smoked.
I always wondered if I’d have to kill somebody one day, but I never thought it would be Billy, or anyone I knew, anyone I worked with. Once, I was in this fight in a little shithole lounge outside Amarillo. The place got out of hand, and we tried to stay out of it, but some of these motherfuckers got up on the stage and this big biker got a hold on our drummer. The drummer was a little scrawny guy, and I could see that biker was about to break him into a dozen pieces.
I swung my guitar as hard as I could, and the crack on the biker’s skull was so loud, it stopped the rest of the fight, everybody looking up to the stage as this beefy son of a bitch went flopping off the stage, blood pouring into his eyes. I was scared then, worried I’d killed the guy. I checked the hospital three days in a row until I heard he was going to be okay, and then I hauled my ass out of town.
But there wasn’t any power on Earth going to bring Billy back. There was an axe lodged in his neck, and I’d put it there. Billy’s wife was a red-haired woman with freckles named Cindy. She taught fifth grade. I tried to remember if they had a kid or not and then very quickly stopped trying to remember.
Don’t think about it.
I heard somebody clear his throat, and I spun quickly, my hands going to the revolver on my belt. Never mind it didn’t have any bullets.
The Mexican loitering in the frame of the garage door was short and dark, broad flat nose. Black hair down past his neck. He wore dirty jeans and a stained undershirt. Sandals. He held up his hands like whoa, pal. No trouble here . He pointed at my cigarette, motioned with two fingers at his mouth.
I held the pack out to him, like I was trying to lure a squirrel with a crust of bread. He approached slowly, took one from the pack. He made a thumb flicking motion for a light, and I sparked him up with my Bic. I backed up to a big toolbox, used it as a bench and lit a new Winston for myself. My hands still shook, but not quite so bad.
My new pal squatted in front of me, puffed, looked around the firehouse. His gaze landed on dead Billy. He muttered Spanish, offered me a sheepish smile and a shrug as if to say Sometimes you just have to put an axe though a guy .
He finished the cigarette, stood, uselessly dusted off his pants. I took some more cigarettes from the pack and handed them to him. “For the road.”
“ Muchas gracias .” He took the smokes and headed for the door.
I watched him shamble away with nothing but the clothes on his back, probably nothing in his pockets either. No I.D. maybe. Where would he go first? What would he do? How would he eat? The answers were all too likely.
“Hold on,” I called after him.
He paused, raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t do anything in town, okay? Take your show on the road.”
He looked blank.
“Don’t steal anything,” I said. “Don’t break into anyone’s house. At least wait until you get to the next town.”
His blank look got more blank.
I tapped the star on my chest. “ Policia .” I put my hand on the pistol, looked him square in the eye. “I don’t want any trouble from you.” I thumbed the badge again. “Just move on someplace else.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, and he nodded vigorously. “ Si, si .” He jogged away.
Good. Maybe he’d cause trouble somewhere else. Maybe he wouldn’t cause any at all. He probably didn’t have a nickel or a plan, but somehow I envied him, running off into the night with two cigarettes and a clean slate. I hoped he wouldn’t hurt anybody. I had bigger worries.
I stood, flicked away the cigarette butt, and closed the big garage door, made sure it was latched. I approached the back of the moving van, and was almost knocked over by the stink. I had the idea that maybe I’d get in there and have a looksee, find clues or whatever bullshit real cops do, but the combination of urine, crap and body odor was like some kind of impenetrable force-field. I shut the
I always wondered if I’d have to kill somebody one day, but I never thought it would be Billy, or anyone I knew, anyone I worked with. Once, I was in this fight in a little shithole lounge outside Amarillo. The place got out of hand, and we tried to stay out of it, but some of these motherfuckers got up on the stage and this big biker got a hold on our drummer. The drummer was a little scrawny guy, and I could see that biker was about to break him into a dozen pieces.
I swung my guitar as hard as I could, and the crack on the biker’s skull was so loud, it stopped the rest of the fight, everybody looking up to the stage as this beefy son of a bitch went flopping off the stage, blood pouring into his eyes. I was scared then, worried I’d killed the guy. I checked the hospital three days in a row until I heard he was going to be okay, and then I hauled my ass out of town.
But there wasn’t any power on Earth going to bring Billy back. There was an axe lodged in his neck, and I’d put it there. Billy’s wife was a red-haired woman with freckles named Cindy. She taught fifth grade. I tried to remember if they had a kid or not and then very quickly stopped trying to remember.
Don’t think about it.
I heard somebody clear his throat, and I spun quickly, my hands going to the revolver on my belt. Never mind it didn’t have any bullets.
The Mexican loitering in the frame of the garage door was short and dark, broad flat nose. Black hair down past his neck. He wore dirty jeans and a stained undershirt. Sandals. He held up his hands like whoa, pal. No trouble here . He pointed at my cigarette, motioned with two fingers at his mouth.
I held the pack out to him, like I was trying to lure a squirrel with a crust of bread. He approached slowly, took one from the pack. He made a thumb flicking motion for a light, and I sparked him up with my Bic. I backed up to a big toolbox, used it as a bench and lit a new Winston for myself. My hands still shook, but not quite so bad.
My new pal squatted in front of me, puffed, looked around the firehouse. His gaze landed on dead Billy. He muttered Spanish, offered me a sheepish smile and a shrug as if to say Sometimes you just have to put an axe though a guy .
He finished the cigarette, stood, uselessly dusted off his pants. I took some more cigarettes from the pack and handed them to him. “For the road.”
“ Muchas gracias .” He took the smokes and headed for the door.
I watched him shamble away with nothing but the clothes on his back, probably nothing in his pockets either. No I.D. maybe. Where would he go first? What would he do? How would he eat? The answers were all too likely.
“Hold on,” I called after him.
He paused, raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t do anything in town, okay? Take your show on the road.”
He looked blank.
“Don’t steal anything,” I said. “Don’t break into anyone’s house. At least wait until you get to the next town.”
His blank look got more blank.
I tapped the star on my chest. “ Policia .” I put my hand on the pistol, looked him square in the eye. “I don’t want any trouble from you.” I thumbed the badge again. “Just move on someplace else.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, and he nodded vigorously. “ Si, si .” He jogged away.
Good. Maybe he’d cause trouble somewhere else. Maybe he wouldn’t cause any at all. He probably didn’t have a nickel or a plan, but somehow I envied him, running off into the night with two cigarettes and a clean slate. I hoped he wouldn’t hurt anybody. I had bigger worries.
I stood, flicked away the cigarette butt, and closed the big garage door, made sure it was latched. I approached the back of the moving van, and was almost knocked over by the stink. I had the idea that maybe I’d get in there and have a looksee, find clues or whatever bullshit real cops do, but the combination of urine, crap and body odor was like some kind of impenetrable force-field. I shut the
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