Norman Partridge - The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists

Like that time in Puerto Vallarta. Curtain had some business down there. Bad business. He took Kirby and Wyatt along just in case things got rough, which they did. Afterwards, they went out to dinner together. It was one of the few times he socialized with the hired help, and he only did it at Rita’s insistence. Anyway, Kirby said he couldn’t read a menu in Spanish, but Rita knew that he couldn’t read at all. She told him to order the puta asada, and the idiot actually did. Wyatt had laughed like a son of a bitch and —

Gunfire slapped at Curtain’s heels. He nearly pissed himself. He was yelling at Kirby before the reports had echoed off the canyon walls because he didn’t think this was one bit funny.

He turned and saw:

The dumb Irishman’s smile.

The Glock in his very fast hand.

The dead rattler in a tangle of white rock.

“Carne muerta,” Kirby said, passing Curtain by.

After that, Curtain didn’t want anyone behind him.

Wyatt took point, and he didn’t take it slow.

Kirby ran second, and he did take it slow. It was a lucky thing that he was fast with that damn gun, though. Not that Curtain was going to compliment the idiot. After all, he paid Kirby to be fast. The Irishman was only earning his money.

Curtain could have passed the big man had he wanted to. The idea was tempting, because it would put him closer to a nice long drink of water and the best air-conditioning system available in a SUV. But he could wait. After all, it was his Mercedes and his canteen. He could stand the heat a little while longer.

Besides, it could have been a whole lot worse. Sure. Like Wyatt said, he could have been Jesus Sanchez.

Curtain stopped and looked down the canyon. It seemed they’d come a lot farther than two miles. The Mexican was back there somewhere. Across a sandstone griddle and down a rocky red throat, baking to death, bleeding in shadows that showed no mercy.

It was dead quiet.

Sanchez wasn’t screaming anymore.

His curses had fallen on deaf ears.

No ears at all, really.

Curtain wondered if the idiot had given up yet.

He wondered if Jesus Sanchez had finally learned his place.

When Kirby and Curtain caught up, Wyatt was leaning against the SUV. He looked as thirsty as Curtain felt.

But right now, Wyatt couldn’t do Curtain a bit of good. Wyatt wasn’t the driver. He didn’t have the keys.

Curtain said, “Give me the keys, Kirby”

“Fuck that.” Kirby didn’t even look at him. He unlocked the liftback and grabbed the extra canteen.

Curtain said, “Toss it here.”

“Fuck that too.”

Curtain bristled. It was his canteen. After all, he was the boss. But Kirby acted like he had forgotten all about that. He gave the canteen a shake, smiled at the enticing slosh.

The fucker knew exactly what he was doing.

One more chance, Curtain thought. I’ll give him one more chance.

“A joke’s a joke,” Curtain said.

“This ain’t no joke,” Kirby said. He raised the canteen, as if he were proposing a toast. “Here’s to assholes who can’t say thank y ou.”

Curtain had been mad, but now he was boiling. If the big Irishman didn’t give him the first drink, he’d fire his Mick ass on the spot and let him walk home.

With his very fast hands, Kirby unscrewed the cap.

Before Curtain could say another word, the first bullet caught Kirby square in the chest. A second made a red puddle of his belly. Then Wyatt stepped over Kirby and shot the big man one last time in the head.

“Jesus,” Curtain whispered. “Jesus!”

Water burbled over the dry earth. Wyatt scooped up the canteen, saying, “He would have killed you, Mr. Curtain.”

“Over a canteen.” Curtain shook his head in astonishment. “Over a fucking drink of water.”

“No,” Wyatt said. “You and I both know that it was a little more complicated than that.” He stared down at the dead man and shook his head. “Some dogs just never learn to heel.”

A moment of silence followed. Not out of respect for the dead man. It was just that there wasn’t anything else to say about Kirby.

But there was more to be said.

Curtain swallowed hard. “How about that drink?”

Wyatt stared at the canteen. Curtain stared at it too.

Wyatt smiled. “You want a drink, patron?”

The last word slapped Curtain hard. Rita’s word. And the way Wyatt said it, you’d think he really wasn’t joking at all.

Wyatt raised the canteen to his lips. He took a long drink, his Glock trained on his employer’s very thirsty belly.

It came clear in Curtain’s head. The trip through Apache Canyon. Wyatt jockeying for position, always ending up in the middle of the pack instead of the back. Wyatt couldn’t do anything there. Not sandwiched between the two men he wanted to kill. Kirby was fast, and even if Curtain wasn’t, Wyatt wasn’t the kind to take chances. So he waited until they reached the Mercedes, and Kirby had a fistful of canteen, and —

“I would have done it sooner, Wyatt began. “But — ”

“You don’t have to draw me a diagram,” Curtain said.

“I know. You’re smarter than that.”

And that was the truth. And that was awful. Because Curtain could see it now, all of it. Wyatt and Rita. Christ, he wondered if they’d fucked down in Puerto Vallarta, right under his nose.

And Jesus Sanchez… he wasn’t even in the picture. He really was a fucking stableboy, for Christsakes. Wyatt and Rita had played it all very smart, convincing Curtain that his wife wanted nothing more than the proverbial roll in the hay when she really wanted so much more.

Curtain had to admit they’d make a good team. Different style than his, but good. More of a division of labor kind of thing — the girl with the MBA and the guy with the gun.

They’d make a good team, if they had the chance.

Curtain stared at the canteen in Wyatt’s hand. He wanted to smile, but he didn’t. He kept his smile to himself, and he spoke slowly, calmly…

“About that drink… ” Curtain began.

Wyatt smiled. A condescending smile. A smug smile.

He said, “There’s a difference between being a fast study, and being fast.”

Wyatt raised the canteen.

Curtain went for his gun.

But that wasn’t his game.

Not at all.

BUCKET OF BLOOD

Highway 50 cuts a ragged wound across the belly of California, finally ripping across the border into Nevada. A little slice north and you’re in Virginia City. And when you’re done there — and if you’re lucky — it’s east on 50 until 95 slashes south.

Tonopah… Scotty’s Junction… Beatty and Amargosa Valley and Indian Springs.

And straight on into Vegas.

According to the AAA California/Nevada TourBook , the trip should take nine hours.

We say fuck the AAA California/Nevada TourBook.

Me and Mitch, that is. We’ve got us a Mustang convertible, and it’s tanked to the gills with Chevron Premium. Two sixes of iced Pacifico in the trunk, bricks of every kind of cheese known to man because Mitch can’t control himself in a grocery store, an old Hamm’s Beer display sign that lights up and an authentic Jayne Mansfield hot water bottle and a dozen matchbooks from various incarnations of the Mustang Ranch (because Mitch can’t control himself in an antique shop, either), T-shirts from every tourist trap along the way, and a couple of pairs of swimming trunks.

No swimming tonight, though. The cold desert air bites like a pissed-off rattlesnake tossed onto smoldering campfire coals, but we’ve got the top down anyway.