1988 - Stinger

by Robert McCammon

  If his heart beat any harder, Ray figured he was going to sound like a human drum. He almost retreated from Paco, but what was the point? There was nowhere to run. He had to stand and deal with it, and hope that some ’Gades would walk through the door real soon.

  “Nobody wants to fight, man!” Stoplight said. “Why don’t you take off?”

  Paco grinned. “I want to fight.” And there was a crash and sizzle of sparks as Juan threw over another machine. Paco stared fixedly at Ray. “I told you, didn’t I? I told you to stay out of my way.”

  Ray swallowed. Laurie Rainey was watching, and Robby, and Mike, and all the others. He knew he was about to be beaten; that was a fact. But there were worse things, and one of them was cringing. He felt a tight grin ripple across his mouth, saw that it puzzled even Paco for a second. Ray stepped forward to meet him, and said, “Fuck you.”

  The blow was so fast he didn’t even see it coming. It hit him in the jaw, lifted him off his feet, and knocked him into the Neutron machine. He went down on his knees, his glasses hanging from one ear and the taste of blood in his mouth. Paco’s fist closed on his shirt, began to reel him to his feet.

  Stoplight ran for the door, but Juan Diegas was quick; he aimed a kick that hit Stoplight in the shoulder and brought a yell of pain from him. Stoplight fell, and at once Juan was on him, flailing with his fists.

  Ray saw Paco’s leering face above him. He raised his fist to strike that face, but his arm was caught and pinned. Behind Paco, Ruben was leaping up, whooping with glee every time he plucked a planet off its wire.

  Paco’s fist lifted. It looked giant-sized, the knuckles scarred and rough.

  Ray thrashed to escape, balanced on the toes of his sneakers. He could find no traction.

  The fist reared back, hesitated—then whammed forward.

  His mouth bleeding, Ray skidded backward under a pinball machine.

  * * *

  20

  Wreckage

  “Safe and sound,” Cody said as he pulled the cycle to the curb in front of Rick Jurado’s house. Miranda got off, clutching her suitcase, her hair wild and windblown.

  “Anybody ever tell you you drive too fast?”

  “Nope.” He glanced around; no Rattlers on the street, not yet at least. The sound of hammers rang from Cade’s junkyard.

  “Well, I’m telling you. You could’ve gotten us killed.”

  “You can get killed by breathin’ around here,” he answered. “Better get on inside.” He nodded toward the house; the yellow porch light was on. In the air he could smell onions and beans. “I’ll wait till you make it in.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “No sweat,” he said, but he was sweating under his arms.

  “Thanks for the ride. And for saving me from the Mumbler too.” She smiled faintly, then started for the house.

  “Anytime.” Cody revved the engine, watching as she climbed the steps and knocked at the door. She was okay, he decided. Too bad that… well, just too bad.

  The door opened. Cody saw Rick Jurado’s face in the yellow light. “Brought you a present, Ricky!” he shouted, and as Rick stared, bewildered and shocked, Cody spun the Honda around in a tight circle and rocketed away along Second Street.

  “Damned crazy fool!” Rick raged, in Spanish—and then he looked at the girl who stood at his front door with a suitcase in her hand.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He answered, “Hi,” not recognizing her; but in the next second the bottom dropped out of his composure. The last picture she’d sent him had been over two years ago, and in those two years she had changed from a little girl to a woman. “Miranda?”

  Her suitcase thumped to the porch’s boards, and she reached for her brother. He put his arms around her, lifted her off her feet, and squeezed; he heard her make a small sob, and his eyes were burning too. “Miranda… Miranda, I can’t believe this! How’d you get here? I just can’t—” And then it hit him: Cody Lockett, with his sister. He almost dropped her, and as he set her down his eyes had gone maniacal. “What were you doin’ with Lockett?”

  “Nothing. He just gave me a ride.”

  “Did he touch you? I swear to God, if he touched you—”

  “No, no!” His expression was scaring her. It was not the face of the gentle brother who wrote her letters with a graceful, precise hand. “He didn’t do anything except bring me from the bus stop!”

  “You stay away from him! He’s trash! You understand?”

