Josh Stallings - Out There Bad

Above us, the clouds moved away from the moon, casting silver light down on the courtyard. Two bodies lay folded onto the ground, both bathed in blood. A dark haired, bearded man I’d never seen before had a slit almost like a second smile cut into his neck. He was quite dead. Peter lay beside him, his eyes glued to the dead man. His lips were trembling but no sound came out.

“You do this?” I asked, sure he hadn’t. Peter’s eyes slid up at me and tried to focus.

“He’s dead,” Peter mumbled.

“No shit.” A scream of Russian spun me around. Across the courtyard, someone was crouched over a second figure. Whatever was happening didn’t sound like much fun for the fellow on the bottom.

Moving toward them, I kept a bead on the crouching figure. Your enemy’s enemy isn’t always your friend. Getting within ten feet, I could see a slight young man with military cropped blonde hair, he was kneeling on the chest of a wounded Russian. Blood shone on the blade of a straight razor as it arced down, flicking a chunk off the down man’s ear. He let out a string of Russian words, but apparently not the ones his captor wanted to hear. Again the blade struck, opening the man’s nostril.

I snapped the hammer back on my.38. The sound turned the young man with the blade to face me. He had soft delicate features and cold heartless eyes. He was covered in blood. There was no doubt what had happened to Peter’s assailant.

“This is none of your concern. Go home, forget you were here.” His voice was higher than I would have guessed.

“Before you fillet this Puke, I need to know where he’s holding a friend of mine.” I kept the revolver aimed at the lad’s head. The bleeding man glanced from the lad to me. He spoke to me in pleading Russian.

“He thinks you can save him,” the lad laughed.

“Tell me where the girls are,” I yelled at the bleeding man, hoping he understood English. He answered, pleading in Russian.

“What did he say?”

“He wants you to kill me.”

“Think he’ll take me to my friend if I do?”

“Maybe.” His young eyes held no fear.

“Climb off him, slowly.” I took a step back, and kept the barrel on his head. Gracefully, the lad rose, wiping the blood off his razor, he slipped it into the pocket of his military coat.

“Where are the girls? Translate.” The lad did as told. Russian words flew between them.

“He wants to know if you will let him live if he tells you,” the lad told me.

“Talk and I won’t kill you, don’t and I’ll leave now.” This brought on an onslaught from the bleeding man. The lad nodded taking it in. In a move so fluid and quick that I barely had time to register it, the youth whipped out the razor, swung down and opened the Russian thug’s carotid artery. Dark red spray spewed into the air.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” I yelled at the youth.

“Calle Ruiz, a dirt road twenty meters past the Tecate cut off, they’re holding four girls there,” he said, slipping the blade away. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t need to kill him.”

“Yes, I did.” He dropped a tarot card onto the man as he bled out, turning the dirt below into red mud.

“Where the fuck are you going?” I asked the lad as he started to fade into the shadows.

“To work.”

“Calle Ruiz?”

“Yes.”

“You have a car?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re covered in blood, how far do you think you’ll get before someone spots you and calls the cops?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Look, whoever the fuck you are, you bailed out my shit here, let me help you get cleaned up. Least I can do.”

“And I should trust you, why?”

“You know I’m not working with these punks, and if I wanted to kill you, I’d just pull the trigger and be done with it.”

“Fine,” the lad said after a long thought.

Teyo had faded sometime during the battle. The little sneak might warn the Russians we were coming, but hopefully his fear had driven him underground until this war blew over. Peter was a trembling mess, but other than his nerves, he was unharmed. The lad dropped a tarot card on the dead man at our feet.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A warning,” he said.

“To who?”

“Anyone stupid enough to face me.”

Searching Peter’s pockets, I found his cell phone. I had a number for Adolpho and hoped I could convince him to take a break and come collect us. Holding the phone up to the light, I discovered there was no signal.

“Fuck fuck fucking fuck we’re fucked.” Peter was fried.

“No we’re not.” Moving back through the alley, I noticed how dark it really was. On the street, I scanned for prying eyes and roving gangsters. None appeared.

“Wait here.”

“With him?” Peter looked at the silent assassin.

“Yeah.” I walked away. At a small bar, I dropped a ten for the use of the phone. The rough boys at the bar sized me up. Wondering if I was worth the trouble of rolling. I’d like to think my street hardened looks kept them off, but truth was I probably didn’t look like I had enough on me for them to bother climbing off their bar stools.

Ten minutes later, a late model Toyota pulled up to the mouth of the alley. Adolpho’s smile faded when he saw the blood on Peter and the lad. “You want me to take you to medico?”

“The blood’s not theirs,” I told him.

“So I guess you found your Russians.”

“Something like that.”

“And this is the nina you were seeking?” He motioned to the lad. I shook my head.

“No, he’s the one did most of the cutting.”

Adolpho placed an old blanket to protect his back seat and drove us to Hotel 49. Instead of asking me any more questions, he told me about a drunk gringo who had tried to take his son into Anthony’s early that night. “He tells me the boy is eighteen, but he looks thirteen, si?” He was grinning, enjoying telling the story. “I say, maybe, but I need to see ID, now the pinche gringo gets enojado, red faced he yell, he is the boy’s father and should know his own son’s age.”

“So did you let him in?” I asked.

“What could I do, he tipped me fifty dollars,” he said with a gleeful laugh.

When he pulled up to the hotel, I asked him the fare. “Nada, is por las ninas,” he said. I didn’t insult him by pressing it. I shook his hand and promised to let him know when we had freed her. He looked like he thought that message might be a long time coming, but he didn’t say anything.

The lad tightened when I pushed the dresser against the door. Before I could explain about the lack of a good lock, the razor was out and swinging at my face. I caught the arm inches from lacerating my cheek. A boot shot up and connected square on my nads. I dropped to my knees, fighting to keep the puke down. I rolled onto my side as a second kick sailed past my head. This little punk was fixing to kick my ass.

“What the fuck is your damage?” I yelled, ripping the.38 out of my pocket.

“To take me, it will have to be dead.” Again the blade swung up.

“I don’t want to do shit to you. Now put the razor down before I forget we’re on the same side and blow a hole in your face.”

“You want to fuck me. Tell me I’m wrong.”

I suddenly started laughing, all the adrenaline and general bad craziness of the night had hit critical mass. He wasn’t a he, he was a she, and she wanted to slice me up out of some Diana driven man hatred. The laughter made my balls hurt worse but I couldn’t stop. She looked down like I had gone mad, and maybe she was right.

“Look, as beautiful as you look bathed in blood and all, you just aren’t my type.” I lowered the.38. “I go for something a little less… deadly in my lady friends.” The blade was still hovering up above her head, ready to strike. “Screw it, slit my throat or take a shower, choice is yours.”