear door and ran into the alley. No one tried to stop him. The lane paralleled the plaza and ran straight to the main drag. Eddie took off in a sprint, tugging his arm out of the sling. He ripped off his shirt, yanked the harness free, and threw the contraption to the ground. He veered through the backyard of a small house and onto the street, stopping to catch his breath. Ahead, he could see Kerney walking toward the strip, making slow progress. He stepped into the darkness at the side of a house and checked for Benton behind him. Nothing yet. The street was quiet. A few viejos were on the front steps of a house, enjoying the mild evening.
Eddie froze as a car drove out of the plaza coming in his direction. As it passed under a streetlamp, Eddie recognized the driver and relaxed; it was one of De Leon customers. He started running again. He had heard De Leon order Kerney killed, and he needed to reach the lieutenant before Benton showed up. *** Greg Benton saw an obese cop at the end of the square chasing some kids away from a Range Rover. He called him over, gave him a fistful of dollars, and asked about a gringo in a suit with a limp. The cop pointed in the direction of the main drag and told him Kerney was on foot. He ran his car up on the sidewalk to avoid the parked vehicles on the plaza, found an opening, bumped into the street, and floored the gas pedal, burning rubber as he accelerated toward the strip. He flicked on his high beams and saw two men on the sidewalk about a hundred yards apart. He passed the first one; some punk in white pants running at full tilt. Up ahead Kerney moved in an awkward gait. Benton laughed; it was a ludicrous sight.
First Kerney, Benton decided. If the kid posed a problem, he would deal with it later. Kerney heard the car coming and left the street at a run, disappearing between two houses. Tires screeched on the street, and he ran faster. He pulled himself over a backyard fence, ducked under the low branches of a tree, and doubled back down the cobblestone alley. He needed to find cover and something to use as a weapon. Benton left the car in the street and gave chase on foot. He stopped at a backyard fence next to an alley, where the low branch of a tree moved gently in the still air. He listened for sounds and heard a slight clacking of heels on the cobblestones. Kerney was moving back toward the Little Turtle.
Benton smiled to himself and reached for the knife in his ankle sheath. It would be a good hunt after all. He stepped into the alley and started stalking. *** As far as Kerney could tell, he was alone in the alley. He found the jagged top of an oil drum that had been cut with a welding torch and a stubby piece of metal pipe. They would have to do. He stood with his back against the wall of a shed listening to the rats inside squeak at his presence. He knew someone was out there, going, he hoped, in the wrong direction. He took a fast look down the alley. The light from the concourse gave him enough illumination to pick up any movement. Nothing. A car door slammed and he pulled back his head. The sound was followed by rapid, loud Spanish. Somebody wanted to know who the asshole was who had left his car parked in the middle of the street. He looked again and saw movement, a shadowy ripple against the light. The movement stopped under a solitary tree, a good fifty feet away. Slowly Kerney crouched down, hoping his attacker would be searching at eye level. Risking one last glimpse, Kerney saw a discernible shape moving cautiously in his direction. Kerney held his breath and waited until the man was almost on top of him. When he saw the knife, he came out of his crouch and swung the stubby pipe at the man's head. Benton skipped back and kicked, the blow landing full force on Kerney's bad knee. The leg caved in and put Kerney on his back. Rolling to avoid another kick, he threw the lid as a distraction and scrambled to his feet, his back against the shed wall, waiting for the man's next move. He was the gray-eyed bodybuilder with the scar on his chin. Benton laughed. He had a knife in his hand, held low so it could rip into the belly.
'Can't you do any better than that?' he jeered. Benton stepped in for the kill, feinting an overhand lunge at Kerney's chest. He stopped the thrust in midair, rotated his wrist, and arched the blade up to slash Kerney's gut. Kerney slammed the metal pipe on Benton's wrist. Benton grunted and sprang back as Kerney tried to swipe him across the face.