  “No, I don’t!” But she did, in that moment; she saw Rick’s metal-studded bracelets—the macho fashion of many of the boys who ran with the gangs in Fort Worth—and she remembered how Cody had reacted when she’d mentioned Rick’s name. Bad blood, she thought. “It’s all right. I’m fine.”

  He was trembling with anger. How dare that bastard touch Miranda! It was yet another score that must be settled. But he forced the rage off his face and coiled it up inside, to wait. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get hot. Come inside!” He picked up her suitcase and took her hand. Once inside the house, he closed and bolted the door. “Sit down, please!” He started bustling around, trying to straighten up the dusty room.

  “Where’s Paloma?”

  “Sleeping.” His street inflections were gone. He brushed off the sofa’s pillows and plumped them up. “I’ll go wake her—”

  “No, not yet. First I have to talk to you alone.”

  He frowned. That sounded serious. “What is it?”

  Miranda walked across the room to Paloma’s shelf of ceramic birds. She picked up a cardinal and ran her fingers over its wings. “I’m not going back to Fort Worth,” she said finally. “Not ever.”

  “Bash him!” Ruben shouted merrily. “Bash the li’l fucker!”

  Paco had hold of Ray’s ankles and was trying to pull him out from underneath the pinball machine, but Ray grasped one of its legs and wasn’t about to let go. His glasses had spun away, and blood drooled from his mouth. Still, his mind was clear; he thought he knew what it must be like to be a wounded animal set upon by vultures.

  Robby Falkner screwed up his guts and charged, but Paco whirled upon him and smashed him in the face—one, two, three quick blows. Robby’s nose burst open, and the boy gave a small weak cry as he fell.

  On the floor Stoplight scrabbled away from Juan Diegas, who began to attack the arcade machines again. “Stop it! Please stop it!” Kennishaw hollered, crouching in a corner. Stoplight saw the open door in front of him and, one eye swollen shut and a gash across his cheek from a signet ring, he got up and ran onto the street. Behind him, Juan roared, “Wreckage!” and threw over the Gunfighter machine, which shot blue sparks and began to vomit forth its quarters.

  Stoplight kept going past the sheriff’s office. This was Renegade business, and he knew exactly what to do.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” Rick’s eyes were black and fierce. “What’s she done to you?”

  “It’s not that. I just had to get—”

  He took her right hand. The palm was dry and cracked, the fingernails broken—she had the hands of a laborer instead of a Fort Worth high school junior. “I see,” he said tautly. “She’s had you scrubbing floors.”

  Miranda shrugged. “I did some work for a few people, after school. It wasn’t much. Just sweeping, washing dishes, and—”

  “Carting some fat gringo’s garbage to the street?”

  “It was a job.” She pulled her hand away from his. “It wasn’t her idea. It was mine.”

  “Yeah.” Rick smiled bitterly. “And there you were being a maid while she sat around waiting for her pimp to call, huh?”

  “Stop.” Her gaze met his. “Just stop. You don’t know, so you can’t say.”

  “I do know! Hell, I read your letters! I kept them all! Maybe you never spelled it out, but I can read between the lines pretty good! She’s a worthless puta, and I don’t know why you stayed with her this long!”

  Miranda was silent. She returned the cardinal to its
place on the shelf. “No one’s worthless. That’s why I stayed.”

  “Yeah, well thank Mother Mary you got away before she could turn you into a whore too!”

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “Please,” she implored. “Let’s talk nice, all right?”

  He kissed her finger, but his eyes remained brooding.

  “Look what I still have!” Miranda went to her suitcase, unlatched it, and dug through clothes until she found a many-times-folded piece of paper. She began carefully unfolding it, and Rick saw where it had been taped at the seams to keep it from falling apart. He knew what it was, but he let her open it and display it to him. “See? It looks almost new.”

  On the paper was a self-portrait, done in pastel crayons about three years ago. His face—a lot younger then, he thought—was drawn with thick and aggressive lines, lots of black shadow, and red highlights. It looked damned amateurish to him now. He’d done it in about an hour or so, while staring into a mirror in his room.

  “Do you still draw?” Miranda asked him.

