Duke City Desperado

by Max Austin

  “Watch my back in here, okay?” he shouted to Roger. “I think some guys are after me.”

  “You’re being paranoid.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” He paused, got ahold of himself. “You can have my food if you’ll watch my back. Okay?”

  “Sure, Doc.”

  They shuffled through the chow line, then carried their laden trays to a table near a wall. The low steel stools attached to the tables didn’t allow Doc to sit with his back to the wall, as he would’ve preferred. Everything was at angles, which meant he had to rely on Roger.

  “Anybody behind me now?”

  “No, Doc, everything’s fine.”

  “How about now?”

  “It’s okay, really. You sure you don’t want this food?”

  “I couldn’t eat right now if my life depended on it. What was in those fucking pills?”

  “I don’t know, man. They were all I could get. Limited resources around here, you know?”

  “I think they were animal pills. Like you get from a vegetarian.”

  “I think you mean ‘veterinarian’ there, Doc.”

  “Shut the fuck up. You gave me animal pills.”

  Roger lifted the paper plate off Doc’s tray and raked the mystery meat and mashed potatoes onto his own plate. He set Doc’s empty tray on the table and started digging into the pile of food with a plastic spoon.

  “Thanks, Doc. You don’t know what you’re missing here. Friday meat loaf is everybody’s favorite.”

  “Grrrr.”

  Doc held tightly to the edge of the steel table to keep from wrapping his hands around his talkative cellmate’s throat.

  “You need to learn to relax, Doc. It’s the only way to do this kind of time. You’ve got to go with the flow—”

  Roger chattered on, but Doc stopped listening. He scanned the bustle of orange jumpsuits around them, keeping an eye out for Tino and friends, twitching as another surge of electricity zapped his nerves.

  Doc had ridden out a lot of roller-coaster highs over the years, but he’d never felt anything like this. His hands cramped from holding on to the table, but he was afraid to let go. He felt like he might vaporize, all his atoms separating and pinging around the dayroom. How would he ever pull himself back together?

  Doc snapped back to attention when Roger said, “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “Three guys behind you, whispering among themselves. Look like they’re talking about you.”

  It took a superhuman effort, given his current state, but Doc didn’t whirl around to see.

  “What do they look like?”

  “They appear to be of the Hispanic persuasion,” Roger said. “Medium-sized. Lots of tattoos.”

  “One of them got a silver tooth?”

  “Yeah, that guy Tino. He’s coming this way.”

  “Fuck off, Roger. Right now.”

  Roger slid off the low stool and slunk away, carrying his heaping tray with him.

  Doc let go of the table and picked up the lightweight plastic tray. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Tino had his hand hidden behind his hip. His black eyebrows scowled low over his eyes and his jaw was set.

  He lunged toward Doc.

  The shiv was a white toothbrush, the plastic handle sharpened to a sturdy point, filthy adhesive tape wrapped around the bristle end to make a thick handle. Doc saw it clearly as the kid stabbed at him, hitting him in the shoulder and chest as he rose from the stool. The shiv turned red, but he couldn’t feel the stab wounds. Felt like Tino was lightly punching him in the rib cage. But blood flew everywhere.

  Doc swung the plastic tray. The rounded edge of the tray hit Tino along the cheekbone and his head snapped to the side. Before he could recover, Doc swung the tray back the other way, smacking the other cheekbone.

  Tino went limp, but Doc kept slashing at him with the edge of the tray, back and forth, hitting him a half-dozen times before Tino could make it to the floor. Then he straddled him, chopping away, turning Tino’s face into red pulp as dozens of inmates crowded around, yelling and shoving.

  Four guards fought their way through the crowd and wrestled him away. As Doc struggled against them, one guard yelled in his face. “Be still, Burnett! You’re bleeding to death!”

  Doc looked down at his orange jumpsuit. It was perforated in a dozen spots, blood spreading from each hole.

  “Aw, fuck.”

  He slumped to the floor.

