Blood is Pretty

by Steven Paul Leiva

  “Not care who you not. Who you are, I want. What kind of name, Fixxer? Hinckley said that’s what they call you. ”

  “It’s a nickname. Don’t you have a nickname?”

  “Sure! I am, ‘Bulgarian Cowboy!’”

  “‘That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. ’” Batsarov kicked me. Hard. I thought he would have appreciated Marx.

  “Now tell me, are you cop?”

  “No. ”

  “What are you then?”

  “The man who wants to kill you. ”

  Batsarov laughed. “Fine. Good. Go ahead. ” He spread his arms out as if offering himself to me.

  “Can I take a rain check?” I wasn’t about to say, “Sorry, a bit tied up right now,” although I’m sure I was expected to.

  “What rain check?”

  “Never mind. I doubt the sincerity of your offer. ”

  “I called Rand. I said, guess what, he not physicist after all. He just fuck! I kill. Rand said, okay. Okay?”

  “I have a vote?”

  “No, sorry, do not come from democratic tradition. ”

  “Have you already killed Hinckley?”

  “No. This Hinckley place! Would not be proper for guest to kill host. ” How gentlemanly. But then he added the addendum, “Without fighting chance. Come! See!” He indicated for Beer Barrel to grab me, which he did, by the rope that tied my hands, picking me up completely off the ground and setting me on my feet in a near run as he pushed me towards the doors.

  Light, which is supposed to bring truth, brought only pain—although, possibly, they’re one and the same. Not that I was actually being that philosophical at that moment, I was too busy dealing with the more purely physical problem of getting my eyes to adjust to the harsh, bright sunlight without the benefit of being able to use my hands to shield them and ease the process. During this momentary sightlessness I worked with my other senses to get a feel for the place. My feet half ran, half were dragged over dusty ground. The sun pierced my skin with a thousand little flaming needles. The air dried out my nostrils in an instant, and except for the noises we were making, carried no familiar sounds, especially the vibrations of technological life: traffic; distant TV; leaf blowers, jack hammers, lawn mowers; somebody else’s choice in music.

  Form, dimension, color finally came into their own just as I was forced up against a wagon wheel and my bound hands were tied to it.

  It was a Western town. One street of classic wooden structures fronted by classic wooden sidewalks. There was a saloon, of course, and a general store. A feed store, a barber/surgeon, horses saddled and ready for ridin’, tied to hitching posts, plops of manure beneath them keeping the flies happy, and, at the end of the street, a white church with its white steeple rounded out the inventory.

  “Damn, fuckin’ great!” Batsarov said. “Hinckley had it built for ‘Red Dust. ’ Awful movie. But great town! He told me he made movie studio pay for it, then he kept it and now rent it to more movie. Ha! He would have made great apparatchik. ”

  I looked down the street opposite the church. Beyond it was a landscape of rolling brown hills dotted by California oaks, a typical central California landscape. Not as “Western” as Monument Valley, but pretty “Western. ”

  “Where’s Hinckley?” I managed to ask.

  “He’s in the saloon. Having a few belts. ” He turned to the saloon. “Bring

  Hinckley out!”

  Paul Hinckley was pushed out through the double, swinging saloon doors. He stumbled, fell, landed half on the wooden sidewalk, half in the street. The Basque came out. He had a thick leather belt wrapped tightly around his right fist, and Hinckley had a discolored, swollen face—a perfect match. Hinckley picked himself up. I could see he was wearing a costume, that of a farmer, a sodbuster. I would hate to have had Batsarov’s childhood.

  Batsarov picked up a lariat lying on the ground. He started to twirl it. “Hinckley missed our meeting. We look for Hinckley. Hinckley cannot be found. Make no sense. ” Batsarov formed a large opening in the lasso and jumped through it three times, then came to a stop.

  “I would applaud if I could,” I said.

  “No that okay. Helps me talk. Especially in English. ” He started a small twirl again. “Why would Hinckley not want big, fat deal from Rand for stupid treatment? But we patient. We watch there. We watch here. ” The lasso had gathered momentum as he spoke. He brought it up over his head, swung it around, and then threw it at me. It landed around me. He cinched it tight and walked over to me. “Then, Hinckley, here he is. Good. I drive up. We visit. He has very nice house, right over that hill. ” Batsarov took the rope off me then pointed down the street to the rolling hills. I could imagine the house.