  “A little.” In his room, in a box under the bed, were dozens of pastel studies, most of them on lined notebook paper, of Bordertown, the desert, Rocking Chair Ridge, and the face of his grandmother. But it was a private thing he did, and no one but Miranda and Paloma knew about it. He refused to put any of his drawings up in the house for fear that the other Rattlers might see.

  “You should do something with your talent,” Miranda persisted. “You should go to art school or—”

  “No more school. Tomorrow’s my last day, and then I’m through.”

  “What are you going to do, then?”

  “I’ve already got a good job, at the hardware store.” He hadn’t mentioned in any of his letters that he was a lowly stockboy. “I’m… uh… in inventory control. I figure maybe I can start painting houses on weekends. A fast house painter can make a lot of money.”

  “You can do better than that, and you know it. This says you can.” She held up the self-portrait.

  “No more school,” he said firmly.

  “Mama always said you were—” She stopped, knowing she was treading near a minefield, and then continued: “As hard to move as a mule train.”

  “She was right. For once.” He watched as Miranda gently refolded the drawing and put it away. “So what happened?” he asked her, and waited to hear the whole story, even though he knew it was going to tear him apart.

  “Cody! Cody!”

  He looked up from putting the tools away in the garage stall. Stoplight was staggering toward him, nearly falling, his face a mask of blood. “They’re killin’ him, Cody!” Stoplight said, struggling for breath. He bent over, about to puke, and drops of blood spattered on the concrete. “Mr. Hammond’s kid. X Ray. The Rattlers. They’re at the Warp Room, and they’re killin’ him, man!”

  “How many?” Ice water had flooded his veins, but a hard hot pulse beat in his skull.

  “I don’t know.” He thought his brains must be knocked loose. “Five or six. Seven, maybe.” Mendoza had been counting money from the register, and now he came out and saw the boy’s bloody face; he stopped short, his mouth gaping.

  Cody had no hesitation. He reached for the wall and lifted off a leather tool belt that held an array of wrenches, drawing it tight around his waist and buckling it. “Go find Tank, Bobby Clay, Davy, anybody and everybody you can. Move it!” Stoplight nodded, mustered his strength, and ran away, an obedient soldier. At once Cody was astride his motorcycle, and Mendoza’s cry of “Cody! Wait!” was drowned out by the engine firing. Cody sped off into the darkness.

  “Dammit!” Mendoza ran for the telephone in his office and hurriedly dialed the sheriff. One of the night deputies, Leland Teal, answered and Mendoza started telling him there was going to be a gang fight but Teal spent precious seconds fumbling for a pencil and paper to take down the information.

  Cody skidded to a stop in front of the Warp Room. His insides cold and his eyes aflame, he strode through the doorway and saw the carnage.

  Arcade machines had been overturned, spitting sparks across the floor. Ruben Hermosa was kicking the glass out of one of them, and from the back old Kennishaw was in a corner moaning “No… please… no…” Juan Diegas had hold of some kid—Robby Falkner, Cody thought it was—and was methodically rubbing the boy’s face on the floor, leaving bloody streaks. Other kids cringed at the rear of the Warp Room.

  And there was Paco LeGrande, splinted nose and all, kicking at Ray Hammond, who had curled up under a pinball machine and was desperately trying to protect his testicles. Cody heard the breath hiss between X Ray’s teeth as one of those big combat boots struck his shoulder, and Cody said, “That’s enough.”

  Paco stopped kicking, turned and grinned. Ruben Hermosa ceased his destruction, and Juan Diegas released Robby Falkner, who lay sobbing.

  “Hey, man!” Paco said, and showed his palms. “We’re jus’ havin’ us a li’l party.”

  “Party’s over,” Cody told him. He glanced quickly around. Only three Rattlers; what was that shit about five of them being here? Well, maybe LeGrande and Diegas made two apiece.

  “I think the party’s jus’ startin’,” Paco replied; his grin froze into a rictus, and he began striding forward, his boots clumping, his body getting ready to launch itself at Lockett.

  Cody let him come on, and didn’t move.

  But when Paco was almost upon him, Cody’s hand blurred to his tool belt. It came away with a wrench, and he flung it before Paco could register what was going to happen.