  Guards ordered the excited, babbling inmates back to their cells. The hubbub echoed in Doc’s ears as he lay on the cold tile floor. Paramedics fought their way through the crowd and crouched over him, their hands prodding him and pulling at his clothes.

  Doc turned his head and saw two other medics working on Tino. The sight of the battered Mexican kid got his blood boiling again, and Doc got up on all fours and tried to lunge at him. Guards fell on him, knocking the wind out of him, pinning him down.

  Another paramedic arrived with a gurney and the guards helped the medics lift Doc onto it and strap him down. He writhed against the straps, but could move only his head. He growled and snapped his teeth at them.

  As they rolled him out of the dayroom, he saw that most of the inmates were still milling around, gawking and gabbing, taking their time going back to their cells. Doc spotted Roger sitting by himself near the guards’ station, shoveling food into his face as if nothing had happened.

  Then everything went fuzzy and gray, and Doc finally relaxed.

  Chapter 49

  Antony Rocca sank his fist into the stoner’s soft stomach.

  Oscar Pacheco oofed out pizza-scented air and tried to collapse to the floor, but Jasper Johnson held him upright, big hands locked around Oscar’s elbows.

  “Try it again,” Antony said. “Where’s Dylan James?”

  “Dude, please.” Oscar had lost his glasses and his ponytail had come loose. His every breath was a rattling sob. “I don’t know where he is. I swear.”

  Antony squared up and hit him again, right over the heart.

  “You sure?”

  Oscar coughed and cried, shaking his head. Strands of his long black hair stuck to the blood and snot on his face.

  “Please,” Oscar said. “Dylan slept here last night, but I haven’t seen him since.”

  “When is he coming back?”

  “He’s not, man.”

  “You know how to reach him?”

  “His phone’s broken, man. I told you that.”

  Antony wanted to hit him again, but what was the point? They’d gone over it again and again. If this putz knew where Dylan was hiding, he would’ve told them by now. He pointed at the sofa and Jasper tossed Oscar onto it. The stoner landed in a heap, sniveling and sniffling and holding his arms up to protect himself.

  “You’re a big pussy, aren’t you, Oscar?”

  Oscar sniffed and hung his head, but he said nothing.

  Jasper, meanwhile, bent over and, grunting, fetched Oscar’s eyeglasses out from under a chair.

  “Give me those,” Antony said.

  Jasper handed them over.

  “Look at me, Oscar,” Antony said, standing over the cowering stoner on the sofa. “Can you see me standing here?”

  Oscar nodded.

  “Then you don’t need these.”

  He dropped the glasses to the hardwood floor and crushed them with his foot.

  Oscar said, “Aw, man. Those were my only ones.”

  “Worse than that’s gonna happen if Dylan James doesn’t show up here soon.”

  “I told you, dude. He’s not coming here—”

  Antony backhanded him, turning Oscar’s head halfway around. Spit and blood spattered the white wall behind the sofa.

  “Look at that, Jasper,” Antony said. “I’m a fuckin’ artist.”

  Chapter 50

  Dylan showered and shaved with a pink disposable razor before they left Katrina’s apartment. She gave him a fresh black T-shirt to wear under his gray hoodie, which he turned wro
ng-side-out to hide the “Dukes” on the front. Clean and rested and still glowing from the sexual acrobatics, he felt ready for anything.

  About the only thing that could make him feel even better would be smoking a joint, and he was on his way to Oscar Pacheco’s for that very thing.

  In the Prius, he kept glancing over at Katrina. He felt a true affection for her now, despite her weirdness, and a deep gratitude for all her help. He tried to thank her, but she told him to shut up. Which did nothing to deflate his good mood. He was getting used to it.

  “Wish I still had my phone,” he said. “But you’ve got Oscar’s number now. Call me there when you’re done with your class.”

  “What if Oscar’s not home?”

  “He’s always home. But if he’s not, or something goes wrong, I’ll make my way back to your place.”

  She nodded, not looking at him, both hands on the steering wheel.

  As they turned onto Oscar’s street, all of Dylan’s good cheer evaporated. The headlights showed a black Escalade parked at the curb.

