The big ox went on like that. Sweat dripped off Curtain’s nose. He was getting uncomfortable again. For the first time, he realized that using the hammer had been a mistake.
Sure, he wanted revenge. Sure, it felt good. But using a claw hammer. Jesus. That wasn’t his game. Not at all. That was why he had Kirby and Wyatt.
He’d definitely crossed a line that he didn’t want to cross. And Kirby and Wyatt knew it. Wyatt had the good sense to keep his trap shut, but he probably felt the same way as Kirby. They’d seen the boss try his hand at their work, seen he wasn’t nearly as efficient as they were, and now they were like a couple of seasoned old-timers slapping the new kid on the back while they demolished a six-pack.
The roles were reversed.
Curtain had to nip this one in the bud, and fast.
He glanced at Wyatt, and that was all it took.
“Shut up, Kirby,” Wyatt said.
“Hey!” The big man was offended all over again. “All I’m saying is the boss knows his business. In and out, over and around and — ”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “We know what you’re saying. But nobody wants to hear it.”
“Jesus.” Kirby grunted. “Pardon me all to hell.”
He stepped past Curtain without even looking at him.
Wyatt shrugged. “After you.”
Curtain bristled, but he made a joke of it because he couldn’t afford to piss off the both of them.
“You first,” he said. “I think I need a buffer.”
Wyatt grinned. “I think you might be right.”
Another quarter mile. The canyon widened, but that just meant there was more room for sunlight. They moved through it, three gringos on a sandstone griddle. Heat baked the soles of their boots, which kicked up plenty of dust that the man in the rear ate without a word of complaint.
The dust was bitter, and Curtain was too dry to spit. He started thinking about the canteen he’d left with Jesus Sanchez. Leaving the canteen was a gesture meant to conclude the matter in an appropriately sardonic manner. In retrospect, it was a hell of a mistake. Curtain wanted a drink of water. Hell, he would have traded shares of Microsoft for one.
The way Kirby was panting, it was a sure bet he wanted a drink too. Best not to mention the canteen. Things were touchy enough as it was. Besides, there was another canteen in the SUV. And they couldn’t be more than a half a mile away from it.
Sure, they were in the sun, and it was noon sun.
And this was August. And this was Arizona.
But fuck it. The trail was highway from here on out. Thirsty or not, anyone could make the last half mile. A peg-legged man pushing a wheelbarrow full of steaming horseshit could make it.
Let Kirby charge on like a damn fool if he wanted to. Curtain would remain calm. He wouldn’t let the heat burn him down, be it emotional or meteorological. He didn’t have to be in front to be the leader.
Curtain shook his head. Just look at the idiot, he thought. Kirby hadn’t even put on any sunblock. The dumb Irishman was beet red.
Beet red and slowing his pace.
Beet red and planting his sizable ass on a rock.
In the middle of the pack, Wyatt shook his head.
In the rear, Curtain did the same.
Kirby glared at them as they approached. “Wish we had that fuckin’ canteen,” he said.
“Wishes are a waste of time,” Wyatt said.
Curtain didn’t say a word.
Like they say in the war movies, Curtain took point.
In the lead again. Wyatt in the middle. Kirby dragging ass in the rear.
Curtain wanted to laugh. Wish we had that fuckin’ canteen. The goddamned muscle-headed moron. Everyone knew it. Even Rita. She hated Kirby. She said he was the worst kind of jackass, and she jerked his chain every chance she got.
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 you.”
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.”