Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two)

by James Hunter

  So I smoked cigarettes and played tune after tune, ‘The Piano Man’ followed by Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Gimme Three Steps’, then on to the Allman Brothers Band’s ‘Ramblin’ Man’, trailed by Memphis Slim’s ‘Let the Good Times Roll Creole’. Saloon-goers bought me cheap beer by the bucket and dropped tips into an old copper bowl, which sat next to me on the piano bench. I took requests, as any proper Song-Slinger would, and hammered out tunes on the black and whites while belting out the songs amidst the hubbub of the room: glasses clinking, the scrape of chairs on wooden floors, rough laughter, and coarse shouts, followed, occasionally, by a gunshot or two.

  No one else died though, and despite Fast Hand Steve’s earlier threats and posturing, he seemed more than content to go back to his table and his drink once I’d played his request.

  He still kept an eye on me though, taking long, calculating glances over every time I stopped for a break or needed to grab a drink. He’d smelled my power, even through the sickness raging in me—and I had the distinct impression that he’d never completely bought my changeling story. I could practically see the doubt in him.

  But those glances were coming fewer and fewer as the hours stretched on and the night grew late.

  The more he drank—shit, the more everyone drank—the less I seemed to draw eyes. All to the good. Something I’ve learned from all my years of gambling is this: sometimes, it’s best to play real conservative, so that when it’s time to make your big play, folks don’t even see it coming.

  My time was getting close, but it wasn’t quite right, not yet. If I just held out a little longer, played a little harder, let those fools drink themselves into a stupor—or into liver failure—I’d be that much better off when it was time to go. Another ten or fifteen minutes and I could probably slide away under the guise of taking a piss, grab Ferraro, and just slip right out the back with no one the wiser. With the crew being as drunk as they were, no one would probably notice until the next morning.

  So I pounded out ‘The Man Comes Around’, by Johnny Cash, and killed more time. Patient as a mouse, hunkered down, waiting for the pesky cat to lose interest.

  I saw my carefully laid plan start to fall apart about thirty seconds later, halfway through my Cash set. No good, shit-faced, scale-covered Fast Hands was up and lumbering his way toward Ferraro. She glared at him so hard, I thought his serpent blood would’ve frozen right in his veins, but he didn’t seem to notice. Not a lick.

  Too friggin’ drunk to see trouble staring him right in the face like an ill-tempered tiger.

  He pulled his shooter from its holster and twirled it back and forth, demonstrating a surprising amount of dexterity considering his current level of shit-facedness. I’d seen him put down a fifth of the sludgy brown whiskey the barkeep was serving. I’d had a few pulls and let me tell you, that shit was strong enough to strip paint and turn you blind.

  Fast Hands bumped into the wall, eyes dull and glazed, though his pistol never stopped its frantic twirling.

  “Hey ssssweetheart,” he hissed, “how’s ‘bout you head up to one of the rooms wit’ me—I’ve had my fill of gambling and liquor. But I sure haven’t had my fill of you.” Then he belched, a long gurgling noise. Classy to his toes, this guy.

  Ferraro smiled, a sultry look as far from demure as the light was from the dark. But I knew Ferraro, and that sultry look never touched her eyes—the look in her eyes said, I’m about to unleash a world of hurt on you. “Okay,” she practically purred, standing slowly, straightening her back so her breasts strained against the fabric of her undershirt. She snaked her left arm through the crook of his elbow—Fast Hands, apparently thinking easy game was afoot, spun his piece one last time before sliding the heavy iron back into its holster.

  “You big city girls are just as easy as I heard tell.” He smiled, his fangs gleaming in the low light, his forked tongue flickering out then in.

  “No, you’re the easy one,” she said as she slipped her right hand to the small of her back, bringing out the Glock in a quick no-nonsense draw, pressing it hard into the tender flesh surrounding his throat.

  “Feisty little bitch,” Fast Hands said, apparently not too terribly concerned. “What’s a city woman like you, travelin’ around with some Song-Slinger, packin’ iron for?” His eyes flickered over toward me.

  I stopped playing and stood, getting ready to draw, to shoot, to run and dodge and hide. Dammit. I had a pretty good feeling how this was gonna play out.

