by Wayne Mee
“Sure,” Hairy muttered, then shuffled off down the bar. Part of his attention shifted back to the six noisy beer drinkers. Another part, the sharp-tongued comic part, kept an eye on the new strangers.
The redhead and the guy with the frosty eyes were talking in angry whispers. Red seemed real pissed off about something. After another stiff belt however, she started to come around. By the time she’d downed her third, she was hanging all over the guy. All the while the mean looking bastard with the crew-cut watched silently from the shadows.
Hairy’s ulcer suddenly started to act up. He was reaching for the jumbo bottle of Pepto Bismo he kept next to the Colt Double Eagle when the door opened again and a half dozen of Jocco’s soldier-boys came in. That skinny little prick, Rat, was with them. Hairy groaned inwardly. The last time Rat had dropped in he’d knifed a whore and shot a paying customer. The soldier-boys with him then had nearly died laughing. Hairy held out little hope that tonight would be any better.
Rat, his hair and eyebrows just starting to grow back from the firefight with the Desperadoes, looked even more like his namesake than ever. The skin on his left cheek was red and raw and his left ear had melted down to a charred knob. His beady rodent eyes darted about the room, coming to rest on Flame. Despite a limp, the blood-thirsty little bastard still managed to swagger across the floor. Cradled in his arm was a pump-action riot gun.
The room went silent. Even the six assholes that had come in earlier kept quiet. Apparently even true-blue assholes like them knew enough not to fuck with Jocco’s boys. Big Glen, perhaps feeling not so ‘big’ after all, decided that now was a great time to take five, or fifty , or just fuck off altogether. Hairy couldn’t really blame him. A buck a week and all of Mage you could eat wasn’t worth having that little psycho cut your balls off. Part of Hairy felt like shuffling off with Glenny-boy --- then again, part of him didn’t.
Glen was half way to the side door when one of the soldiers turned his gun on him. The sound of the slide chambering a shell made Big Glen halt in mid stide. “Go ahead, asshole,” the soldier crooned. “Make my decade!”
The Comic inside Hairy giggled. ‘You can run, Glenny-boy, but you can not hide.’
“Shut the fuck up!”, Hairy muttered quietly.
Not, as luck would have it however, quietly enough.
Private Leo Panelli, illegitimate offspring of a Swedish ski instructor and an Italian air stewardess, had just bellied-up to the bar when Hairy delivered the unfortunate one liner. Private Leo not only heard Hairy, but, sadly enough, had misconstrued his intent completely. Leo’s six foot two frame leaned over the bar and grasped Hairy’s last remaining dress shirt. Foul breath, the result of a root canal gone bad, washed over the startled ex-comedian.
“You trying to be funny, four-eyes?”, Leo growled.
The Comic in Hairy found this hilarious. Hairy, however, was of a far different opinion. Leo, impatient as his father had been to shove it into Miss Air Italia, shoved Hairy hard into the back wall. Glass and bottles fell to the floor, shattering into tiny fragments. Something in Hairy shattered as well.
Sitting there in a growing puddle of cheap wine and home-made rot-gut, Harold Manny Legowitz, born some fifty-two years ago in L.A.’s poor Jewish section, had had just about all he was going to take. The goddamn son-of-a-bitches had already taken everything he cared about! His wife, his kids, his career. When that wasn’t enough, they’d taken the whole fucking world! All he had left was his memories and this shitty little bar, and now, grinning blond whops and scab-faced little psychos were trying to take that! Well, not this time, buddy! Not THIS time!
Had Hairy been listening he might have heard that familiar voice in his head screaming out a warning. But Hairy was past listening, past caring as well. Mr. Saturday Night of the Sleazy Lounge set was taking a rather sudden, yet, in many ways, long overdue, walk on the wild side. A one way walk from which there was no encore and certainly no return engagement. And if the truth be told, Hairy didn’t give a shit. Smiling like the fabled Cheshire Cat, Hairy in Wonderland slowly reached for the Colt Double Eagle on the shelf beneath the counter.
Private Leo stood grinning on the far side of the bar. As Hairy pulled himself to his feet, Leo’s grin spread from ear to ear. It soon vanished however, when Hairy, looking like a Jewish Clint Eastwood gone to seed, raised the massive Colt. The ‘click’ of the hammer being pulled back acted like a canter calling the faithful. All eyes swung to center stage.
