rubber.
FIFTEEN
Another blue flash sparks against the pine trees.
An invisible meteorite zips past overhead, the vibration poking me even before I hear the shot. Zip-bang. I wonder at the sequence, how the soft tissue in my belly senses the bullet’s super-sonic flight before my ears.
A taste of burnt gun powder drifts in the wind. The train whistle blows again, closer this time. Louder, more menacing. Gusts of warm air push leaves and trash scuffling along the blacktop.
I punch Blackie’s chin as he scrambles to stand. Pain skids from my knuckles to my wrist, but Blackie doesn’t flinch. His stomach must have sensed that bullet, too. He’s up and hauling ass toward the pine trees.
I roll into a squat and check Luis. He’s freed himself from Blackie’s pals. One guy with long stringy hair clutches a bloody shoulde r. The other one, wearing a thick goatee and thicker gold chains around his neck, drags his friend toward the pines.
Luis touches my head. “Stay down.”
A car engine fires. Doors open and shut, tires spin on wet leaves. Squealing rubber. A dark shape crosses in front of the pine trees. Light from the approaching train turns a fog of burnt tire dust pale blue.
The train crack les through the nearby crossing and I catch a deep breath. And another. Luis and I are alone. He touches his left arm.
“You’re bleeding,” I say.
“ Pocito ,” he says. “We must find my knife.”
I stand up for a closer look. “You’re bleeding more than a little bit, Luis. You need stitches. An emergency room.”
“I will be fine. Look for my knife.”
Okay. Fine. I get back down on my hands and knees and peek beneath his Jeep. I catch a glimpse of shiny metal, a reflection off the street light, then slide my fingers around something smooth and cold. Ouch. And sharp.
“I found it,” I say.
I bounce the switchblade in my hand, measuring its awesome weight. I stand up to close the blade, feel it lock with a click, then immediately press the chrome release button. Zing. The eight-inch blade snaps out with a mechanical jolt. An instant sword.
Eat your heart out Errol Flynn.
Don’t know why I’m in such a goofy mood the next day. Maybe it was me and Luis telling jokes in the emergency room. But when I see Rags go into Vic’s office for their regular weekly chit-chat, I get a stupid idea.
Okay, another stupid idea.
It’s an old gag, and the play takes almost nothing to set up. I have to ask Walter for the number is all, then figure out how to bypass our controller’s block on this type of telephone call. It’s all doable, Walter assures me, although I will have to pay the price —attribution—if I want to watch this gag go off.
Screw it. I want to watch.
Walter hands me a camera phone. He wants to see Rags’ face, too.
Mr. Vic’s secretary tries to stop me, but it’s a feeble effort. Determined as I am to screw myself, weapons of mass destruction couldn’t keep me out of Mr. Vic’s office.
Rags and Vic both give me blank faces when I burst into their private, closed-door meeting. It’s never been done. I’m maybe the last one they would expect to have the balls, too. And I’m wearing the full-boat Carr grin. My two immediate superiors slip into serious shock.
“Sorry, Rags, Vic.” I’m huffing with excitement. “But you’d better hear what this guy has to say. It’s about the lawsuit. You won’t believe it.”
Vic ’s face is a frozen puzzlement, question marks in both brown eyes. Rags looks pissed, a red flush climbing his neck like an exotic reptilian pet.
I bend over, flip Vic’s telephone to speaker, then run to the doorway and wave at Walter. He punches buttons on his desk, a grin painted on his face like some Sesame Street puppet.
Vic stands. “Austin…”
“What’s going on?” Rags says.
Same thing that always goes on, Rags. Your ass is mine. A light flashes on Vic’s phone. I punch up the line and jack the volume. I’ve left the door to
FIFTEEN
Another blue flash sparks against the pine trees.
An invisible meteorite zips past overhead, the vibration poking me even before I hear the shot. Zip-bang. I wonder at the sequence, how the soft tissue in my belly senses the bullet’s super-sonic flight before my ears.
A taste of burnt gun powder drifts in the wind. The train whistle blows again, closer this time. Louder, more menacing. Gusts of warm air push leaves and trash scuffling along the blacktop.
I punch Blackie’s chin as he scrambles to stand. Pain skids from my knuckles to my wrist, but Blackie doesn’t flinch. His stomach must have sensed that bullet, too. He’s up and hauling ass toward the pine trees.
I roll into a squat and check Luis. He’s freed himself from Blackie’s pals. One guy with long stringy hair clutches a bloody shoulde r. The other one, wearing a thick goatee and thicker gold chains around his neck, drags his friend toward the pines.
Luis touches my head. “Stay down.”
A car engine fires. Doors open and shut, tires spin on wet leaves. Squealing rubber. A dark shape crosses in front of the pine trees. Light from the approaching train turns a fog of burnt tire dust pale blue.
The train crack les through the nearby crossing and I catch a deep breath. And another. Luis and I are alone. He touches his left arm.
“You’re bleeding,” I say.
“ Pocito ,” he says. “We must find my knife.”
I stand up for a closer look. “You’re bleeding more than a little bit, Luis. You need stitches. An emergency room.”
“I will be fine. Look for my knife.”
Okay. Fine. I get back down on my hands and knees and peek beneath his Jeep. I catch a glimpse of shiny metal, a reflection off the street light, then slide my fingers around something smooth and cold. Ouch. And sharp.
“I found it,” I say.
I bounce the switchblade in my hand, measuring its awesome weight. I stand up to close the blade, feel it lock with a click, then immediately press the chrome release button. Zing. The eight-inch blade snaps out with a mechanical jolt. An instant sword.
Eat your heart out Errol Flynn.
Don’t know why I’m in such a goofy mood the next day. Maybe it was me and Luis telling jokes in the emergency room. But when I see Rags go into Vic’s office for their regular weekly chit-chat, I get a stupid idea.
Okay, another stupid idea.
It’s an old gag, and the play takes almost nothing to set up. I have to ask Walter for the number is all, then figure out how to bypass our controller’s block on this type of telephone call. It’s all doable, Walter assures me, although I will have to pay the price —attribution—if I want to watch this gag go off.
Screw it. I want to watch.
Walter hands me a camera phone. He wants to see Rags’ face, too.
Mr. Vic’s secretary tries to stop me, but it’s a feeble effort. Determined as I am to screw myself, weapons of mass destruction couldn’t keep me out of Mr. Vic’s office.
Rags and Vic both give me blank faces when I burst into their private, closed-door meeting. It’s never been done. I’m maybe the last one they would expect to have the balls, too. And I’m wearing the full-boat Carr grin. My two immediate superiors slip into serious shock.
“Sorry, Rags, Vic.” I’m huffing with excitement. “But you’d better hear what this guy has to say. It’s about the lawsuit. You won’t believe it.”
Vic ’s face is a frozen puzzlement, question marks in both brown eyes. Rags looks pissed, a red flush climbing his neck like an exotic reptilian pet.
I bend over, flip Vic’s telephone to speaker, then run to the doorway and wave at Walter. He punches buttons on his desk, a grin painted on his face like some Sesame Street puppet.
Vic stands. “Austin…”
“What’s going on?” Rags says.
Same thing that always goes on, Rags. Your ass is mine. A light flashes on Vic’s phone. I punch up the line and jack the volume. I’ve left the door to
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