Steve Martini - The Arraignment

Ten or twelve feet away, the stairs disappear and it’s a sheer drop with a small ledge about halfway down.

I move toward it.

Adam approaches. He keeps one eye on me, along with the pistol, while he looks over the edge, surveying to see if the fall is going to be enough. Then he looks back and smiles at me. Apparently he’s satisfied.

“Now if you’ll just step over this way.”

“You don’t expect me to just jump off?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you.”

As the words clear his lips, there is a tinny sound of metal clattering somewhere below us. Adam takes a quick step around to put me between himself and the sound.

I see a bicycle rattling over the uneven ground as it enters the clearing from the path. The figure riding it appears to have his knees hitting him in the chin with each pump of the pedals.

He stops in the middle of the clearing, puts his feet down on both sides, sitting on the seat, the bicycle dwarfed beneath him, and looks up at the top of the pyramid.

“Dat you, Adam Tolt?” Herman shades his eyes with one hand. “You know I figured you for a son of a bitch. But you outdid yourself. And so you know, Julio didn’t think much a ya either. And I’m certain his opinion ain’t come up none since you shot him in the back of the head.”

“You try and come here, and I’ll kill him.” Adam puts the pistol up to my head.

“You know,” says Herman. His hands now on his hips, still sitting on the bike. “That thing’s not gonna do you a god damn bit a good against me down here. You see, I know Julio’s Glock don’t shoot for shit. You’d been more than a foot away from him, youda missed the back a his head. Kept tellin’ him to get the sights fixed.”

“Well I’m not likely to miss Mr. Madriani here.”

“Yeah but I got a question for you. After you shoot him, how you gonna get down here without coming through me? My forty-five shoots a little better than that piece a shit, and the bullet’s bigger to boot.”

“He doesn’t seem to put much value on your life,” says Adam.

“Well, I warned you that he was pissed about Julio.”

“So what are we going to do about this problem?”

“It’s not my problem,” I say.

“It won’t be if you’re dead. Tell him to go or I’ll kill you.”

“He says to go or he’s gonna kill me,” I say.

“Don’t change his situation none. Few minutes Ibarra’s people gonna be here with rifles. Then they gonna start bouncing bullets off the rocks up there. And it’s gonna get mighty hot. Don’t suspect you brought any water witcha?”

“No, we didn’t think about it.”

Adam presses the gun against my head. “Shut up.”

“It sounds like it’s your move.”

“Let me think.”

“You could let me go.”

“That son of a bitch is just crazy enough to try to kill me anyway. You said it. He’s angry over Julio. I shoulda shot him instead.”

“Well we all make our mistakes. And I should warn you. Herman’s confidence in the Mexican justice system is just a little higher than his respect for the modern American version.”

“Meaning what?”

“He’s probably gonna shoot you.”

“I’m getting tired waitin’ down here. You want I shoot a couple a rounds your way? Maybe I get lucky,” says Herman. “And the noise is gonna bring Ibarra that much faster. Or maybe I just come up there and kick your ass, throw you off that fuckin’ thing.” Herman gets off the bike, drops it on the ground, and starts marching this way.

“What’s he doing?” says Adam.

“I don’t know.”

“You tell him to stop, or so help me I will shoot you here and now.”

“Herman. Stay there. Don’t come up.”

Herman doesn’t listen. He just keeps coming, talking to himself, muttering under his breath. I can hear him all the way down at the bottom of the steps. He starts climbing, taking the two-foot steps in stride like they were built for him.

“Herman, stay there. ”

He keeps coming.

“Crazy son of a bitch,” says Adam. He points the gun at him, takes aim.

I hit his arm with my shoulder just as he pulls the trigger. The snap of the round, the explosion next to my ear, sends a ringing vibration through my head.

A thousand birds lift out of the jungle. Flitting black specks like bugs on a windshield, they fill the sky.

Herman stops on the stairs and looks up. “Now you fuckin’ did it.” Herman unholsters his automatic, the sun glinting off the polished stainless steel.

Adam tries to push me over the edge. I push back, the rubber soles of my shoes gripping the stone, my toes right at the edge. He tries to twist for leverage, one arm around my neck. We struggle at the edge of the stone precipice.

I slip his grip and end up landing on my butt on the hard stone platform behind him.

Adam points the pistol at me, and then out of the corner of his eye he sees Herman still coming, charging up the stairs. Adam turns and aims, both hands this time on the Glock, taking a careful bead on Herman’s bulk now only ten or twelve steps from the top. He fires, and I hear the bullet as it hits flesh.

Herman stops, looks down, puts his hand to his chest, and staggers. Then he looks at Adam and starts coming again.

I reach for the pistol in my pocket, and it snags on my jacket.

Adam aims and fires again. I hear the same thud as the bullet hits home. This time Herman goes down on one knee. He drops his pistol and it clatters down several steps. I can see Herman’s face pumped with blood, the veins bulging on his neck. He’s holding his side with one hand.

The small Walther is out of my pocket. I pull the slide and cycle a round into the chamber, aim at Adam, and squeeze. Nothing.

The safety is on. I bring it back, fumble with the tiny lever, click, and it shows red.

Adam has the Glock up, taking careful aim at Herman’s back as he struggles to reach for his pistol on the stairs.

I squeeze off a round. The little Walther torques in my hand and the bullet catches Adam in the arm, jerking his body just as he pulls the trigger. His shot goes wide.

He turns and looks at me, his eyes like two eggs sunny-side up in a platter, wondering where I got the gun. Adam missed it when he frisked me. The small pistol was underneath, inside the pocket of my zippered jacket as I lay on the ground. He failed to check the front when I got up.

He has the Glock lowered at his side, the muzzle pointed down at the stone as he stares in disbelief at the gun in my hand.

If he raises the Glock, Adam knows I will shoot him again. Instead he looks at me, smiles, then shakes his head as if he is daring me to do it. He turns toward the motion on the stairs.

Herman is reaching for the automatic.

Adam takes aim.

This time, with the crack of the Walther, it barely moves in my hand. Tolt’s head snaps sideways as a tiny red dot appears on his temple, followed by blood like someone tapped a barrel. His knees buckle. His ass hits the stone. For an instant his torso sits upright. Then gravity takes it sideways. When I blink he is gone, over the edge of the platform.

Harry is out of the hospital, his memory and faculties intact, and Herman is in.

Surgeons removed one bullet that lodged in the muscle of Herman’s chest, up high near his clavicle. The other passed through his side, piercing what Herman called one of his love handles. He is talking about decorating it with a diamond stud, a conversation piece for the ladies that he can flash above his trunks whenever he struts the beach.

As for Adam, a Mexican medical examiner picked up pieces of him with a sponge from a rock outcropping five stories below the top of the Noche Mul. I suppose you could say that Adam was a victim of his own management style.