And now, ladies and germs, let’s all give a rousing Trail’s End raspberry for the late, great Hairy Legg!
Mage, the ex-disco queen turned waitress, gave a startled squeak. Several soldiers managed warning yells. The rest just managed to stand their with their jaws dropped and their thumbs up their asses.
“Don’t do it, man,” Leo croaked. “Please --- don’t do it.”
Now it was Hairy’s turn to grin. The title of Mage’s favorite Country & Western song rang in his ears. ‘Here’s a quarter, call someone who cares.’ Hairy pulled the trigger and the Colt bucked in his hand. The sound of the .45 exploded in the room. A nano-second later Leo’s brains exploded out the back of his head.
What happened next happen fast. Leo’s body did a little jig, then flopped over onto the table where the red-necks and whores were sitting. Both whores began to scream. The Douche-bag Tabernacle Choir at its peek. One of the men at the table jumped up swearing and went for his gun. Mistaking him for an irate heckler, Hairy squeezed off two more rounds. One passed through the far window, the other passed through the second whore’s left tit. The red-neck swore and raised his gun.
Rat, unwilling to be upstaged by a has-been comic, swung the riot gun around and blew the red-neck away. At such close range, the double-ought steel pellets punched a whole in the man’s chest big enough to put a fist through. Rat then turned his undivided attention on Harry. Rat’s second blast ripped Harry’s face off. As though on cue, everyone else jumped into the one act farce. Half the soldiers opened up on Hairy, the other half turned their attention to the rest of the room. What was left of Hairy slid behind the bar. The soldier covering Big Glen stitched a pattern across the bouncer’s chest and went right on into the remaining red-necks.
Josh and Flame had both vanished behind the bar; one at each end with Harry’s faceless corpse bleeding between them. Cobb stood in a far corner, his Defender pump appearing from beneath his long coat. When the shit hit the fan, Josh’s group had the killing ground triangulated, a little tidbit Cobb had drilled into them over and over.
‘Catch your enemy in a three-way crossfire and you’ll soon have no enemy left.’
They did just that. For fifteen seconds the room became a living hell. Repeated gunfire drowned out the screams of the dying. Josh fired from one end of the bar, Flame from the other. Cobb emptied first his Defender and then his Beretta at anything with a weapon. A Coleman lamp was hit and sent tongues of flame along the floor. Grotesque shadows danced off the walls. Someone dove through the front window. Clouds of acidic gunpowder hung in the air. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.
In the eerie silence that followed, eyes watered and ears rang. Then a woman’s scream was heard, cut off by a loud smack. A high pitched voice called out; Rat’s voice. “I got a woman here! Make a move and I’ll blow her fucking head off!”
Josh took the time to put a fresh clip into his Baretta. At the other end of the bar he saw Flame shoving police speed loads into her S & W. The long barrel was leaking smoke. She snapped the chamber shut and shrugged. “It’s your play, Lover.”
Josh drew a deep breath, the cordite stinging his lungs. “What do you want?”
From the shadows Rat giggled. “It aint what I want, shithead, it’s what The Man wants. King Fucking Jocco himself. He’s looking for a bunch of real heavy fucking dudes in a red van. Just like the one parked outside this shithole.”
Josh’s stomach turned as he thought of Jessie and Gill outside in the Westfalia. “Oh,” he managed. “Why�
�s that?”
Rat’s voice took on a condescending tone. “You mean besides the fact that you just offed a half dozen of Jocco’s men?”
“Ya,” Josh replied. “Besides that.”
The woman screamed again. “Don’t fuck with me, man, or I’ll do her right now!” Rat’s voice had climbed an octave.
Josh sighed. “Get to the bottom line, Asshole. I’m losing interest.”
Rat giggled. “The ‘bottom line, Asshole’ is that King Jocco the fucking First has a Grade-A hard-on for you and the red-headed cunt. What I got is my piece shoved in Goldylock’s ear. What I also got is the rest of my men babysitting the two boys you left outside in that red shitmobile.” Rat giggle again. “What you got is three fucking seconds to toss in the towel.”