  “Shit.” He slumped down in the seat, pulling at his hood to hide his face.

  “What?”

  “Don’t stop,” he said. “Go around the block.”

  She zipped around the corner, saying, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “There was an Escalade with chrome rims parked back there. That’s Antony’s ride.”

  “Are you sure? I see lots of those around.”

  “Not in this neighborhood.”

  “You think he’s talking to Oscar?”

  “I hope that’s all he’s doing to Oscar.”

  “If it’s even him,” she said.

  “Right.”

  “How would Antony know to come here? Does he even know Oscar?”

  “Carmen must’ve told him. When I saw her, I told her I was on my way to Oscar’s place.”

  “Nice girlfriend you got there.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend. Not for a long time now. But I am surprised she’d send him here.”

  As she hung another left, Katrina said, “I really need to get to my class.”

  “Let me out here. I want to check on Oscar. I’ll go peek in his windows.”

  “And if Antony’s there?”

  “I’ll haul ass. Don’t worry. I won’t try to be a hero.”

  She pulled the Prius to the curb. He opened his door, but before he could get out, she grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him close for a deep, breathtaking kiss. When she turned him loose, Dylan said, “Wow.”

  “For luck,” she said.

  Chapter 51

  A horn honked somewhere behind them, and Rosa thought it was a good thing she wasn’t driving. She was strung too tightly right now, still raging over what had been done to Carmen. She reveled in the anger, let it pump her up, anticipating the revenge to come. Little Antony was in for a world of hurt.

  “Up here?” asked Vicki Romero, who was at the wheel of Rosa’s old four-door Chevy. “By the cemetery?”

  “That’s good,” Rosa said. “We won’t have to worry about waking those people up.”

  In the backseat, Angela Hernandez and Rita Garcia laughed uproariously. They’d been passing a chilled bottle of Skinnygirl premixed margaritas back and forth. Both were clearly feeling no pain.

  With their teased black hair and their elaborate makeup and their after-work heels, the women looked like they were going to a party rather than tuning up for a rumble. Rosa knew better. They’d been through a lot together over the years—bad boyfriends and bad jobs and bad luck—and their girliness covered an inner toughness. They were fierce women, and she was happy to have them on her side.

  When they were in high school, these girls ruled the hallways, commanding respect and watching one another’s back, as efficient and ruthless as any prison gang.

  Other girls might go for hair-tearing and clawing, but such catfights were beneath Rosa and her girls. They fought with their fists and their feet, and they didn’t always wait for the opponent, male or female, to make the first move.

  Twice during high school, Rosa sucker-punched guys who’d come on too strong in a crowded hallway. Both times, she’d knocked them out. One hit his head on the tiled floor when he fell and suffered a concussion so severe he was hospitalized. Rosa got suspended for two weeks that time, but she felt sure the asshole didn’t ever try to cop a feel from anybody after that.

  Any boyfriend or husband who thought he could slap around one of the girls soon faced them all. They’d put a few of them in the hospital, too.

  Vicki’s first husband, Enrique, had been a hitter, but she’d handled that one all by herself, though she’d been an eighteen-year-old newlywed at the time. She waited until Enrique drank himself into a stupor one night. After he passed out on the bed, she wrapped the sheets around him and secured them tightly with duct tape so he was immobilized. Then she beat him for ten minutes with a tortilla pan, a heavy one that had been a wedding gift from her grandmother. He suffered severe bruises all over and a few broken bones before the teen bride was too exhausted to continue.

  The part of that story Rosa liked best was that Vicki waited for him to wake up from his drunken stupor before she commenced the beating. She didn’t want him to miss anything.

  When Enrique pressed charges, Rosa and the others testified in court that there was no way Vicki could’ve been responsible for his injuries because she had been with them at the time. Vicki walked free. Soon as the divorce was final, Enrique moved to Alaska.

