But instead he went down like a felled tree, only less dignified, shaking the floor and the furniture. The .22 auto seemed to jump from his hand of its own accord, landing over by the couch.
Now he was down on the carpet on his left side, mouth open like a big slumbering baby, and I cautiously moved him onto his back with a foot on his shoulder. Should he be faking, and make a grab for my leg, the nine mil was turned around in my hand again and he’d be fucking dead.
If he wasn’t already.
Through the thick lips, Boyd managed, “Is it alive?”
Blows to the back of the head like the one I’d delivered killed you often as not. Wasn’t like on TV where Mannix got clocked on a weekly basis.
The lumberjack had a peaceful look, the kind they pay morticians to achieve. But he was breathing, all right, and quite a specimen. His hair was a golden yellow many a female would covet and his jaw was strong and firm in a way some men might envy. His eyes, however, were close-set, his nose flat above and lumpy below, broken so often that the point was moot.
Boyd’s fat lips flapped. “Duct tape... he brought... on the couch.”
Got to admire a pro attitude like that. Tied to a chair, beat to shit, he doesn’t yell for me to untie him or help him or any such nonsense. First make sure the intruder is out of commission.
I used the duct tape to tie the lumberjack’s wrists behind him, then wrapped it around his ankles, and finally wound more of the stuff around his legs under the knees. Then I checked for a wallet and found none. A couple hundreds in fives, tens and twenties were in one pocket, and went into mine. In the other was a small pouch of lockpicks, not unlike the one I carry in my wallet. Also the keys to his Dodge Charger. Nothing else. Certainly no I.D.
Only then did I use a pocket knife I’d found in a denim jacket our guest had tossed on a chair. I cut Boyd loose and got him to his feet.
“Go clean yourself up,” I told him. “Take half a dozen aspirin, why don’t you?”
He nodded like that was a fine prescription and trundled off.
I sat in the now-vacated kitchen chair, some Boyd blood spattered at my feet. Several yards away, Boyd’s slumbering questioner breathed hard, scarlet dripping through his longish hair like somebody had cracked a bloody egg on his skull.
Who was he?
My first thought was that this was somehow a result of the other night. That Becky and her Nazi boyfriends had called in help to settle the score. But I felt I’d had a meeting of the minds with Commander Starkweather — he certainly wouldn’t have sanctioned this. And, anyway, the questions the blond good-old-boy had been asking Boyd, in a decidedly pointed way, indicated he wanted to know who we were. What we were up to.
Hell, Starkweather already knew. He’d hired us, hadn’t he?
Hadn’t he?
But the Broker hadn’t really confirmed that. And something was glimmering in the back of my head.
Before long Boyd came back in. He’d spruced up for our caller — the bloody t-shirt replaced by a blue sportshirt, pajama bottoms by navy slacks, bare feet shod now in navy sneakers. I wondered if I’d tidy up like that, if somebody rescued me from a Mamie Van Doren blonde who was torturing my ass, and I wanted to look good when I questioned her. Maybe.
Of course, my partner’s face was a puffy horror, his eyes slitted and swollen, like the ref should have stopped the fight a lot of rounds ago. But the blood was washed off, and his left hand held some ice wrapped in a washcloth that he moved around to sore places on his face.
Without a word, we pitched in and lifted the lumberjack up by the arms and flopped him into the chair. It wasn’t any harder than moving a roadkill buck off the highway. I left the additional duct-taping to Boyd — we wanted him secured to the chair — and, without my asking, Boyd filled me in.
“He was just suddenly in the room with me,” Boyd said. “I was watching the game, and it was pretty dull and I fell asleep. And then there the son of a bitch was, big as a redwood.”
Four beer cans were beside the recliner Boyd pulled up to watch TV.
“You got yourself a back-door man,” I said. “He had lockpicks. How long was this going on, before I showed up?”
“Felt like hours. Probably ten minutes.”
“You got lucky on the timing. Is the gist that he spotted us keeping tabs on the Reverend?”
He nodded, getting to his feet, starting in with the tape around the guy’s chest. “I never said jack shit to the mother-fucker. He just kept hitting me. I’m surprised he didn’t bust his damn hand.”
“Does he figure us for cops?”
“Ask him.”
Boyd nodded to our guest, who was coming around in his chair, wincing, licking his lips, raising his eyebrows, like that’s what it would take to get his eyes open.
“You... you’re the other one,” he said, looking at me, his upper lip curled back.
“Am I?”
“Who the fuckin’ hell are you bastards, anyhow?”
“Well, I’m the guy with your gun.” I showed him the .22, which was in my right hand, the silenced nine mil in my left at my side.
He looked at the .22, almost crossing his eyes to do so, and I laughed a little and slapped him with it. A cut on his cheek opened, two inches or so, and blood dripped out. It was like he’d cut himself shaving. With a Bowie knife.
He gave me some more curled upper lip. “You think I’m afraid of you?”
“As long as I have the guns, I don’t care. As it sits... as you sit... your odds for survival are about one in ten. And that’s a generous estimate.”
“All right,” he said, and let air out of his big chest. “I admit it. You fellas got the upper hand at present.”
“Think so?”
His chin came up, his wound crying little ruby tears. “Let’s back ’er up a step. Who are you boys anyhow? You ain’t cops or feds or we wouldn’t be havin’ this party.”
“Right. You’d be arrested. Nobody official would do this.”
I slapped him with his .22 again. Other cheek. Opened another cut. Really sloppy shaver, this boy.
His eyes, which were a dark blue, blazed. “You better hope I don’t make it outa this chair, you little punk-ass prick.”
“Yeah. Obviously. Let’s back ’er up a step. To where the guy with the guns gets to ask the questions. Oh, and my friend here, who you beat the piss out of earlier? He’s also got a gun now.”
Our captor flicked his eyes toward Boyd, off to the side, pointing the long-barrel .38 at him.
“So I see,” the lumberjack said. “What if I took that gun away from him and stuck it up his fuckin’ ass?”
“You’d have to ask him,” I said. “Now let’s start with a name.”
“Eat me,” he said, through a wide smile.
“For a guy who’s obviously been in his share of brawls, you have good teeth. Or did you pay for those? Either way, you probably wouldn’t want me to break them.”
He stopped smiling. “I ain’t gonna give you my name. Who cares what my teeth is like if I’m dead?”
That made more sense than I’d have guessed he was capable of.
“I don’t need a last name,” I said. “Just a first.”
“Bite me.”
“I’m Jack.”
He glanced at Boyd. “Jack, huh? And who’s he?”
“Not Jill. This conversation is just you and me. Never mind him. What’s your name, friend?”
“...Delmont.”
“I said first name.”
“That is my first name.”
“Okay. You’ll recognize these questions. They’re the ones you were asking when I came in.”
He frowned, not following.