“Don’t do it, Josh,” Cobb warned from the shadows. “The little prick’s full of shit!”
As an answer, Rat yelled out a name. “Simms! You out there?!”
“Ya, Rat,” a voice answered through the closed door. “What the fuck’s goin’ on?”
“You still got those two kids?”
“Sure,” Simms yelled back. “The white kid gave us some trouble when the shooting started, but the breed’s a pussy.”
Mage moaned as Rat yanked her hair. “Hear that, Tough Guy? Still feeling like being the big hero?”
“Let’s take him, Lover,” Flame hissed. “He’ll kill us anyway. Jessie too!”
Josh looked into her emerald eyes. For the first time since he’d met her he didn’t see his dead wife reflected in them. Slowly, sadly, he shook his head --- then tossed his Beretta up on the bar.
“Ah, shit,” Flame whispered, looking at the heavy killing thing clutched in her hand. For a brief moment she thought of doing it anyway, of stepping out and blasting the little shit. ‘Fuck the woman! She’s nothing to me. Maybe we can save Jess and...’
But deep inside she knew it was over. Josh would lead them through hell and back, take on any obstacle --- but now the price was just too high. He was here because of the death of one man’s son; she knew he’d do anything to save his own.
She placed her gun on the floor and reached out to take Josh’s hand. Their eyes locked for a moment, shared unspoken thoughts, then, still hand in hand, they slowly stood up.
Rat’s giggle filled the room.
Chapter 46: ‘A SPORTING PROPOSITION’
Jocco’s Temple
Bakersfield,
California May 24th
Rays from the setting sun poured like golden honey through the stained glassed windows, illuminating the unholy seen below. Four men and one woman, stripped to their underclothes, hung suspended from the heavy beams, slowly twirling in the liquid light.
The five were not the only people in the room. Two soldiers guarded the door. Several more stood with Scar. A nervous Bobby-Joe Burlis fidgeted beside an even more nervous Walter Pinkton. Pam Gliss sat on a desk toying with a strange looking knife. All eyes but Scar’s were on the man behind the desk. Jocco, dressed in army fatigues with three silver stars on his collar and a gold circlet holding back his long hair, sat watching the swaying bodies. Pussbag squatted in the shadows like a waiting hound.
Suddenly Jocco stood, strode over to one of the suspended forms and struck it hard with a silver topped swagger stick. Pleasure registered on his cruel face.
Pain lanced through Josh’s body, filling his joints and seeking out the distant corners of his mind. Defying the pain, he opened his eyes.
“So, you are awake,” crooned the velvet voice. “I thought as much. Quite rude of you to drop off like that, especially since we were having such as interesting conversation.”
Pussbag chuckled from the shadows. Jocco glanced his way and the chuckling ceased. “Now,” Jocco said, “let’s get to the point, shall we?”
“Eat shit,” Josh croaked though parched and bleeding lips. His right eye was nearly swollen shut and something wet and sticky trickled down his left cheek. The swagger stick lifted his chin.
“Major Scar said you wouldn’t break. At first I didn’t believe him. I still don’t.” Jocco looked back at the tall, one-eyed man, then pressed the silver-studded stick, causing Josh to twirl slowly. “It’s just a matter of finding the right leverage. We’ve tried thirst, pain, hardship. None of those work.” He glanced over at Cobb and met a pair of defiant eyes. “I believe your friend there even enjoys pain.” The swagger stick flicked out, striking Cobb in the face. The defiance only intensified. Jocco smiled.
“So far I’ve spared the woman and the two boys. I could, of course, let my good friend here have them.” Jocco nodded and Pussbag edged closer. “Did you know that boys are his specialty? He doesn’t much care for women, but then Lord Walter would be glad to handle that. He’s quite creative when it comes to the fairer sex.” Jocco’s cold eyes washed over Flame hanging at the far end. “And there’s so much of her to work with.”
“Let them go, Jocco,” Josh said. “It’s me you want.”
Jocco’s smile widened. “But why should I? I already have you.”
“What do you want from me?!”, Josh yelled. The effort clearly cost him.
Still smiling, Jocco leaned closer. “What I want is to conclude that little arrangement we spoke of earlier. A sporting proposition between two men of the world.”