  The wrench hit Paco’s collarbone with a solid crunch. Paco yelled in pain and staggered back into Ruben, his face contorted even further. The wrench clattered to the floor.

  Juan Diegas charged, was too fast for Cody to dodge. The Rattler hit him, head to belly, knocked the air from his lungs, and lifted him off his feet. He crashed into the Commando machine, and Juan pummeled wildly at his ribs. Cody jabbed an uppercut at Juan’s chin, only grazed it, hooked his fingers into the Rattler’s eyes, and twisted. This time Juan screamed and backpedaled, madly rubbing his scratched eyeballs. Cody wasted no time; he took a step forward, planted himself, and kicked Juan in the stomach. The other boy wheezed and went down.

  Ruben Hermosa swung at Cody, caught him in the jaw, and rocked him back. Another blow grazed Cody’s forehead. He lifted his arms, warded off a third punch, gripped Ruben’s T-shirt, and slammed his fist into the boy’s face; it was an instinct shot, and hit Ruben smack in the nose. Blowing blood, Ruben tried to retreat but Cody was all over him, hitting him in the face with pistonlike blows. Ruben staggered, his knees buckled—and then Paco leapt over the Solar Fortress machine and hit Cody with a bodyblock that knocked him sprawling.

  Ruben scurried for the door on his hands and knees. Once outside, he got up and ran for Bordertown.

  Cody had blood in his mouth, and his vision was hazed. He could hear the big boots coming, and he thought, Get up or you’re buzzard bait! He tried to stand, but he knew he was too late. One of Paco’s boots hit him under the right arm, sending jolts of pain shooting through his ribs. “Stomp him!” he heard Juan shout. Cody twisted, and the next kick caught his shoulder. His vision was clearing but his legs wouldn’t move fast enough. He looked up, saw Paco towering over him and another kick about to be delivered. He had the mental image of it hitting his chin, knocking his head back, and snapping his neck like a chicken’s. He had to move, and quick.

  But before he could, a figure leapt upon Paco LeGrande’s back and knocked the Rattler off balance. The kick never came. Cody saw X Ray’s bleeding face—and the little sonofabitch was snarling.

  Paco shouted with rage and reached back to tear X Ray off—but the smaller boy grabbed Paco’s nose splint and gave it a mighty yank.

  “I love her.” Miranda’s voice was quiet, her hands folded before her as she sat on the sofa. “But I couldn’t stay with her anymore. I couldn’t stand it.”

  Rick waited without pressing her, because he knew
there was more and it had to come out.

  “It got worse with the men,” Miranda went on. “She started bringing them to the apartment. Those apartments… they have such thin walls.” She picked at a broken fingernail, unable to look at her brother. “She met this guy. He wanted her to go to California with him. She said he”—a tortured smile flickered across her mouth—“made her feel pretty. And do you know what else she said?” She forced herself to meet his solemn gaze. He was waiting to hear it. “She said… we could make a lot of money in California. The both of us. She said that now I was old enough to start making some real money.”

  Rick sat without moving, his eyes deep ebony and his face like chiseled stone, but inside he was writhing. Their mother had left him here with Paloma when he was five years old and taken three-year-old Miranda with her; their father had abandoned them just after Miranda was born. Where Esteban Jurado was, Rick didn’t know, nor did he particularly care, but over the years his mother had written him and Paloma chatty letters about her “modeling” career. There always seemed to be a big break on the horizon that never materialized, and gradually the letters were written more and more by Miranda. Rick had gotten very good at reading between the lines.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong,” Miranda said. “She was giving me a choice. I could either leave, or go to California with her. But I don’t believe she really wanted me to. I believe she wanted me to pack my bag and go to the bus station and buy a ticket to Inferno, just like I did. That’s what I believe.” Her expression was as firm as his, but the glitter of tears had begun to show. “Please, Rick… please don’t try to make me think that isn’t true.”

  “Ricardo?” Paloma’s voice drifted from the hallway. Before he could get up to help her, Paloma walked into the room, dressed in her cotton nightgown and her white hair disarrayed from sleep. “I heard you talking to someone.”

  “Grandmother,” Miranda said—and Paloma abruptly halted, angling her head toward the dimly seen figure who stood up from the sofa.