The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death - Charlie Huston [90]
—Web.
—But that he can't tell between PVC and steel is another.
—Web.
The legs of his chair came down.
—Boy, will you acknowledge the girl, for peace sake?
I rubbed my shin where he'd kicked me.
—I don't want to talk to her.
She clapped her hands to her head.
—Why? What the hell did I do?
I pulled up my pant leg and looked at the big purple lump.
—She knows what she did.
—No, I don't, I really don't!
I looked at Harris.
—She so knows what she did.
She got up.
—What I did? What I did? What I did was like you! What I did was need someone to hold me.
She came across the room at me.
—What I did was fuck you and have you freak out in the morning and I walked outside when you told me to get away from you and got kidnapped by the Oakridge Boys!
Harris leaned forward in his seat.
—Settle down now.
—You fucked asshole?
We looked at Jaime, still wedged between the bed and the wall, but newly roused from the nap he'd been taking.
She stuck a finger in my face.
—Yes, I did. And it was nice. And I needed it. And I thought he was cool and safe. But he's acting like every asshole I've ever fucked, by turning into a dick now that he's gotten some.
Harris knocked on the table.
—Said settle down.
Jaime flipped me off.
—Knew you were an asshole.
I raised my hands.
—Hey hey I tried to talk you out of it.
—Oh yeah, you tried so hard!
I got off the bed.
—I did! I did! I knew it was screwed up and I tried, but you were all over me.
—All over you! OK, sure, I was all over you. But I. Shit. I. Oh, Web.
—Settle down!
Harris grabbed her by the hair and swung her around and slapped her and shoved her face down onto the carpet. Jaime started to push up from between the bed and wall and Harris planted his heel in the back of Soledad's neck and Jaime dropped back to the floor.
I didn't move.
Not being used to violence happening around me until recently, I didn't have a chance to move. But that didn't make Harris any more reluctant about planting the barrel of his revolver under my chin.
The barrel of a gun, it's cold to the touch.
I felt a vibration down that cold steel barrel as he cocked the hammer and the cylinder rotated and a live round slid into alignment with my brain. He pushed up and brought my eyes to his.
—Do you know why you are alive?
Well, there are questions and there are questions, yes? Sometimes you get asked the same question you've been asking yourself for a year. So you have the answer right there at your fingertips.
As did I.
—Man, I do not. I really don't.
He chucked my chin with the barrel.
—You are alive to clean up the mess after I kill these two. Because you have screwed me over.
A radio switched on and Waylon Jennings started singing “Lonesome, On'ry and Mean.”
Harris let a few bars play
—Come with me.
He backed toward the table, the gun still under my chin, and I came along with him, hoping he wouldn't trip. He reached back for his cellphone, felt for it, opened it and the song stopped playing.
—Hello?
Behind his sealed lips, Harris ran his tongue over his teeth.
—And?
He listened for a bit, nodded a little.
—See you then.
He took the phone away, snapped it shut.
—Hn.
The cold barrel came away from my skin.
—Back up.
I did.
He pointed at the bed.
I sat.
He nodded.
—Well, can was there, ready to roll. And he is rollin'. Which, I have to say that is an interesting turn of events.
He started to bring the gun back up.
—Not that it really changes much for you all.
The door swung open and Mr. Big Ten Four crashed through and stumbled into the wall next to the bathroom door and left a bloodstain when his battered face slapped against it. Harris twisted, the barrel of the gun rotating away from us and toward his partner.
—What the hell?
Mr. Big Ten Four slid down the wall, streaking blood, one arm out, pointing toward the door. Harris continued to swivel, bringing the gun around, looking for the threat.