by G. M. Ford
Just as I jerked my leg free from the door, Cherokee pulled me close and butted me in the face. My nose exploded. My vision went haywire. I seemed to be looking in four directions at once. Everything was red. He was going to beat me to death with the stick. I cowered and waited for the rain of blows. Nothing followed but a series of low grunts.
I autofocused in time to see Norman riding Cherokee's shoulders in an insane game of piggyback. Cherokee reached over his back, took hold of Norman's coat, and threw him to the ground as easily as if he'd been removing a sweater. With a great whoosh of air, Norman hit the ground and rolled away. Blood rolled down over my chin and onto the front of my shirt. My upper lip felt stuffed and heavy. Norman's shirt was ripped to the waist. A swollen purple bruise was forming along his right cheekbone. The right eye was nearly closed. The left eye was on fire.
We moved in a tight little circle. Cherokee divided his attention between Norman and me. Keeping casual track of me. Then Norman. Then me again. He appeared unmoved and unhurried. Norman now stood between Cherokee and the car. Norman made a dive for his ankles. He never made it.
I never saw the sneakered feet move. One second, Norman was in the air. The next second, Cherokee had anticipated the move and delivered a roundhouse kick to the middle of the back. Norman's own considerable bulk, augmented by the force of the blow, nearly drove him through the sod. He bounced twice, hunched himself into a ball, and began to gasp for air.
Cherokee hurdled the gasping Norman and started toward the car. Working purely on instinct, I started after him, in spite of having absolutely no idea what I was going to do if and when I caught him.
Turned out not to be a problem. As I left the ground in my best hurdle form, Norman levered himself up onto his knees. We went down together in a heap. We sat with our legs tangled and watched as Cherokee tore open the door and got in.
We scrambled up and started after him. At least I started after him; Norman ran like he was dragging a safe. From within the car came a frustrated scream. "Fuck!" he bellowed. No keys. He slammed the door hard enough to set the car rocking on its springs and began jogging uphill toward the conservatory.
"The hill's going to kill him," I shouted back at Norman. "He's not built for hills." I hoped it sounded more hopeful than I felt.
Cherokee jogged up the park's paved road until the parking lot came into view and then, curling off to the right, ran along the sidewalk, past the big piece of modem art, to the far side of the reservoir. I was twenty yards back when he turned again downhill, moving out among the bushes and shrubs, following the hard-packed runner's path that wound serpentine throughout the park.
I lengthened my stride and allowed gravity to force me into a full sprint down the matted track. In the semidarkness, the running took on a hypnotic quality, becoming merely a series of cadences rather than a specific action. I was gaining ground. My strides were becoming uncontrollably long. I gave it all I had. My hip joints felt like they were about to rotate right out of the sockets.
As he rounded the corner in front of me and reached out to use a massive Douglas fir for support, I noticed that he was limping slightly. My running got easier, but more out of control.
I almost piled right into him. He'd come to bay in the darkness on the far side of the tree. I skidded and staggered to a stop about ten feet from him. Closer than I wanted to be. He sensed it and began to slowly make his way up the slight slope at me. He was smiling. He beckoned. Come on. No fucking way. I backed up.
"I was hoping it was you," he wheezed. "Don't be going nowhere. Papa's got something real special for you." He began circling me. I thought I could hear Norman's heavy footsteps somewhere on the path.
I kept my hands low and circled with him. We switched positions. His back was now facing up the path. He was still smiling. I was ready to duck or parry any type of blow. Instead, he tackled me like a linebacker, dragging me to the ground while his thumbs searched for my eyes. I twisted my head violently from side to side and rolled over onto my back. Big mistake.
He rolled with me, locked to my back like a shell. His iron forearm snapped across my throat. I pushed my chin down toward my chest. I had no doubt. If he got a clean grip on my throat, this was going to be over before it began. I took a chance and threw my head back as hard as I could. I made contact with his face, and for a split second the grip loosened enough for me to slip my whole chin under his massive arm.
The pressure was ungodly. My head was roaring. I was beginning to see spots. I clawed at his hands, searching for a finger to mutilate. The pressure only increased. Great silver flashes of salmon rilled my brain. The fish had faces. I kept prying at the interlocked fingers. I was fading. Other fingers pried at my fingers. Lots of fingers.
