The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(85)

I retreated, stepping over Bikechain, putting my back to the RideWorks gate, now fifteen feet away from the Barracuda. Porkpie's gun was still aimed at me. Chich was still smiling.

The guy who'd had the nose ring was making a hand-tent around his face, blood striping his chin and speckling his white T-shirt. The guy with the hairnet was getting up off the street. Bikechain limped forward, rewinding the chain around his fist. He scraped the gear links across the Barracuda's red paint job, then kept coming. His friends were close behind.

Then a metallic rumbling started in the RideWorks courtyard behind me — the warehouse door grinding partially open. I heard Del Brandon's voice, midconversation. My attackers froze.

A few footsteps, more of Del's voice — then nothing.

I chanced a look over my shoulder. Del and Ernie, the human boulder with the blond cornrows, were stopped in their tracks, both staring at the battle scene outside their gates. Ernie had his hand protectively on Del Brandon's shoulder. Del hadn't changed his clothes since dinner at the 410. If anything he was more disheveled, and a lot drunker.

Slowly, Del put his hand on his gun. Probably from his angle, in the dark, he couldn't see Vampire and Porkpie with the P-11 — just me and the three homeboys at his gate.

"Well, well," Del called to me. "Fucking private dick came back already. You figure I sleep? I don't. Not no more."

I glanced at the three locos. Still frozen.

"Listen, Del," I said. "Let's talk inside. You can beat the shit out of me there, okay? You and Ernie come on over."

Silence.

"Come on, Del," I called. "You want to prove you're on the good guys' team, this is your chance."

I was mentally running through wild possibilities — Del would walk over, I'd roll and run, they'd start an inadvertent crossfire, I would escape in the confusion.

Instead, Del laughed bitterly. "You hear anything worth listening to, Ernie? I didn't hear nothing. Must've been a dog."

Then their steps resumed across the courtyard. The stairs creaked. The office door slammed shut.

Two more seconds of miserable, heavy silence, then Bikechain and Hairnet charged. Hairnet grabbed my arm and found himself grabbed instead, his face yanked down and slammed into my upraised knee. My left hand intercepted Bikechain's punch and directed it aside, the chains raking the skin on the back of my hand. I slammed my other palm against his jaw, tried to step sideways. But Hairnet was up too fast, tackling my waist and sending me into the fence in a full-body slam. I landed a double chop on his ears that almost loosened his grip but Bikechain lunged at me too, knocking all three of us down on the pavement. There is no greater terror than being completely prone, out of control, caught in a tangle of bodies.

It didn't last long — I remember gouging, kicking, elbowing, yelling, getting my head free of someone's choke hold just long enough to catch an image of the man with the bloody gash in his nose, raising the blackjack for a second try. There was a whish sound, then my head turned to ice. My eyesight faded. The pavement and feet walking around me became an afterglow in the darkness, like a television screen turned off in a dark room.

Somewhere, the bored voice of Chicharron was commenting to Porkpie — not about me, or the fight, but about George's red 70 Barracuda and how best to repaint it.

FORTY-FOUR

I was surprised to wake up, even more surprised to realize I had been awake for some time without my mind registering the fact.

My eyes burned from staring at a patch of yellow in the darkness. After a while I recognized the patch as a streetlight. I couldn't remember how to blink. There were moths fluttering around the streetlight. I stared at them for centuries. Some part of me knew that I should be concerned, should move, but I couldn't remember exactly why. I just lay there on my back, anesthetized, waiting for the dental surgeon to start drilling, for the doctor to amputate my leg, my brain. Whatever. I had a nice streetlight to stare at.

The side of my head felt warm and wet, like a very affectionate leech had been attached there. I was pleased to have the company.

I'm not sure how many decades I lay like that. The sky had started lightening to gunmetal when I became aware of voices — two males, very close to me. They talked in conversational tones. Every once in a while their words were interrupted by the ker-ploink of liquor being tipped into a mouth and then settling back into the bottle.

I thought it would be just dandy to turn my head and look at the two men, but my head wouldn't cooperate.

Finally an upside-down face hovered above me in the morning gloom. The young man had two beautiful nostrils. The rest of his face was shadowy but one eye seemed darker than the other. I could tell he wore a hairnet. I thought I'd seen him somewhere before.

The mouth under the beautiful nostrils scowled at me, then told someone in Spanish that my eyes were open. An offstage voice said it was probably time to drag me inside.

Hairnet's face went away.

The sensation of movement. I heard the sound of a body being dragged across gravel and after a time realized the body was mine. When we took an L-turn, my head lolled to one side and I saw the place where I'd been sleeping — a dirty blanket on the ground of an abandoned lot. Next to the blanket was a makeshift lean-to against the side of a warehouse — a gutted pink sofa slumped between two cardboard refrigerator boxes, a blanket draped over to make the top of a tent. A young Latino guy sat on the couch, drinking from a liquor bottle. Not far away, standing at the street curb under the lamppost, another Latino guy in a Raiders jacket was talking to a man in a station wagon. They seemed to be trading things.