Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [61]
Durst snapped the gun shut. Jack had not had time to notice if it was loaded. The two dark cylinders pointed at his kneecaps. Suddenly they looked about a mile long.
‘You’re a son of a bitch,’ said Durst. He lifted the shotgun a little higher and pointed it precisely at Jack’s balls.
Clifford Harris walked out of the house and stood beside Durst, a double-barrel resting over his forearm, too. It looked more of an antique, the barrels side-by-side old style and engraved with Spanish-looking motifs, as was the stock and grip. He had been smiling as he walked out but when he saw Jack and Annabelle and then Durst, he stopped.
‘What’s going on?’
Durst and Harris wore identical, shiny brown leather vests with red and black cartridges slipped into ammunition sleeves cut into them — two sets of five over the chest, two more sets of five directly below. Between them they had enough to make a mess of a small family of woolly mammoths. Jack wondered if he should call out for MacAllister.
‘That’s the second gun I’ve seen you with in three days,’ he said to Durst. ‘You compensating for something?’
Annabelle moved towards him. ‘Jack, don’t.’
‘Get the fuck inside,’ snarled Durst at her. ‘Go find your daughter.’
‘Don’t talk to me like that!’ She spun around and advanced on Durst. The riding crop went up into the air. Durst grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside. She stumbled and hit the alcove wall with her shoulder. Jack took a step forwards. Durst lifted the shotgun higher.
‘Easy, lover boy.’
‘You fuck!’ cried Annabelle.
Clifford Harris put a hand on Durst’s shoulder. ‘Settle down. I think it’s best if we just ask Mr Susko to be on his way.’
Durst’s shotgun had moved slightly when he grabbed his ex-wife. Jack’s balls were safe again. He took a quick step forward and swung a right at Durst’s head: chin, cheek, eye, neck, anywhere was just fine. He connected mostly with ear, and a little with the area in front, where the jaw attaches to the skull. Fairy floss would be on the good doctor’s menu until Christmas. Durst stumbled backwards. Jack moved with him; a second later his left came round at the end of a tight, right-angled jab and caught Durst square on the chin. It looked good, much prettier than the first punch. Durst’s head snapped back again. The shotgun fell from his hands onto the flagstones. Annabelle yelled something and Harris moved at the edges of Jack’s vision, but Jack only had eyes for Durst. He grabbed a handful of leather vest and pulled Durst forward, away from the wall and into some space. He let go with another right, straight into the guts: the money shot, the one Jack had been saving up since the first time they met. All the air in Durst’s lungs blew out with a loud ooohff, like a gym mat being thrown to the floor. He went down and stayed down, curling up around his stomach and grimacing with pain.
Now they were even, with a little extra left over in the bank for Jack.
Somebody grabbed him from behind and pulled him backwards. They tried to pin his arms. Jack straightened up and threw his head back, hard as he could. He hit something bony and then heard a groan. His arms were no longer pinned. He turned around and saw MacAllister with his hands on his face.
‘Jesus!’ cried the big man as he doubled over. ‘Fuck!’
Harris froze and stared at MacAllister. Jack moved quickly and snatched the shotgun out of his hands. Harris hardly seemed to notice.
‘What’d you do that for?’ said MacAllister, wincing. ‘You’ve busted my fucking nose!’ He stood up again and then looked at his hands. They were covered in blood. His nose was raw and swollen. He spat on the ground. ‘Jesus!’
Annabelle went over to Jack and grabbed his arm. ‘You should go.’ She glanced down at Durst, still curled up on the flagstones, and then nodded