Robert Crais - L.A. Requiem

The three of them stared at Joe, and then the moment of their surprise passed.

The match burned the girl's fingers, and she dropped it. “Shit, it's just some kid.”

Daryl said, “Get out of here, fuckface, before I kick your ass.”

The cat still squirmed. Joe smelled the turpentine.

“Let it go.”

The girl said, “Fuck you, retard. You watch how this thing's gonna jump.” She bent to pick up another match.

Joe hoped they would just leave. Just set the cat free and go because they'd been caught. He stepped forward. “Can't let you burn that cat.”

Daryl's eyes went to the stick, then Joe, and he smiled. “Looks like you already had your ass kicked, shitball. You want, I can bust your other eye. I can kick your fuckin' guts out for you.”

The cigarette boy laughed.

Purple-and-green bruises were fading from Joe's left eye, the remains of the beating his father had given him six days ago. He thought that these big boys could probably beat him, too, but then it occurred to him that he'd been beaten so often, another beating wouldn't matter much. That struck Joe as funny, and he wanted to laugh, thought he might just roar with laughter, but all that came out was a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

The little cat's eyes found Joe, and Joe thought that his eyes might look like that when his father was beating him.

He stepped toward Daryl. “Only an asshole picks on a helpless little cat.”

Daryl grinned wider, then glanced at the girl. “Light it up, goddamnit. Then I'm gonna kick this turd's ass.”

The second match flared, and the girl hurried toward the cat.

The world as Joe Pike saw it receded as if he was looking through the wrong end of a looking glass. He felt calm, and absolutely at peace as he lifted the stick and ran at Daryl as hard as he could. Daryl shouted, surprised that Joe was really going to take him on, and rose to meet the charge. The cat, suddenly free, streaked between the trees and was gone.

The girl screamed, “It's getting away!” Like her little show was over and she'd missed the best part.

Joe brought the stick down as hard as he could, but the stick was half rotten and broke across Daryl's forearms with a wet snap.

Daryl threw a wild windmill of punches, catching Joe in the forehead and the chest, and then the other boy was behind Joe, punching as hard as he could. Joe felt their blows hitting him, but oddly felt no pain. It was as if he were somewhere deep within himself, a small boy alone in a dark wood, watching the action without being a part of it.

The fat girl had gotten over her disappointment, and was now jumping up and down, pumping her fists like she was rooting for her football team to make the game-winning score. “Kill him! Kill the motherfucker!”

Joe stood between the two older boys, punching wildly. The cigarette boy hit him hard behind the right ear, and when Joe turned to meet him, Daryl kicked him in the back of the leg, and Joe fell.

Daryl and the cigarette boy leaned over Joe, throwing a flurry of blows that rained on Joe's face and head and back and arms, but still he felt nothing.

They were big kids, but his father was bigger.

They were strong boys, but his father was stronger.

Joe rolled onto his knees, feeling their punches and kicks even as he lurched to his feet.

Daryl Haines hit him hard in the face again and again and again. Joe tried to hit the bigger boys, but more of his punches fell short or missed.

Then someone tripped him, and, again, he fell.

Daryl Haines kicked him, but his father kicked harder.

Joe climbed to his feet.

The girl was still screaming, but when Joe was once more erect, Daryl Haines had a strange look on his face. The cigarette boy was breathing hard, winded from throwing so many punches, arms leaden at his sides. Daryl was breathing hard, too, looking at Joe as if he didn't believe what he was seeing. His hands were covered in red.

The girl screamed, “Beat him, Daryl! Beat him real good!”

Joe clawed at Daryl, trying to gouge his eyes, but missed and fell, landing on his side.

Daryl stood over him, blood dripping from his hands. “Stay down, kid.”

“Beat him to death, Daryl! Don't stop!”

“Stay down.”

Joe pushed himself to his knees. He tried to focus on Daryl, but Daryl was hazy and red, and Joe realized his eyes were filled with blood.

“Are you fuckin'nuts? Stay down.”

Joe lurched to his feet and swung as hard as he could.

Daryl stepped outside of it, then jumped forward and hit Joe square on the end of the nose. Joe heard the crack and felt it, and knew that Daryl had broken his nose. He'd heard the sound before.

Joe fell, and immediately tried to get up again.

Daryl grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him down. “You little shit! What's wrong with you?”

The cigarette kid was holding his side like he had a stitch. “Let's get out of here, man. I don't wanna do this no more.”

Joe said, “Gonna beat you.” His lips were split and it was hard to speak.

“It's over!”

Joe tried to hit Daryl from the ground, but the punch missed by a good foot.

“It's over, goddamnit. You're beat!”

Joe tried to hit Daryl again, but this time he missed by a yard.

“Not over … until I win.”

Daryl stepped back then, his face a raw mask of rage. “Okay, you dumb shit. I warned you.”

Daryl reared back, kicked Joe as hard as he could, and Joe felt the world explode between his legs. Then there were stars and blackness.

Joe heard them leaving, or thought he did. It seemed like hours before he could move, and when he finally worked his way to his knees, the woods were still. His groin ached, and he felt nauseous. He touched his face. His hand came away red. His tee shirt was splattered with drying blood. More blood streaked his arms.

It was several minutes before he smelled the turpentine again, and then he saw the one-earred cat, staring at him from beneath the rotten branches of a fallen tree.

Joe Pike said, “Hey, cat.”

The cat vanished.

“That's okay, girl. You're okay.”

He thought she was probably scared.

He wondered why he wasn't.

After a while he went home.

Three days later Daryl Haines scowled at the envelope and said, “Fuck this shit.”

It was five minutes before 8 P.M. at the Shell station. Daryl was sitting on the hard chair he kept out front by the Coke machine, leaning back the way he did, snug in his down jacket, but pissed off about the letter. It was a notice from the goddamned Army to report for his induction physical.

Daryl Haines, eighteen years old and without the luxury of a college deferment, was 1-A infantry material. He had to take the bus down to the city this Saturday just to have his ass poked and prodded by some faggot Army doctor so they could ship him over to Vietnam.

Daryl said, “This sucks.”

Maybe he should join the Air Force.

Daryl's older brother, Todd, was already over there. He had a cushy job working on trucks at an air base near Saigon and said it wasn't so bad. You got to screw around a lot, smoke all the pot you wanted, and fuck good-lookin' gook women for twenty-five cents a throw. His brother made it sound like goddamned Disneyland, but Daryl figured with his rotten luck he'd probably have to carry a gun and get shot.