Jason Frost - The Warlord

Cruz thought it over, nodded his huge head, and rose.

"I'll walk you out," Savvy said, less to be polite than to make sure they were gone.

"Goodbye, Salvadore," Fallows saluted from the edge of town as he, Cruz, and Timmy Ravensmith marched into the night.

Savvy didn't bother to correct him. He just smiled and waved and hurried back to the safety of his trailer.

When the door closed behind him, he sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. His stomach was fluttering, his heart clattering like a teletype machine. He'd had to deal with some heavyweight executives in his tenure at Bambino Frozen Foods, but nothing like those guys. Cruz was a mean mother, like Flex only a hundred times tougher. But Fallows was worse. Icy stare, dead voice rumbling up from some tomb. Smart enough to plan anything, tough enough to make it work. Like Ravensmith.

But, hell, so was he in his own way. Salvadore Pascalli from Sullivan Street. Too square to have his own nickname. Now he has a fucking town named after him, And bikers with goddamn tattoos following his orders. He laughed, remembering how he once walked out of a restaurant because the only available seat was next to a man with a tattoo.

What was that going on between Cruz and Fallows? Something nasty. Cruz had been insulting. And Fallows had let him. It didn't figure. He'd seen Fallows with his men before, seen him break his own soldier's hand because he'd said a wrong word or didn't move fast enough. But what could you do with a man like Cruz? He was like those St. Bernards that are so obedient when they're young, but often go mad when they get older. You'd have to be mad to fuck with Fallows that way. But then you'd have to be mad to fuck with Cruz. The hell with it, he was just glad they were gone. Now they were Ravensmith's problem.

Savvy opened the drawer and pulled out his tape recorder. He opened the second drawer and rummaged through it, piling objects on the desk while he searched:.32 Remington Model 51, a wad of hundred dollar bills he kept around for laughs, a switchblade that Flex had promised him had killed two people. Ah, there it was, a spare tape cassette. This was going to be the greatest damn autobiography of the century. He couldn't wait to see it in print. Tomorrow he was going to question the girls and see if any of them knew how to type. They might like the change of work, he chuckled. He might even send Flex and Lido out to dig up a typewriter.

But right now he needed a title. Every day he thought about titles, trying to decide on a good one. One that had vitality and class. How about, Confessions of a Self-Made Man?

He said it aloud. "Confessions of a Self-Made Man." Shook his head. Too… clinical. Passive. Hmm. "Island King. Island God. No, no. This Man Is an Island. Too Hollywood. Sounds like something starring Vincent Price." He stared at the desk, absently spun the gun like a top.

Then there was an arm around his neck, a hand clamped over his mouth. Another arm twisting his head.

"How about, This Man Is Dead?" Eric said.

Savvy's left hand tried to pull Eric's arm away from his neck. His right hand tapped across the desk top, found the gun, closed around it.

Flex sauntered down the street struggling to close the fly on his jeans. Damn things were always getting stuck, but it was hard to find thick Levis like this anymore. Someone had come in a couple days ago with blood in his piss and traded a pair for a visit to the infirmary. But he was a skinny son of a bitch and there was no way Flex would ever squeeze into them.

He tried to tug the zipper up, tried to yank it down. It wouldn't budge. Damn, if only Savvy hadn't sent him away while Fallows and Cruz were there, then he wouldn't have dropped into one of the whore's trailers for a quick fuck, and he wouldn't be busting his ass trying to close his own zipper. He'd already forgotten which of the broads he'd visited, either the fat one with the mole on her tit or the old one with the gray pubic hair, but he could still smell her on him. He wrinkled his nose. He never had liked the way women smelled, even the clean ones.

Each step brought another ache to his body. That bastard Ravensmith had really done a number on him.

Caught him off guard. His nose was swollen, though the bleeding had stopped. But he could barely see out of his left eye. One of his front teeth was gone and a couple more on the side were loose. He was afraid to eat anything chewy for fear one might pop out. Damn zipper, move!

He looked up just in time to see the flashing light bulb on the roof of Savvy's trailer. Immediately he forgot about his stuck zipper and ran down the street toward the trailer, clutching his gun in front of him. Those were his orders. Sometimes Lido or Greaseball or one of the others would ask how come Flex didn't just kill this Savvy guy so they could take over the town themselves. But that's why Flex was the leader of this gang, though Lido had been campaigning for it for years. Because Flex knew that Savvy may be a wop wimp, but he was still smarter than the rest of them. And these weren't the best of times to be throwing a gold mine like this town away just over who's in charge.

He clattered up the wooden steps, pulled the trailer door open, and rushed in. "Fuck, man. I mean royal fucking A."

Eric sat in the metal folding chair, his hands behind his back, a rope wrapped around his wrists.

Behind the desk, Savvy leaned back in his chair pointing his Remington at Eric. "Son of a bitch tried to strangle me." He lifted his head, showed the bruises on his neck.

"Want me to cut him or kill him or what?" Flex asked.

"Neither yet. I want you to bring his friends here."

"What for?"

"Because they're too dangerous to keep around. I want to kill them all here and now. Except him. Him we trade to Fallows. After all, we're still in business." He laughed, which came out a nasal whine.

"Okay." Flex started for the door, had a better idea. He walked over to Eric, hacked up some mucus, and spit into Eric's face.

"Flex!" Savvy said anxiously. "We don't want him hurt. Fallows wouldn't like that."

Flex thought of Fallows, felt a shiver of fear, nodded. "Right. But when I get back, I'm gonna take it out on your friends. You can watch, Slim." He tipped his cowboy hat and walked out the door laughing.

Eric waited a few seconds before speaking. "Okay, Savvy, place the gun on the desk top. That's good." Eric shook the rope from his wrist; he'd wrapped it around his wrist, but hadn't tied it. With his hands free, he bent over to unfasten the string that he'd tacked to the bottom of his shoe and which ran to the crossbow trigger, wedged under Savvy's desk and pointing directly at Savvy's crotch. One sudden jerk of Eric's foot and the bolt would have sprung from the bow and into Savvy within the same second.

Once the string was disconnected, Eric recovered his bow, removed the eight-shot clip from his pocket, and slammed it into the handle of the gun.

"Now what?" Savvy said, his face suddenly very small and childish under that baseball cap. He looked the way others must have seen him at the office. Timid, conservative, pliable.

"We wait."

'Then what?"

"We'll see."

The wait wasn't long. Flex's gruff voice barking orders at the others carried crisply through the trailer walls. "C'mon, you scumbags. We're gonna have a little party. A going away party."

Eric turned to Savvy and smiled. "Mum's the word."

Savvy nodded, Eric sat in the metal folding chair, arranging it so he was facing the door, his hands hidden behind his back. His knife was gripped in his hand, while his crossbow leaned against the side of the desk, the side that couldn't be seen from the door.

A shoulder bumped the door and it opened, spilling in Tracy, Rydell, Molly and Season,