  Spacious. Well appointed. And in the middle of 2,500 acres, close to nothing reasonably like neighbors, and so safe from prying eyes—but also helping hands.

  Batsarov walked back to the middle of the street and started to twirl again. “We just start to talk. I want to get to know him. Then I get call from hotel, Rand bringing back strangers to lake. Strangers? We weren’t going to have any strangers. My friends stay to keep Hinckley company. I drive back. Fast. Find you snooping. I never believe you fucking scientist. You man on boat. You man giving York money for Hinckley. Maybe you both, but you no fucking scientist. But you fool Rand. Okay. I watch. ” He threw the rope again. It was perfect in its flight towards me. “I catch. ” He cinched the rope. “You so stupid. I bring you up here show you to Hinckley. He will tell me nothing.

  Not loyalty. Maybe greed. But I think, he scared of you. I have you hog tied in horse shit, but he scared of you. Why? We beat him. Civilians can’t take pain. You took pain. Now we know. You mysterious Mr. Fixxer. What is that shit?” He walked over to me and again took the rope off. “What are you, some kind of—cowboy?”

  “I thought you were the cowboy. ”

  “No. Everybody always had that wrong. I’m outlaw. ” Again he walked back to the middle of the street. “Now everything okay. Hinckley not need treatment. You have nothing for Rand. Now… ”

  “How do you know I have nothing for Rand? I had to get my information from somewhere. I know scientists who could help. ”

  “So? Been telling Rand, Russian physicists! Out of work. I can get those. Cheap! But Rand think I’m only thug. ”

  “Yes, and none of us like to be pigeonholed. But how do you know any Russian physicists have done work in this field?”

  Batsarov shook his head in pity. “Typical American. No, you have nothing useful for Rand. Now it’s my turn to have fun. ”

  Batsarov gestured to the Basque, who walked over to the saloon doors, reached in and pulled out a six-gun and holster. He walked over to Hinckley and strapped it on him.

  “Wh—what are you doing?” Hinckley asked, startled.

  “Gunfight!” Batsarov shouted. “We are going to have gunfight. Lots of fun. You’ll see. ”

  Hinckley’s eyes went all scared, questioning and pleading. He turned to me. “Fixxer! Help me?”

  “Not much I can really do at the moment,” I said.

  “But—but… ”

  “He’s just trying to scare you. They’re prop guns, aren’t they? They have blanks. ” I was hoping I was right.

  “No. ” Hinckley said. “We do target shooting with them. ”

  “No OK Corral? Why you not build OK Corral? I always liked OK Corral better that just walk down middle of street. More realistic. ”

  “Batsarov!” I yelled.

  Batsarov turned and stared at me with a newfound respect. “Oh. You know who I am. All the more reason to have fun. ” He turned to Hinckley. “It’s your move Hinckley,” he said in his best Bulgarian twang.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Hinckley said.

  “No. I give you chance. Fair fighting chance. Code of the West. ”

  “Except that, if by any chance Hinckley shoots you, your friends will kill him immediately,” I said still trying to get Batsarov to concentrate on
me.

  “Not my fault they don’t believe Code of the West. ”

  “Pretty cowardly to have backup. ”

  “Not backup. Spectators get out of hand, like Soccer game. Now, Hinckley,

  dra—no wait, I forget. Can’t have gunfight without frightened townsfolk. Bring them out!”

  Out of the general store came a thug I hadn’t seen before. Big, mean looking, ugly, but other than that, nondescript enough to give no clues as to what local controversy he was a refuge from. Then came a woman dressed like a school marm, and a girl about ten wearing a gingham dress. They both were exhausted and scared and were followed by another thug, a nondescript Black. All the thugs carried the same Armalite AR-18 semiautomatic—volume buying, no doubt.

  “Hillary! Joan! Are you okay?” Hinckley started to move towards them but the Basque stopped him.

  “We’re, okay, Paul,” Joan, his wife, said.

  “Okay. Draw, Hinckley!”

  “No! No, I refuse. ”

  Batsarov jerked his head towards one of the thugs. The thug spattered three quick rounds from the AR-18 directly in front of Hinckley. Hillary, the girl, screamed as the dust settled back down to the ground.

