would. It was a lie. I'd come back only if the news was good,
and with the Norma's of this world, the news was never good.
Red
Bandanna and Shiner had wrestled the pipe apart and were in the
process of installing new stainless steel fittings.
"Buster
around?" I asked.
"Told
you, we don't know nothing about no girl," Bandanna said.
"Mind
if I ask Buster personally?"
"No,
but Buster sure as hell will," he smirked.
"Why
don't you rustle him up, and we'll ask him."
"Listen
Bub, you don't want no parta Buster. On a good day he's mean as a
shark, and right now he's sleeping one off. I was you, I'd get up the
road. He gave Rob here that eye for just whuppin' him at pool last
night. Do yourself a big favor and take a hike."
"Still
need to talk to Buster, I'm afraid."
The
picket-fence smirk got bigger.
"Afraid's
what you oughta be. But since you ain't, you just stay right there.
I'll fetch him for you. I surely will. Don't go anywhere now."
Bandanna
headed below decks. Shiner fixed me with his one good eye. "Mister,"
he said.
I
looked up. He underhanded the pipe wrench my way. End over end. I
stepped back and let it hit the dock at my feet, then retrieved it,
stashing it in my jacket pocket, handle out.
Bandanna
reappeared. His yellow teeth jack-o'-lanterned as he eased back
against the rail, lighting a cigarette, folding his arms. Might as
well get comfortable for the show.
Buster
burst out of the hatch, his head swiveling to find me. Moving quickly
around the skiff in my direction, he exhibited amazing dexterity for
a man of such proportions as he stepped deftly over a maze of pipe,
wire, and fittings. Wendy Kroll had been wrong. Buster was neither an
ox nor a pig. Buster was a buffalo. One of those genetically obese
men whose fifty-pound layer of fat belied the two hundred pounds of
rock-hard muscle beneath. The chilli-bowl haircut and ruddy cheeks
lent almost a cherubic quality to his face, as long as you didn't
look at the eyes. Squeezed nearly shut by his cheeks, red with sleep
and alcohol, his eyes showed all the humanity of rusted ball
bearings.
Insisting
on an audience with Buster had been a major miscalculation. Pumping
adrenaline began to give me that lighter-than-air feeling. I cured my
stupidity and reckoned how having such an easy time with the Bo Peeps
and Chippers of this world must have given me delusions of grandeur
... I should have known better.
I
silently thanked the kid for the comforting weight of the wrench
tugging at my pocket. My reading of Buster said that, without the
wrench and the element of surprise, my best chance would probably be
to assume the fetal position and hope that Buster either lost
interest or ran out of gas sometime before he pureed my kidneys.
While the prospect of hitting another human being with a four-pound
pipe wrench was repugnant to me, this alternative was even less
attractive. I took a firm grip on the handle.
Buster
hit the dock at a lope. The front panel of his bib overalls hung down
in front, the buckles banging off his massive thighs. No shoes.
Curled yellow toenails. I spread my feet for balance. Unless I
was mistaken, Buster was going to turn out to be a man of few words;
there wasn't going to be any prefight chitchat.
He
covered the distance in six quick strides; four feet from me, he cast
a porcine sneer up at the deck of the Haida Queen, making sure his
audience was in place for the main event. I chose that moment to
bounce the wrench off Buster's wide forehead. The loose parts of the
heavy wrench gave a muted clank. The shock waves of the blow rocketed
down my arm, numbing my elbow. He staggered back, clutching his head.
Before he could recover, I roundhoused the wrench, catching him full
in the temple with the flat side. He rocked once, reached out to me,
and fell gracefully onto his side, unmoving.
"Damn,"
breathed Shiner.
I
reached down and checked the pulse in Buster's thick throat. Strong
and steady. His eyelids fluttered like fallen leaves, then
and with the Norma's of this world, the news was never good.
Red
Bandanna and Shiner had wrestled the pipe apart and were in the
process of installing new stainless steel fittings.
"Buster
around?" I asked.
"Told
you, we don't know nothing about no girl," Bandanna said.
"Mind
if I ask Buster personally?"
"No,
but Buster sure as hell will," he smirked.
"Why
don't you rustle him up, and we'll ask him."
"Listen
Bub, you don't want no parta Buster. On a good day he's mean as a
shark, and right now he's sleeping one off. I was you, I'd get up the
road. He gave Rob here that eye for just whuppin' him at pool last
night. Do yourself a big favor and take a hike."
"Still
need to talk to Buster, I'm afraid."
The
picket-fence smirk got bigger.
"Afraid's
what you oughta be. But since you ain't, you just stay right there.
I'll fetch him for you. I surely will. Don't go anywhere now."
Bandanna
headed below decks. Shiner fixed me with his one good eye. "Mister,"
he said.
I
looked up. He underhanded the pipe wrench my way. End over end. I
stepped back and let it hit the dock at my feet, then retrieved it,
stashing it in my jacket pocket, handle out.
Bandanna
reappeared. His yellow teeth jack-o'-lanterned as he eased back
against the rail, lighting a cigarette, folding his arms. Might as
well get comfortable for the show.
Buster
burst out of the hatch, his head swiveling to find me. Moving quickly
around the skiff in my direction, he exhibited amazing dexterity for
a man of such proportions as he stepped deftly over a maze of pipe,
wire, and fittings. Wendy Kroll had been wrong. Buster was neither an
ox nor a pig. Buster was a buffalo. One of those genetically obese
men whose fifty-pound layer of fat belied the two hundred pounds of
rock-hard muscle beneath. The chilli-bowl haircut and ruddy cheeks
lent almost a cherubic quality to his face, as long as you didn't
look at the eyes. Squeezed nearly shut by his cheeks, red with sleep
and alcohol, his eyes showed all the humanity of rusted ball
bearings.
Insisting
on an audience with Buster had been a major miscalculation. Pumping
adrenaline began to give me that lighter-than-air feeling. I cured my
stupidity and reckoned how having such an easy time with the Bo Peeps
and Chippers of this world must have given me delusions of grandeur
... I should have known better.
I
silently thanked the kid for the comforting weight of the wrench
tugging at my pocket. My reading of Buster said that, without the
wrench and the element of surprise, my best chance would probably be
to assume the fetal position and hope that Buster either lost
interest or ran out of gas sometime before he pureed my kidneys.
While the prospect of hitting another human being with a four-pound
pipe wrench was repugnant to me, this alternative was even less
attractive. I took a firm grip on the handle.
Buster
hit the dock at a lope. The front panel of his bib overalls hung down
in front, the buckles banging off his massive thighs. No shoes.
Curled yellow toenails. I spread my feet for balance. Unless I
was mistaken, Buster was going to turn out to be a man of few words;
there wasn't going to be any prefight chitchat.
He
covered the distance in six quick strides; four feet from me, he cast
a porcine sneer up at the deck of the Haida Queen, making sure his
audience was in place for the main event. I chose that moment to
bounce the wrench off Buster's wide forehead. The loose parts of the
heavy wrench gave a muted clank. The shock waves of the blow rocketed
down my arm, numbing my elbow. He staggered back, clutching his head.
Before he could recover, I roundhoused the wrench, catching him full
in the temple with the flat side. He rocked once, reached out to me,
and fell gracefully onto his side, unmoving.
"Damn,"
breathed Shiner.
I
reached down and checked the pulse in Buster's thick throat. Strong
and steady. His eyelids fluttered like fallen leaves, then
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