  The room had grown strangely still, I looked around—the laughter had died away, no cards hit the table, no beer glasses clicked, no one moved … the air was heavy with anticipation, pregnant with impending violence. This was the eye before the storm—the calm before everything went to shit and people started dying—and that eye seemed to be staring at me. Everyone in the saloon watched on, glancing between Ferraro with her prisoner and me, as though unsure what to do. Unsure who the threat was.

  “Now, I’m done with this game,” Ferraro said loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Me and my partner there”—she nodded to me, though never taking her eyes off Fast Hands—“are going to leave. Now. And if you, or any of your drunk buddies, decide to stop us, I’m going to make sure your new nickname is Limp Dick Steve”—her left hand flashed out, grabbing Fast Hands’s crotch in a death grip that made me whimper in sympathy. The guy was a drunk disgusting monster who definitely had it coming, but still. Uncomfortable zone for any guy in the room.

  Fast Hands blanched just a little, but otherwise seemed unruffled. “I’m gonna ask again, Sugar Tits. What’s a little city girl like you packin’ iron for?”

  Oh shit, oh shit. We weren’t walking out of here, not without a fight—I could hear it in Fast Hands’s voice. I needed to do something … anything was better than standing around without cover waiting for someone else to take a shot. So I pulled out my gun, not as quickly as Fast Hands could’ve managed, but quickly enough all the same. Ferraro’s piece was a compact, sleek Glock—matte black and professional, exactly the kind of gun an FBI agent would carry, though nothing really exceptional.

  My gun was very different: .44 Magnum, dark hammer-forged steel, six-inch barrel—sleek barrel ports running along the top, reducing muzzle flip and recoil—dark wood grip encircled with golden filigree. Etched in the steel were runes and mystic symbols, swirling and twisting with artful flourishes. There was a subtle glamour on the weapon making it seem slightly less extraordinary, but anyone with a working pair of eyes could tell this wasn’t any ol’ run-of-the-mill handgun. Fast Hands knew it too.

  “Alright, Drunkzilla, you want to play it hard—we can play it hard,” I said, pointing the muzzle right at Fast Hands’s ugly mug, ready to move in an eye blink. “Now everybody listen up.” I looked at the mass of men and women filling the saloon—though I kept my pistol trained on Fast Hands—who all stared at me with uneasy gazes. “My name’s Bobby Haskell—” I didn’t want anyone of these sons of bitches to know who I really was “—I’m a judge with the Guild of the Staff.” That statement, at least, wasn’t entirely untrue. Once upon a time, I’d been a member of the Fist of the Staff, which technically fell under the Judges.

  “I’m searching for a dangerous fugitive … now I know that fugitive is not anyone in this room. But you bunch of shitheels have already blown my cover, potentially putting me and my partner at risk, so I’m about a hairsbreadth away from burning this whole friggin’ bar right to the ground.” I brought up my left hand, holding it out toward the assembled masses as though brandishing a weapon, which, if I’d had my powers, would’ve been the truth.

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen,” I said. “You jolly, card-playin’ drunkards are gonna sit back down at your tables. You’re gonna drink your drinks and you’re gonna look the other way while my partner and I vamoose, and you’re gonna forget we were ever here. Pretend like this was all some bad alcohol-induced nightmare. Okay? And if any of you try to stop me from walking out, so help me God, I will melt the hide
right off your bones. You hear me?”

  No one said anything, the room was quiet, deathly still; everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting to see how this all would shake out.

  “So do it,” Fast Hands hissed, a terrible grin splitting his hideous reptilian face.

  “Do what, Shit-gecko?” I asked.

  “Let’s see your power, mageling, let’s see you burn this place to the ground.”

  “Come again?”

  “Do it.” He spread his claw-tipped hands in invitation. “Maybe you’re a mage, but I smelt you true, and there’s something wrong with you. I think you’re full of pig shit … so I say shoot, Luke, or give up the gun.”

  I hesitated—Fast Hands had gotten a peek at my cards and knew I was playing with a bad hand. Dammit. The stillness in the bar room broke like a wave; one moment everything was static, though tense, and the next moment pandemonium erupted.