The grip on my throat eased slightly and then slipped altogether in the collected sweat and blood. I rolled away. Kept rolling until I hit a tree. I rose and stood, swaying. Norman was there. The extra fingers. Above the roaring of my head, a siren approached. Cherokee knew what it meant.
He rushed Norman. Norman hit the dirt. Cherokee sailed over him. Before he could right himself, I waded in, throwing haymakers. The first one landed behind his right ear, drawing a grunt. I landed a wild right flush on his nose, feeling the warm spray of blood and spittle in the air around me. Norman waded in, throwing vicious punches of his own. Even against the two of us, Cherokee gave as good as he got. The years of self-defense classes faded away. This was primal. I was back in the schoolyard, bringing them up from my knees with my eyes closed.
With a sick tearing sound, Norman went down to a straight-legged kick to the knee. Cherokee now turned his attention to me. He shot a karate punch to my face. I parried. My forearm went numb. There was no pain, just the big smile as he loaded up for another attack.
Norman grabbed him around both ankles and pulled. Cherokee went down hard on his chest. At the moment when he looked up at me, I attempted to break Tom Dempsey's NFL field goal record with Cherokee's head. I missed. My toe landed squarely on his throat. He croaked and gasped at the impact. He stared bug-eyed at me, tearing at his own throat with puzzled hands.
Norman and I no longer mattered. Something had broken in there. He clawed at his throat. He began to convulse, shaking so violently he tore himself free from Norman, who still had him by the shins.
Suddenly he lay still, only his mountainous chest moving up and down as he fought to force air in and out of whatever small opening still remained in his throat. His fists were clenched in the effort.
The whoop, whoop of the sirens was close now. Everything was quiet except for Cherokee's labored breathing. Norman stayed down. I swayed in the breeze. My right arm hung useless at my side. Norman's leg jutted from beneath him at an impossible angle. He stared at it. We still hadn't spoken when the first wave of cops arrived.
30
.. the Rainman . ..
I leaned back against the bar and watched. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear they were partying again. That they'd all gotten up early and taken up precisely where they'd left off the previous evening. The fact that they were partying still could only be properly appreciated by trained medical professionals and similarly disposed degenerates.
I'd taken Selena and Beth to see my cousin Paul the banker. At first he'd been dubious about arranging a line of credit for either of them. As he began to check out my story, his veneer of bored cynicism was replaced with an escalating sheen of corporate greed. After fielding a series of return phone calls, he'd leaned over to me, eyes hooded, whispering in my ear. "Conservatively, after Uncle gets his bite, after the state, after every damn thing, allowing for a twenty-percent deviation and possible massive embezzlement, these two stand to split about fifty-five million." He held up a finger. "And that's without the new CD. The service fees alone on this account--" he started. Overcome with emotion, he waved himself off."Boggle the mind," he finished.
If my lip had been smaller than a pizza, I would have grinned. As it was, I contented myself with a mea
ningful nod. Credit was forthcoming.
Selena had been standing for drinks for the better part of three days. The party was in full swing. Norman tromped to the far side of the snooker table. His right leg encased in a blue plastic walking cast, he bent awkwardly at the waist, took dead aim, and miscued the ball up over the rail and onto the floor, where, much to his displeasure, it was kicked, soccer style, from patron to patron as he limped vainly about attempting to reacquire the vagrant sphere.
The rest of the crew was sitting at the bar lending support to the Seattle Supersonics, who, by virtue of having won sixty four games, were now engaged in a spirited second-round playoff encounter with the Houston Rockets. Having won the first two games here in Seattle, they had gone into Houston for game three carrying the highest of hopes. With six minutes to go in the third quarter, they were down eighteen.
The door opened. Jed James and Karen Mendolson stepped inside and waited for their eyes to adjust. Jed caught my profile and wandered over.
"Hey, big fella."
"Hey," I said.
Karen was still standing just inside the door, her hands thrust into the front pocket of her sweatshirt, looking as if she'd rather be modeling thumbscrews.
"You think this is gonna work?" Jed asked.
"God only knows," I said.
"The girl really didn't want to come."
"You got any better ideas?"
Selena looked up from her drink and caught my eye. I used a big wave of the arm to beckon her over. She showed a lopsided grin, said a few words to Big Frank, and rolled my way, walking as if the soles of her boots were rounded, dragging the butt of her pool cue along behind her like a stubborn puppy.