  “Come on Hinckley. Show kinfolk what kind man you are. ”

  Hinckley looked all around him as if he was trying to make a decision and the answer was somewhere out in the open, if only he could see it. “I can do this,” he may have been thinking “of course I can do this. It’s every American boy’s birthright, easy grip on a gun, lightening fast draw, I’ve seen it hundreds of times—felt it. ” Hinckley went for his gun.

  Batsarov drew quickly, shot. A sudden chunk of red flew off of Hinckley’s left shoulder as the sound of the gun’s report was still in the air. Hinckley screamed. His wife and child screamed and clung to each other, thinking….

  Hinckley fell to his knees, disbelieving that he could be feeling such pain, that such a thing could have happened to him.

  “Get up Hinckley. You not dead yet!” Batsarov shouted down the street. He was enjoying himself. He was having his fun. He holstered his gun.

  “Daddy,” cried Hillary.

  “Batsarov, that’s enough!” I shouted. “If you’re going to kill us just do it. ”

  “I am not, Mr. Fixxer, a cold blooded killer. I am passionate about what I do! Now come on Hinckley. Stand up you son-of-a-bitch!” He said it just like the mature John Wayne. It was no compliment to Wayne.

  Hinckley stood up. His still gripped his gun in his right hand.

  “You don’t even have to draw again. You got gun, shoot!” Batsarov challenged.

  Hinckley looked over to his wife and child. There were tears streaming down his cheeks—for his pain, or for theirs? It was the child’s cries that were heart rendering. “Daddy!” she cried again, and a slice was struck out of my heart, immediately becoming an old wound.

  Hinckley screamed, raised the gun and tried to shoot. Batsarov drew again and shot Hinckley in the right leg. Hinckley collapsed.

  “Ha! Look!” Batsarov pointed to the ground around Hinckley. “Red dust! Ha-ha!”

  “Okay, Batsarov, I think you’ve use up your fun on him. Give me a chance at you. ”

  “Give you a chance Mr. Fixxer? Yes, I can do that. Do you know firearms?”

  “I’ve shot a few in my time. ”

  “Sure. A few. I have no doubt. But not this!” He held his gun up. “Colt 45. Gun for man of skill. You people,” he waved his gun at all of us, me, the Basque, Beer Barrel and the two nondescripts, we were all in the same club, “shoot only semiautomatic, automatic. BLAU! BLAU! BLAU! Spray of death! Easy! No challenge. No Code of the West!”

  “Cut the fucking rhetoric and give me a gun!” I screamed revealing more hate than was necessary.

  Batsarov felt it. “All right, Mr. Fixxer. ” He gestured to Beer Barrel, who untied me.

  “Let Hinckley’s wife treat his wounds. ”

  “Why? I’m going to kill him eventually. ”

  “Letting him slowly bleed to death is not really Code of the West. ”

  “True. ” He instructed the two thugs to let Joan go to Hinckley. She ran, dropped down besides him and looked at the wounds. She started to tear at her long, school marm dress for bandages. It was like something out of an old Western. Batsarov seemed to like that. The Basque took the six-gun and holster from Hinckley and brought them over to me. I put them on and took a position on the street.

  What could I accomplish here? If I outdrew Batsarov and managed to kill him, the thugs would let lose their AR-18s on me, I had no doubt of that. I could turn, drop to the ground and try for a single shot slaying of Hillary. That way, at least I would know that the child would not suffer the pain and indignities these bastards were likely to cause her. I would be killed immediately, of course, leaving Hinckley and his wife to more suffering, but that could not be helped. The child took precedence. All children should take precedence. They so rarely do. Or I could try to win Batsarov’s respect. Not something I really desired, but maybe something I could use to bargain for diminished suffering for the Hinckleys.

  “So, Mr. Fixxer, you may draw now. ”

  I did, watching Batsarov’s hand move into a blur as it went for his gun, grabbed it, brought it up, and shattered as my bullet sliced through his hand between the middle and third finger. The Colt 45 flew away and behind Batsarov. His eyes went quickly from incredulity to stark raving anger. There seemed to be no room for respect.

  “KILL HIM!” Batsarov shouted.

  The Basque’s head exploded.

