happens.”
Marty pointed at Buck and backed away. “Stay the hell away from me, you crazy, psycho, son-of-a-bitch.”
“We’re going the same way.”
“I’m going alone,” Marty said. “I don’t want to see you ever again.”
Buck looked at Marty, truly dumbfounded. “What are you so pissed off for?”
Marty couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What was there the guy didn’t get?
“You shot me,” Marty yelled. “You wrapped me in piss blankets and dangled me off the edge of a collapsed overpass!”
“That part was your idea. And what the fuck difference does it make now? You saved the kid’s life.”
Yes, he did
.
Marty turned and looked at Franklin, still crying, still hugging Enrique, a complete stranger. The nightmare was over. Thanks to Marty Slack.
He’d actually plucked a frightened child from a car teetering on the brink of a three-story drop.
Holy shit.
Maybe there was a little Charlton Heston in him after all.
Marty felt a proud smile starting on his face and quickly suppressed it, reminding himself that he was angry. Furious. Outraged.
He shot you. He forced you into this at gunpoint. You could have been killed! The only reason you’re still alive is dumb luck. How much more of that do you think you have left?
The scowl returned. He turned back to confront Buck.
“I could just as easily have ended up dead, because you put a gun to my head and made me do that stupid, suicidal stunt,” Marty said. “You are a homicidal Neanderthal psycho. I don’t want you near me, understand? Go away. Get somebody else killed.”
Marty turned around and marched off, passing Enrique and Franklin without looking at them. He didn’t want to be drawn in any deeper into the kid’s problems, or Enrique’s for that matter. All he wanted to do was go home, put as many miles between himself and all of this as he could.
“Stop or I’ll shoot,” Buck said.
He gave Buck the finger without looking back and kept right on walking.
CHAPTER FIVE
Going Nowhere Fast
2 :20 p.m. Tuesday
Marty marched across Glendale Avenue, heading west, staying clear of the overpass on his left.
It was already mid-afternoon and he’d only covered three or four miles since he started. But Marty felt like he’d already walked a hundred. Every joint in his body throbbed in pain. At this rate, it would take him days to get home.
He glanced to his right. He was passing a stark, white, windowless building that looked like a mausoleum. It might as well have been. A sign near the flat roof read “Bob Baker’s Marionette Theatre,” which was now showing a program called “It’s a Musical World.”
Marty had never heard of the place, and wondered who bothered coming to this godforsaken spot to see such rudimentary entertainment. What kid would chose to see a puppet on strings over his PlayStation, the Internet, or a digital-effects blockbuster on DVD? Seeing a show at the marionette theatre made as much sense to Marty as gathering in a cave to watch Grog scratch stick figures on the stone.
He was so caught up in distracting himself with a pointless rumination on the irrelevance of puppetry in a modern world that he didn’t see the homeless man waving the rusty steak knife until they were face-to-face.
It looked like someone had used the bearded bum’s scabby face to clean a couple hundred very dirty dishes. And he smelled just like Marty. A walking urinal.
“You stole my stuff,” the man hissed through broken, rotting teeth. “I saw you.”
So now Marty knew why they smelled alike. Those piss-soaked blankets belonged to this Brillo-faced guy.
“I didn’t steal your blankets—” Marty started to say.
“I saw you,” the bum interrupted. “Motherfucker.”
“I just borrowed them to rescue the kid. You saw me rescue the kid, right?”
“Give me my stuff,” the man repeated. “I want my stuff.”
“I don’t have it,” Marty replied. “It’s on the overpass. You’re welcome to it. Thanks
Marty pointed at Buck and backed away. “Stay the hell away from me, you crazy, psycho, son-of-a-bitch.”
“We’re going the same way.”
“I’m going alone,” Marty said. “I don’t want to see you ever again.”
Buck looked at Marty, truly dumbfounded. “What are you so pissed off for?”
Marty couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What was there the guy didn’t get?
“You shot me,” Marty yelled. “You wrapped me in piss blankets and dangled me off the edge of a collapsed overpass!”
“That part was your idea. And what the fuck difference does it make now? You saved the kid’s life.”
Yes, he did
.
Marty turned and looked at Franklin, still crying, still hugging Enrique, a complete stranger. The nightmare was over. Thanks to Marty Slack.
He’d actually plucked a frightened child from a car teetering on the brink of a three-story drop.
Holy shit.
Maybe there was a little Charlton Heston in him after all.
Marty felt a proud smile starting on his face and quickly suppressed it, reminding himself that he was angry. Furious. Outraged.
He shot you. He forced you into this at gunpoint. You could have been killed! The only reason you’re still alive is dumb luck. How much more of that do you think you have left?
The scowl returned. He turned back to confront Buck.
“I could just as easily have ended up dead, because you put a gun to my head and made me do that stupid, suicidal stunt,” Marty said. “You are a homicidal Neanderthal psycho. I don’t want you near me, understand? Go away. Get somebody else killed.”
Marty turned around and marched off, passing Enrique and Franklin without looking at them. He didn’t want to be drawn in any deeper into the kid’s problems, or Enrique’s for that matter. All he wanted to do was go home, put as many miles between himself and all of this as he could.
“Stop or I’ll shoot,” Buck said.
He gave Buck the finger without looking back and kept right on walking.
CHAPTER FIVE
Going Nowhere Fast
2 :20 p.m. Tuesday
Marty marched across Glendale Avenue, heading west, staying clear of the overpass on his left.
It was already mid-afternoon and he’d only covered three or four miles since he started. But Marty felt like he’d already walked a hundred. Every joint in his body throbbed in pain. At this rate, it would take him days to get home.
He glanced to his right. He was passing a stark, white, windowless building that looked like a mausoleum. It might as well have been. A sign near the flat roof read “Bob Baker’s Marionette Theatre,” which was now showing a program called “It’s a Musical World.”
Marty had never heard of the place, and wondered who bothered coming to this godforsaken spot to see such rudimentary entertainment. What kid would chose to see a puppet on strings over his PlayStation, the Internet, or a digital-effects blockbuster on DVD? Seeing a show at the marionette theatre made as much sense to Marty as gathering in a cave to watch Grog scratch stick figures on the stone.
He was so caught up in distracting himself with a pointless rumination on the irrelevance of puppetry in a modern world that he didn’t see the homeless man waving the rusty steak knife until they were face-to-face.
It looked like someone had used the bearded bum’s scabby face to clean a couple hundred very dirty dishes. And he smelled just like Marty. A walking urinal.
“You stole my stuff,” the man hissed through broken, rotting teeth. “I saw you.”
So now Marty knew why they smelled alike. Those piss-soaked blankets belonged to this Brillo-faced guy.
“I didn’t steal your blankets—” Marty started to say.
“I saw you,” the bum interrupted. “Motherfucker.”
“I just borrowed them to rescue the kid. You saw me rescue the kid, right?”
“Give me my stuff,” the man repeated. “I want my stuff.”
“I don’t have it,” Marty replied. “It’s on the overpass. You’re welcome to it. Thanks
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