  Men and women started hollering, bodies moving this way and that, tables flew up on end—hastily constructed firing positions—and the sharp whip-crack report of gunfire filled the air. Of course, this is how it had to play out. I shouldn’t have hesitated—I should’ve shot Fast Hands right in the friggin’ skull. The saloon-goers had seen the uncertainty in my face, the indecision in my eyes, and they’d reacted according to their nature, cruel and violent.

  TWENTY-ONE:

  Saloon Shootout

  I threw myself back and down, taking cover behind the far side of the upright piano. Bullets plowed into the wood with a shriek. More rounds ripped into the piano’s guts—pinging off hammers and strings. Shame, that. As I said, I’m a musician at heart, so it pained me to see the Emerson go down in a blaze of glory. But better it than me. Bluesman yes, but pragmatist even more so.

  I pressed my back against the piano and kept my head low. If one of those rounds did manage to punch through, my jacket would stop it cold. I glanced left: Fast Hands was struggling to free himself from Ferraro, wrestling against her grip, she seemed reluctant to shoot him, though damned if I knew why. The scaly son of a bitch twisted free of her grasp, turning in a flurry of motion, hand darting for his weapon.

  Ferraro ducked inside his guard as he made the draw. She hooked one arm around his body, pivoted at the hips, and dragged Fast Hands up off his feet, across her back, and then sent him flipping through the air; a classic Judo throw called O Goshi, which was ideal against a larger opponent like Fast Hands. The snake man collided with the floor, though he’d somehow managed to complete the draw, even while in midflight. Ferraro didn’t even hesitate, not this time. She aimed her Glock down and blew off several of his fingers, simultaneously sending the gun spinning off across the floor, now covered in bloody gore.

  And here I’d been worried that I was gonna need to save her. At this rate, she was probably gonna be the one who ended up saving my ass.

  I glanced toward the front entrance. The batwing doors were now blocked by a trio of men—all hard-looking types with even harder-looking firearms—no way out there. Ferraro saw it too. She shot me a quick look and then slipped an arm around Fast Hands’s throat, his dark eyes looked dull with shock. She dragged him to his feet, positioning him in front of her body. A human—well, humanish anyways—shield. She slowly, deliberately backtracked toward the rear of the bar and the steep, narrow staircase which led to the second floor.

  Tactically, going up was not a great option: our escape routes would be limited and we’d be boxing ourselves in. Still, there would likely be windows up there and a two-story drop was survivable. Not to mention that the other option was staying down here in a room full of angry, inhuman thieves and killers, most of who were brandishing weapons and trying to murder us.

  If there was a back way out—which there probably was—I didn’t see hide nor hair of it, which meant getting out down here would require breaking past the posse blocking the door. That’d be one helluva tough row to hoe. So, in this case, it seemed like the path of least resistance was the best choice.

  Now all I needed to do was get to the stairs safely without getting shot into itty-bitty mage pieces. Behind the bar—that would be the safest way to maneuver the length of the room with all that incoming lead. If I had the Vis, I could’ve created a friction shield and just walked over to the bar, but I didn’t. If this were a badass western flick, I could’ve rolled the piano while staying all hidden, super sneaky like. Unfortunately, in real life, an upright piano weighs nearly eight hundred pounds, so I wasn’t gonna be rolling that heavy, busted-up S.O.B. anywhere.

  I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I knew I’d have to do … I glanced back out at the assembled horde. There was still plenty of gunfire going on, though a few of the mob had turned weapons on each other—apparently taking advantage of the chaos to settle some old debts. Still, there were eight shooters paying attention to me. Thankfully, they were all firing old-timey revolvers, mostly with six-round cylinder (though a few of them had two guns). I waited for a few of the shooters to run dry and then pivoted out, staying low, hefting my cannon, and firing into the crowd.

  The noise was a minuscule thing, really, but the damage … the damage was awe-inspiring. A table exploded, sending up a shower of wooden shrapnel followed by a chorus of shouts and curses. Another round plowed into the stomach of one of the shooters—a nasty looking guy with lime-green skin and a pair of misshapen feathered wings protruding from his back. He doubled over, grabbing at his middle. I don’t like killing, it’s never an easy thing to end a life, but sometimes the way of the gun is the only way.