Josh’s mind was not working at its peak. Three days without food, sleep or water, not to mention the beatings, had left him more than a little under the weather. Still, fragments of Jocco’s earlier conversation slowly surfaced. Something about a race, a hunting lodge and a promise of freedom. Josh didn’t believe a word of it --- still, what choice did he have? He and the others were as good as dead already.
“Want to run it by me again, Sport?”
Jocco shrugged. “Certainly. Major Scar and several others wanted me to have you killed immediately. I however, craved something more satisfying. Death is such a common commodity these days.” Jocco motioned for Pam the Bitch to join him. Gently he took the long, thin knife from her, testing the edge with his thumb. “Yours, I believe? A Japanese Tanto. The tool of a Samurai.” He pointed the blade in Jessie’s direction. The youth was watching with the piercing eyes of a trapped hawk.
“Your son informed me that you are a man of letters; that back before the world changed you used to be a teacher. Literature and ancient history I believe he said. Oh, he didn’t want to, but he did it to ease your pain.”
Josh looked at his son and tried to smile. A single tear was working its way down Jessie’s cheek.
“He also said you are something of an outdoorsman. A climber of mountains who can quote Shakespeare and recount ancient battles round the campfire.” Jocco’s vice took on a condescending tone. “Your son is really quite proud of you. A rarity in today’s wayward youth. He would, in fact, do anything to save you. The foolish lad even offered to fight Major Scar if I would let you go. Quite touching.”
“What-do-you-WANT?!” Josh had had about all he was going to take from this little dictator. If he was going to kill them, then get on with it!
Jocco’s eyebrows rose, the ice returning to his voice. “Temper, professor. It doesn’t pay to piss me off.”
“It doesn’t pay not to, either. Get to the bloody point or fuck off!”
“You tell the little shit, Lover!”, Flame hissed. “He’s just a little fuck who gets off on other people’s pain!”
Still smiling, Jocco drew his pearl-handled .45, swiveled around and fired. The echo peeled across the large room like distant thunder. Despite himself, Josh flinched. When he opened his eyes he saw Gill Sweetwater hanging limply alongside Flame. Blood welled out of a massive chestwound in Gill’s chest.
Jocco holstered his weapon and turned back to Josh. “Consider that my first and final warning. Now, what I’m proposing is this. Major Scar will take you and your silent friend into the foothills west of here. You will be given a map, a water bottle and a compass. You will make your way some twenty odd miles to a hunting lodge marked on
the map. I will be waiting for you there, along with your woman and your son. Exactly one hour after you are released, the good Major and his companions will begin hunting you. If you both make it to the lodge alive, all four of you will be set free. Any questions?”
Josh’s brain was racing. Blocking out the sight of Gill’s body hanging in front of him, he willed himself to think of the living. “How much time do we have to reach this lodge?
“Three days, two nights. On the third night I’ll kill the woman. The fourth dawn will be the last one your son ever sees.”
“What if only one of us makes it?”
Jocco grinned, pointing the Tanto at Cobb. “He saves the girl, but your son dies. You, however, get to choose.”
Josh wanted to scream. Instead he asked: “How many will be hunting us?”
Jocco laughed. “Now, professor, that would take away some of the excitement. Let’s just say that Major Scar will not be alone.”
Josh frowned. “Why? I mean, is this just for kicks or what?”
“Not at all,” Jocco said. “Oh, I admit I’ll enjoy the sport, you might even see me from time to time buzzing over you in my chopper, but I do have another reason.”
Josh waited, knowing Jocco would couldn’t pass up a chance to gloat. The wait was a short one.
“It has come to my attention that one of my trusted advisors might just not be so trustworthy after all. Lord Walter, who you see standing behind me, has been accused by one of my officers, Commander Burlis, of planning a coup. Lord Walter, of course, fervently denies this; but then, I could hardly expect him to do otherwise. The evidence is all hearsay and innuendo. One man’s word against another sort of thing. This little hunt will decide Lord Walter’s guilt or innocence.”
Despite himself, Josh asked the obvious question. “How?”
Jocco gladly complied. “Being a student of history, you will, I’m sure, recall the term ‘trial by ordeal’? This hunt will be my own little version of that ancient custom. If you reach the lodge alive, Lord Walter will die. If you don’t, he lives.”