"Hey, bird dog," she slurred. "Where you been? The party's just gettin' on here." She leaned heavily on the cue with both arms.
"Got somebody I'd like you to meet," I said.
Selena took one hand away from the cue and waved as if shooing flies.
"Well, trot 'em out, bird dog. I guess I sure as hell owe ya one."
Jed thrust Karen Mendolson out from behind his back. She stood awkwardly at the end of the bar. Selena looked her over from head to toe and then refocused on me. "So," she said.
"This is Karen Mendolson."
Selena offered a bleary hello and looked back my way.
"You're up, Lena," Waldo hollered from the snooker table.
"You ever seen Karen before?" I asked.
Selena blinked three times, attempting to focus on the girl's face.
"Never in all my days," she said.
"You sure?" I pressed. "Take another look."
"You gonna shoot or what?" Waldo wailed.
"Hold your water, Waldo," Selena shot back.
Selena stepped in closer, getting almost nose to nose. A glimmer of recognition elongated her face.
"Maybe I have," she said finally. She touched Karen's forehead. "You the one threw that funeral for old Earl, ain't
ya?"
"Yes," Karen said.
Selena looked over the woman's shoulder at Jed and me.
"Miss Mendolson has a problem we thought maybe you could help her with," Jed said.
"Why not?" Selena said affably. "Hell, all of a sudden, everybody wants somethin' from old Selena. Kenny wants a new truss. That crazy old Ralph wants me to buy him a friggin' hospital bed, for chrissakes. Frank wants one of those Everest mountain sleepin' bags. Ain't no end to it at all. People think this shit grow on trees." She refocused on Karen Mendolson. "What's your problem, Missy?" she said with a smile.
Karen told her. Selena knit her brow several times during the story, but remained silent.
"And you just give it all away?" she asked incredulously when Karen fell silent. She looked to me for confirmation and got it.
"Hell, girlie, you might even be dumber than old Lucky dog here."
Karen jammed her hands back into her pockets and started to turn away. Selena stopped her. "You play snooker?" she inquired.
"Some," Karen said tentatively.
Selena handed her the cue. "Let's see what you can do," she said.
''Wadda you think?'' I asked Jed as the women crossed the room. "They gonna make Conover for Lukkas Terry?"
Payton sidesteps it up the floor, Casell on his hip . .. Jed pursed his lips. "Touch and go," he said. "Pretty
much depends on the analysis of the syringe. If it matches the Terry sample, there's a lot better chance." "If not?"
"He's hired Stan Rummer to defend him."
Stanley Rummer was locally renowned for being able to
take a simple traffic infraction and turn it into a three-ring
circus of such interminable duration that he simply wore
judges and juries down. Two solid months of having their
spines crushed by the benches in the King County Courthouse generally worked wonders on even the most spiteful jury. What was certain was that, whatever happened to Gregory Conover, it was likely to be well into the next millennium before it actually came to pass. Jed read my thoughts.
'With Rummer rambling on, God only knows when the estate will finally settle."
Foul on Kemp. That's his fifth. The Sonics can't afford ...
"Where's the Goza kid?" he asked.
"Getting a tattoo."
He arched an eyebrow at me.
"On her back," I finished.
"This Space for Rent?" he inquired.
We shared a snicker. The game went to commercial. "How short is she?" I asked, nodding at Karen Mendolson.
"Still about fifty-five hundred bucks."
"If she comes up with the dough, will they prosecute?"
"Oh, they'll huff and puff, but I don't think so. Marty Kroll has got her a therapist. The kid's making all the right moves. Considering all of it. The Earl thing. What she did with the money. How she paid it all back. At most, a misdemeanor. Probably just probation."
Ralph leaned over the bar and came back with the remote. He began changing channels. The bar erupted in disapproval. He stopped on 23. Same Sonics game being telecast on Turner. Terry snatched the remote and switched it back to NBC.
Big Smooooth, from behind the arc ...
"Maybe they ain't gettin' beat so bad on that other channel," Ralph suggested to the assembled multitude.
The bar went silent but for the rustle of eyebrows, as narrowed eyes looked from each to each. George smiled for the first time in a week and threw an arm around Ralph's shoulder. "Ralphie boy!" he said.
THE END