  I aimed high and shot out the rope tethering the massive, overhead bone chandelier in place. The chandelier came crashing down, shattering on an overturned table and a human looking shooter crouched behind it. Chips of bone flew away like a bomb blast—chunks of ragged bone shrapnel nicked flesh here and there, causing a great many of the outlaws to duck low.

  Time to move.

  I turned my back toward the crowd and darted across the small open space to the bar, keeping my back, and coat, to the crowd. Though it wasn’t really much more than an eight or nine foot gap, the distance felt like the length of a friggin’ football field—it also felt like that football field was filled to the gills with defensive linemen all trying to tackle me into the dirt. Except these linemen were also wielding guns. The crack of pistol fire followed, the whine of bullets zipping through the air, but none of them came close. Thank God.

  I vaulted over the bar, sliding across the surface, knocking over a few beer mugs and a bowl of peanuts in passing. Unfortunately, I massively failed to stick the landing and instead bowled over the edge and dropped right onto my ass with a thump, which hurt like a son of a bitch. Probably bruised my tailbone, certainly bruised my ego. If the Olympic judges of bar sliding had been present, the hard-nosed Russian judge would’ve given my performance a negative thirteen for sure.

  A second later a round of bullets crashed into the silvered mirror running the length of wall behind the bar—I was actually kinda surprised it hadn’t already been shot out. A moment later, jagged chunks of mirror started raining down on me—slicing my cheek and the back of my left hand—because yeah, that was just what I needed … more scars, plus a literal blanket of glass to crawl across. I was working for Lady Luck, how was it possible that I could get the shaft so often? Ugh.

  At least the bartender was nowhere to be seen—guy must’ve seen his fair share of saloon brawls and knew well enough when to duck away. I wish I’d had that same foresight. But I hadn’t because I’m a shortsighted, unlucky idiot. So instead I resigned myself to crawling all the way across the glass-strewn floor.

  I shuffled along for a few feet before cautiously poking my hand above the counter and firing blind in the general vicinity of the crowd. I reloaded, crept forward another few feet and repeated the process, making sure I was laying down enough suppressive gunfire to keep the jokers from advancing beyond their hastily constructed wooden defenses.

  After what felt like a geol
ogical epoch, I managed to reach the end of the bar—and hey, I only had a few nicks on my hands and knees and cheek, not so bad in the grand scheme of things. The stairs were close, maybe four feet of uncovered space. I hazarded a glance over the top edge of the bar, gathering a split second lay of the land, trying to decide on the best course of action here.

  Most of the women had cleared out, leaving only armed and dangerous killers. Check. Of the original eight shooters who’d been taking shots at me, only five remained. One of the eight was surely dead, one more looked like he might’ve been close, and the third was badly maimed—gun arm completely missing.

  The batwing doors were still being blocked by the trio of toughs, none of who were actively engaging in the gunfight, but still … that left me against eight possible threats, with Ferraro upstairs. I had a relatively safe firing position—good enough, in fact, that I might’ve been able to win this little gun battle, but the best option still seemed like following Ferraro’s lead and heading upstairs.

  I inhaled deeply—breath filled me up—and I held it until my lungs strained under the pressure. Then I breathed out, pushing the spent oxygen away along with all my worries, anxieties, and fears. It was an exercise I regularly did when drawing on the Vis—having all that extra emotional baggage while tapping and handling the Vis could be deadly. Though this time I couldn’t draw on the life giving power underlying Creation, I still found the routine to be calming. Inhale, hold. Exhale, freedom. After another few breaths, I pushed myself into a crouch and lunged for the stairs and safety.

  More shooting. More thunder cracks. More furniture exploding. A flare of white-hot pain lanced across the back of my outstretched calf, a knife parting just over the top of my skin, leaving a shallow slash in its wake. I paid it no mind. The adrenaline running through my blood was a drug keeping the pain at bay. I tucked my gun into the rig running along my ribs and proceeded to scamper up the stairs on hands and feet, like some kinda deformed and especially ugly gorilla.