'Now you're trying,' he said indulgently. The son of a bitch isn't even breathing hard, Kerney marveled. His knee locked up as he circled to the center of the alley. Benton turned with him, relaxed and watchful. He came at Kerney in a textbook move: wheeling, faking a kick, driving the point of the knife at Kerney's exposed torso. Stepping into the thrust, Kerney turned sideways, caught the knife hand, locked the pipe against the wrist, and wrenched it back with all his strength until the bones snapped. Benton yelled in agony as the knife clattered to the ground, and hammered a solid left into Kerney's eye with his good hand.
Kerney held on to the wrist, trying to bend the man to his knees. Refusing to go down, Benton hit Kerney again, flush in the mouth, followed by a solid smash to the stomach. The blow put Kerney on his hands and knees, with a searing pain that exploded in his stomach. His vision blurred, he clawed desperately on the cobblestones, searching for the pipe. He had to get to his feet. He tried to push himself upright. The knee failed, and as he tried again he felt the knife against his throat.
'You son of a bitch,' Benton rasped. 'You broke my fucking wrist.' The man bent over him, his gray eyes locked on Kerney's face, savoring his victory. Get it over with, Kerney's mind screamed. The jagged oil-drum top came out of nowhere, like a discus. The rusty, sharp edge caught Benton in the neck and severed the artery. Blood gushed over Kerney as Benton turned toward his attacker, both hands clutching his neck. He crumpled to the ground, his dying heart pumping blood into a pool that seeped into the porous cobblestones around his head. Kerney clutched his stomach, blinked away the pain, looked at the man walking toward him, and didn't believe what he saw. It was the hunchback from the Little Turtle, only he wasn't a jorobado anymore.
'Who the hell are you?' he asked, speaking between the jolts that ripped through his stomach.
'Eddie Tapia. Provost Marshal's Office. Criminal investigations. White Sands.' He bent over Kerney.
'Are you all right, Lieutenant?'
'No, I'm not all right.' Eddie inspected Kerney again, more closely. He was beat up, but the damage seemed superficial.
'You seem to be in one piece,' he said.
'Hardly.'
'Are you cut?'
Kerney shook his head.
'Forget it. Just a private joke.' He held out a hand.
'Help me up.'
'Can you walk?'
'Of course I can.' On his feet, Kerney felt light-headed. If he could puke, maybe he would feel better. He swayed, and Eddie grabbed him around the waist to keep him steady.
'Can you make it to Benton's car?' Eddie asked.
'Benton's car?' Kerney repeated vaguely, wondering if Benton was the dead man.
'Yeah. He left the keys in the ignition.'
'Let's go.' At the car, Eddie checked for any sign of Carlos, hurried Kerney inside the vehicle, and drove to the main drag as quickly as possible. Surrounded by Friday-night traffic and heading toward the bridge, he risked a glance at Kerney. The lieutenant, doubled over with his head between his legs, seemed to be gagging. Kerney sat up and rested his head against the back of the seat.
'I just threw up,' he said. 'Sorry about that.'
'I know how it feels,' Eddie said. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, rolled down the window, and turned on the air conditioner.
'Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?' Eddie asked. *** Enrique De Leon paced on the loading dock waiting for Carlos to return with Eddie. Carlos would have to be punished. His inattentiveness had allowed the jorobado to flee. A beating would improve his attitude. He heard footsteps running down the alley. The warehouse foreman moved to his side protectively, pistol in hand. Carlos arrived winded, and stood looking up at De Leon with a distressed expression. He placed a bundle on the dock at De Leon feet.
'The hunchback was a fake, patron,' he said. De Leon knelt and inspected the bundle. Inside the arm sling was an elaborate harness and cowhide skin formed into a hump with padding. The cowhide, expertly tanned and supple to the touch, felt remarkably lifelike.
'What else?' De Leon said, rising. Carlos held up a knife.
'Benton is dead, Don Enrique.'
De Leon raised an eyebrow.
'Really?' It was unexpected news.
