I headed back for the motel, working my way up through the gears. I thought about killing the headlights but switched on the brights instead. “Waterloo” blasted from the speakers. I hit the Mona Lisa’s parking lot full speed, angled myself toward the Mustang.
The Peterbilt plowed into the driver’s side with a pop crunch, like hitting an empty soda-pop can with a baseball bat. The big-rig pushed the Mustang up on its side, and I shoved it along like that for a second until it bounced out of the way. I headed back for the road, turned for another pass.
Two Mexicans spilled out of the motel room, guns in hands, a guy in red and the honcho in the black shirt. I aimed the rig at their front door and started shifting gears. Kept leaning on the horn. They lifted their pistols.
I blasted the big-rig’s horn at them just as they opened fire. Slugs punched through the windshield a foot to my right, spider-webbing the glass. The next shot inched closer, and I hunched in my seat, still shifting and pressing the gas pedal. I didn’t quite get up to speed like I’d hoped, but I guess I was making my point because both the Mexicans fled back into the hotel room.
Bad move. I blasted the horn one more time before the Peterbilt smashed through the door and window, dust and rubble
raining down on the rig’s windshield. I put it in park and killed the ignition, grabbed the revolver which had slid to the floor and climbed down from the cab. I stumbled on the rubble. An arm in a red sleeve stuck out from under the rig’s front tire. I decided I didn’t want to see any more.
I got to my feet, slipping on the loose rubble. The rig’s headlights stabbed through the swirling dust in the motel room. A figure emerged through the beams of light, like a ghost drifting through the dust cloud. He came closer, and I saw it was the honcho in the black shirt, one hand clutching a pistol, the other wiping at his eyes. He coughed hard, waved the gun in front of him.
I pointed the revolver at him. “Drop the gun, amigo!”
He coughed again, blinked the dust out of his eyes. “Puerco!”
“I said drop it.”
He fired way over my head. I pulled the trigger four times, red blotches sprouting across his chest. He twitched a little before collapsing to his knees, hovered there a moment, then toppled over.
I stood there breathing hard a moment, everything so quiet except the splashing from the bathroom where a pipe had torn loose. The place smelled like cordite and plaster dust and blood and the big-rig’s overheated engine. Another smell too, permeating the mix. Somebody’s bowels had let go.
I felt nauseated, backed out of the motel room, careful not to trip over rubble. Outside I gulped clean air. The lights were on in the motel office, so I headed that way. I didn’t hurry.
Inside at the front desk, Myrtle McCarthy was coming out of the back room, wearing a blue terrycloth robe, rubbing her eyes and putting her glasses on. She got a load of me and flinched. I could smell gin ten steps away.
“You okay, Toby?”
“I’ll live, Miss McCarthy. Just wanted to let you know there’s been a little trouble. You might want to call your insurance people in the morning.”
She looked past me at the big-rig still parked halfway into the motel room. “Hell and blood, how’d that happen?”
“It’s a long story, ma’am. I’m afraid those Mexicans are dead.”
“The one in the other room too?”
One of my eyebrows went up and made a question mark out of itself. “Other room?”
“They took two rooms right next to each other when they checked in.”
“Can you let me have the pass key, ma’am?”
She reached under the counter, came out with a key on a big green keychain, a picture of the Mona Lisa on it. She hesitated a second before handing it over.
I took the key. “I’ll be right back.”
I walked back down the line of rooms, a little faster this time. There were no lights on in the room next to the one I’d wrecked. I put the key in, turned the knob and went in fast at a crouch.
The room shook with two quick pops of gunfire, white flashes form the center of the darkness. The bullets chewed plaster off the wall an inch from my face. I went low, fired twice without aiming. When I squeezed the trigger a third time, I heard click.
“Fuck!”
I tossed the revolver away and threw myself in the direction of the flashes. Another shot went off , and I felt the heat of the blast on my face. I barreled into a body and we both went over. The guy was smaller than I expected. I ended up on top, punched down as hard as I could, felt and heard the smack of flesh. I punched again. I felt for his hands, found the pistol and grabbed it.
I stood, panting, backed up against the wall and flipped on the light switch. The gun in my hand was a silver .25 automatic. A little, inaccurate piece of crap. You’d need to shove the thing straight up your target’s nose to hit anything. I looked at my opponent and saw I’d just punched the shit out of a woman. My mother would have been disappointed. I wouldn’t lose any sleep. The bitch had tried to shoot me, after all.
She was a light skinned Mexican, maybe twenty-nine or thirty years old, big wads of brown hair piled on her head, messed up a little from sleeping. I figured she’d been in bed since she wore only black panties. Her breasts stood up for themselves, big but not drooping, thin waist, long legs. She worked herself into a crouch, then stood slowly, keeping her eyes on me the whole time, like a cat trying to decide between fight or flight.
I kept her own automatic pointed at her chest, retrieved my revolver and shoved it back in the holster.
We looked at each other a few seconds. I didn’t exactly know what to do with her.
“Are you going to arrest me now, cowboy?” One side of her mouth curled into a sly smile. She had only a light accent.
“You are so fucking under arrest.”
She trailed a finger under one of her breasts. “Like this? You’re going to take me in naked?”
“Get something on. You reach for anything other than clothes, and I’ll unload this toy pistol on you.”
She did it slowly, like she wasn’t bothered at all. She slipped a cottony dress with a tight floral pattern over her head, stepped into a pair of stringy sandals.
She held out her hands. “You want to cuff me.”
I didn’t have any cuffs, but I mumbled out the Miranda rights. I’d memorized them, had even practiced them in front of a mirror.
I’d killed at least four men that I knew of, but she was the first person in my career as a deputy that I’d ever arrested.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The big-rig made a hell of a racket backing out over the rubble, scraping bottom, getting caught up on whatever I didn’t care to think about. The rig stalled, and I cranked it again, fought to get the thing into gear.
“Are you sure you know how to drive one of these?” She sat in the passenger seat, legs crossed, her hands bound by a power cord I’d ripped from a lamp.
I ignored her, bullied the truck into first gear and headed back to town. There was a pretty bad rattle somewhere under the hood and a grinding sound coming from the brakes. Roy would be pissed. Tough shit.
“What is my charge?” she asked.
“What?”
“You have to charge me with something if you arrest me.”
I thought about that a second. “Well, you shot at me for starters.”
“You broke into my room. Self defense.”
“Aiding and abetting the smuggling of illegal aliens. That specific enough for you?” I popped a Winston into my mouth and lit it.
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”