  These days, the friends’ reputation kept them out of most scrapes. Just the threat of Rosa Valdez was enough to make most South Valley men behave themselves. But Antony didn’t know that. He wasn’t from here. He was a big-city boy who thought he was a big shot. They would have to prove him wrong.

  There had been no hesitation when Rosa called the others and told them about Antony’s slapping her little sister. They rallied immediately, though it cost Angela and Rita precious babysitting dollars and Vicki had to cancel a promising date with a stockbroker. She was still dressed for the occasion, in a super-short stretch skirt and spike heels and hoop earrings that dangled to her shoulders.

  “You should take off those earrings before we get there,” Rosa said. “Someone might grab one and tear your ear.”

  Vicki snorted. “Nobody’s getting close enough to me to touch my earrings. I’ll clean their clocks first.”

  “Did you say ‘cocks’?” Rita said from the backseat. “Clean their cocks?”

  Angela howled with laughter, but Vicki caught Rita’s eye in the mirror. “I’ll leave that to you, Rita. We all know you like ’em dirty.”

  Rita flipped her the bird. The fingernail was painted a glittering magenta.

  More laughter.

  “I’m not taking off these earrings,” Vicki said. “They’re brand new. I got them at the mall yesterday. They pull the whole outfit together.”

  The others had to admit that was true.

  Vicki let the Chevy creep along Columbia Drive while they looked for the right house. The neighborhood was quiet and the houses facing the cemetery were dark. A streetlight on the corner shone through a naked elm tree, throwing gang-sign shadows onto the street.

  “Look,” Rosa said. “That’s his car. That big black one.”

  “Nice chrome rims,” Vicki said.

  “Maybe you could take them after we kick his little ass,” Angela said from the backseat.

  “They wouldn’t fit my car,” Vicki said. “Look how big they are!”

  “Imagine,” Rita chimed in, “how tiny his cock must be!”

  They all laughed. All but Rosa.

  Chapter 52

  Dylan James slipped over the low adobe wall of the hippies’ backyard and crouched in the shadows next to Oscar Pacheco’s apartment. No lights on inside the main house. Oscar’s kitchen window spilled a square of light onto the otherwise dark lawn. Dylan crept closer and peeked inside.

  No one in the kitchen, but he
could see through an arched doorway into the living room. Oscar was in there, on his knees, black hair hanging over his bloodied face. Antony’s big sidekick Jasper stood over him, fat fists clenched.

  “Shit,” Dylan whispered. “Shit!”

  What to do? He couldn’t leave Oscar to be tortured. But he didn’t think he could make Jasper stop, either. The driver outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds. And Dylan was already banged up. The thought of throwing a punch made his ribs hurt.

  He needed to get help. That was the answer. Get to a phone. Call 911 and let the cops save the day. But he needed to hurry, before they hurt Oscar worse.

  Dylan took off across the yard, thinking he’d run down the driveway to the street. Start knocking on doors and calling for help.

  Something whanged across his face, nearly taking him off his feet. He spun around in a circle, trying to find his balance. His cheek and nose seared with pain and he covered his face with his hands.

  Noise. Lots of noise.

  Wind chimes clanged and tolled and tinkled. A dozen of them hung on a rusty clothesline, which had been invisible in the night until he found it with his face.

  A door whammed open at Oscar’s apartment. Dylan peeked through his fingers to see Antony coming outside, the big shiny pistol in his hand. Jasper filled the doorway behind him.

  Dylan started to run, but Antony said, “Freeze, motherfucker.” Dylan stopped and put his hands up. Turned to face them.

  “Look here,” Antony said. “It’s the notorious Dylan James. Just the man we’ve been waiting for.”

  “Hey, man, I don’t—”

  “Inside,” Antony said. “Now.”

  They marched into the apartment, then Jasper shut the door and stood in front of it, his huge arms crossed over the incline of his belly.

  Oscar still knelt on the hardwood floor, which was littered with the glittering pieces of his broken glasses. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and used the sleeve of his T-shirt to wipe sweat and blood off his face.

  “Hey, Oscar,” Dylan said. “I’m really sorry—”