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By Root 703 0

was referring to it as our can, or why finding it required battering me, but it was there. Perhaps I was a bit confused. That, along with, you know, my general exhaustion, emotional chaos, and fedupness with being fucked around got the better of my good manners as a host and the next thing I knew I was twisting and swinging the huge old phone my hand had found and listening to it make the kind of heavy thunk against a man's shin that only genuine craftsmanship can produce. This, followed by a faint ringing as the bell inside was jangled by the blow. A tone, oddly, in perfect harmony with the ringing still sounding in my ears from the shots Gabe had fired.

The guy, with what I can only assume was a genuinely desperate bladder condition, hopped off me and dropped into the Barcalounger that Chev had bought at the Melrose Trading Post, and clutched his shin.

—Fuck! Ow! Fuck!

I pushed myself off the floor and went to the wall and turned on the light and looked at him, a guy for whom the terms wiry and 'pockmarked had been invented. He may also have been the inspiration for gap toothed, scraggly haired and waxen. White trash, I assume, goes without saying. But if one needs to have the point emphasized, I can draw attention to the oversize Dale Earnhardt, Senior, memorial-motif tank top he was wearing.

I blinked and looked at his bandaged shoulder and hand.

—I don't know you.

—You know me, son?

I turned, looked at the guy on the couch who had just spoken. He was tall and lean and wore well-used cowboy boots, jeans, Levi jacket, and a face that was just slightly more weathered than his clothes. Oh, and the gun in his work-gloved hand was really fucking big.

I figured answering him was a good thing to do.

—I'm gonna say no and hope it's the right answer.

The guy with the bandages picked up the phone and hit me in the back of the neck with it.

—Want our fucking can.

He may have said more nonsensical shit, but I was way too knocked out to hear it.

—Guy wake up, come on, get it together.

I got it together. No, that's a lie. I woke up, but I did not get it together. Not even a little bit. What I did was come to and discover a wrenching pain at the back of my neck, my hands tied behind my back, and the dude with the bandaged hand shoving a cellphone against my ear.

—Someone wants to talk to you, asshole. Wake up and listen.

The phone was ringing. It stopped, the line clicked, and one of those robot voices started talking.

Hello, you have reached 209-673-9003. Please leave a message.

I looked at the guy.

—What should I say?

—What? Say? Just answer the question.

—I. What question? It's voice mail.

—What? Jesus fucking.

He held the phone to his own ear.

—Sonofabitch.

Fingers snapped.

We both looked at the cowboy on the couch with the gun.

—Just dial it again, Talbot.

Talbot disconnected and started to dial.

—Fucker doesn't have any sense.

He listened to the phone ring, nodded at the cowboy.

—Here we go. Hello. It's me. Yeah. Well why the hell didn't you pick up? So take it off vibrate and turn on the damn ringer. No, do it later. OK. She there? Fuck you, I know she's not going anywhere. I meant is she next to you. So put her on.

He stuck the phone against my ear.

I cleared my throat.

—Uh, hello?

—Web?

—Yeeeah?

—Is that you?

—Yeah.

—What the hell are they doing with you?

—I.

I looked at Talbot.

—She wants to know what the hell you're doing with me.

—She? Damn it.

He took the phone from my ear and spoke into it.

—Bitch, just tell him what you were told to say. Jesus.

He put the phone at my ear again.

—Fucking people.

The voice on the phone spoke again, still a little blurred by my ringing ears.

—Web?

—Yeah?

—I think I've been kidnapped.

I swallowed.

—Soledad?

—They want their container, Web. They say to get it for them fast or they'll do something to me.

—Wait. Hang on. I.

I looked at the Talbot.

—What container?

He slapped me.

—The can, fucker. Listen to the girl.

I listened.

—Go ahead.

—They want their container. They'll give you a number to call when you have it. They want it