  Batsarov’s jaw dropped.

  My brain was trying to decide if it had actually heard the gunfire.

  In quick succession the two thugs became truly nondescript as their faces became unrecognizable among the bleeding flesh and shattered bone.

  Beer Barrel was falling, dead before he hit the ground with a thud.

  Poor Hillary was screaming again. There was a therapy bill for you.

  Roee stood up from his prone position on top of the saloon. He cradled his Galil Sniping Rifle. It had been a gift from his father. He loves that rifle.

  The Captain was on the roof of the general store pointing his Remington 700 rifle at Batsarov.

  I was beginning to feel like I was in a “Firearms Are Your Friends” promotional video from the NRA.

  Batsarov ran, leaving a trail of blood, grabbed a horse, mounted, and took off at full gallop down the street towards the rolling hills.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” Hinckley started shouting, which made me feel good to know that he had enough blood left for lust.

  “Sorry, he’s already in the witness protection program,” I said as I ran towards a horse, grabbing the lariat on the way, mounted and took off giving chase.

  The music would have been nice here: Bernstein’s soaring score backing up the excitement of pursuit. But as it was, the brown rolling hills, the stark profiles of the oaks, the heat, the dust, they all added up to make the whole venture pretty atmospheric.

  I was catching up. It was a good horse. I swung the lariat above my head, a movement that was not without pain, but necessary if I was to catch Batsarov before he bled all over the hills. He suddenly took a left turn towards a grouping of oaks. I followed. I was real close when I saw an opportunity he was handing me, if I could get the timing right: Like comedy, like the brain.

  I let the lariat fly just before Batsarov went under an oak branch. It flew over the branch falling to loop around his shoulders just as he passed under. I jerked my horse to a stop. The rope slipped up Batsarov’s shoulders. He grabbed for it. I pulled my horse back. The rope slipped again and cinched, forming a noose, catching Batsarov’s hand against his neck, and yanking him back. His horse kept riding. I secured the rope to the horn of the saddle and dismounted, commanding the horse to stay. I walked over to Batsarov. He was swinging, kicking his legs pulling at the rope around his neck with his one good hand creating some space for air to pass. He looked down at me. His
eyes pleaded. I just looked at him. “Back!” I commanded the horse. The horse moved back, pulling Batsarov up higher. Now it was harder for him to pull at the rope. It would soon be too hard.

  “Don’t you know,” I said to him, “that every American is a real cowboy. ”

  His legs kicked furiously. It was time to end this. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I heard again the screams of Hillary Hinckley, saw the terror and fear in her ten year old eyes, saw again the love in those eyes for her father, Paul Hinckley, a minimally talented near idiot, but her father nonetheless. Maybe—maybe I should just let time slip by.

  A horse road up and Roee was soon at my side. “Fixxer,” he said calmly, “Fixxer, you cannot do this. You cannot do this. ”

  Fuck you, Roee, I wanted to say.

  I pulled the six-gun out of the holster. I pointed it up. Batsarov’s eyes widened to the coward point. I aimed carefully. I fired. The rope broke; my horse jerked back; Batsarov fell.

  “Pick the bastard up,” I said to Roee.

  Roee started to.

  “No, wait. ” I walked over to Batsarov and punched him very hard in the mouth. “Fucking gold teeth. ”

  *

  As we rode back to town, Batsarov running behind us, tied to the rope, trying to keep up, to not trip and fall for that would mean a skin-scraping drag over the landscape, three helicopters flew low over our heads bound for the same destination. Two were police choppers; one was a medical chopper.

  “Paso Robles PD,” Roee said. “They weren’t happy about our plans, but the Captain convinced them. ”

  “Good for the Captain. Glad you guys made it in time. ”

  “In the nick of, I would say. ”

  “Yes, if you want to be melodramatic about it. ”

  “Better melodramatic than existential don’t you think?”

  “Or surreal. ”

  “Yes, surreal would have been bad. ”

  *

  When we got back to the town a doctor was declaring the four thugs dead.

  Another was taking care of Hinckley. A policewoman was talking to Joan and Hillary. The Captain was on the radio, I assume starting the process for an arrest warrant for Rand. We sat Batsarov down in a rocking chair in front of the general store, and had a doctor tend to his hand as we talked to him.