Spares - Michael Marshall Smith [120]
And there was something else, something rising inside me. A need I knew I was going to be unable to deny.
A need for radical and extreme vengeance.
We walked down the road a few hundred yards, Vinaldi with his thumb held out despite the fact that there weren’t any cars. Even the picture of New Richmond’s premier “businessman” trying to hitch a ride couldn’t break my mood. Nearly soon picked up on this and stopped complaining. She walked a little to one side of me, taking her turn at carrying the cat, and I sensed her glancing at me now and then. I hoped she wasn’t going to ask me anything, because there was nothing I wanted to say.
A car passed us after a while, but wisely resisted the temptation to pick up three weirdos out for a walk in the back of beyond in the middle of winter. Ten minutes later another car came by, and this one at least slowed; but then it swished off again, taking its yellow lamps with it and leaving us with nothing except the crunch of our boots in the snow.
Then finally a car did stop, driving up the road toward us and pulling to a halt when it was level. Loud trance country spewed out of the windows, and four drunks lurked inside. They were all very large, and wore microfiber-check shirts. Three sported the kind of beards which make you look like you’ve glued a raccoon to your face. The other’s face was so ugly he didn’t even need a beard. The driver peered at us, guffawed merrily, and conferred briefly with the guy in the passenger seat. Then the driver opened his door and got out of the car.
“Well, look here,” he said, swaggering up until he stood a couple of feet from Nearly, his legs planted solidly apart. “What’s a girl like you doing out walking with a couple of queers on a night like this?”
“Thanking God I’m not in that car with you,” Nearly quipped, with her unique talent for diplomacy.
“Funny you should say that,” the man said with a smile, “’cuz that’s just what we had in mind. Thought maybe we’d try to warm you up.” Behind him, a back door opened and No-Beard in the rear seat put his foot out onto the snow. Meanwhile his buddy turned his attention to Vinaldi and me. “You two gentlemen can just step back and let us get on with this, or you can get the shit whaled out of you.” He shrugged at his cohorts in the car. “Think that’s a fair choice, don’t you, fellas?”
“More than fair,” drawled No-Beard. “Can’t no one say more fairer than that.”
The chief turd nodded happily and crossed his arms. “So. What’ll it be?”
“Hmm,” Vinaldi said mildly, looking away. “That’s a difficult one. Too difficult for a queer like me to answer, what with it being so cold and all, so my brain is nearly as frozen as yours.”
There was a pause. “What?” the guy said.
Vinaldi clicked his fingers, as if suddenly blessed by inspiration. “Hey,” he said. “I’ve come up with another option I’d like to run past you.”
“What the fuck you talking about? What option?”
“The one where I punch your face through the back of your head.” Suddenly, Vinaldi was an indistinguishable blur of movement. Chief Turd tried to parry the first couple of blows, but he didn’t have a prayer. Vinaldi’s fists moved too quickly for me to even see, and before anyone knew what was going on the guy was on the ground, blood flooding out of his nose. No-Beard was already halfway out of the car, but I kicked the door back into his face, then crunched it against his leg.
“Also,” I said, producing mine and pushing the barrel hard into one of his eyes, “we have large guns. So get out of the fucking car.”
Vinaldi and I herded the four of them off the road while Nearly climbed into the backseat of the car.