“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.
Even though we’ve got the heater cranked full blast, I’m shivering behind the wheel — leather coat zipped up tight, face numb as the hide of a zombie that stumbled off a midnight movie screen. Mitch is a hardcase, of course. No coat for this boy — he’s wearing that T-shirt. The one he got up the street from the Bucket of Blood Saloon while I bided my time, stretching the last sip of a three buck beer that I couldn’t afford.
It’s an eye catcher, the shirt is. Bullet holes cratering high on the chest, bright red blood driving over the legend:
SLOWEST GUN IN
VIRGINIA CITY, NEVADA
The sign over the batwing doors said Bucket of Blood Saloon. Inside, Big John Dingo stood straight and tall, black eyes shining like fresh tarantula blood, lips twisted into a snarl.
“Fill yer hand, ya sorry sonofabitch!”
“Hold on,” Mitch began. I’m not ready — ”
“Not with yer pecker, idiot!” the gunfighter growled. “Fill yer hairy palm with a six-gun, ’cause I’m about to blow yer pimply ass south of eternity!”
The batwing doors swung open. Big John clutched a fistful of Colt .45 while Mitch made a grab for his pistol.
Mitch missed the holster entirely. He was laughing way too hard — one hand searching for his pistol, the other wrapped around a beer.
The gunfighter’s pistol sparked. “HAHAHAHAHA!” he screeched. “Another pencil-dicked pilgrim eats it! No one outdraws Big John Dingo! I can fuck longer and draw faster than any man alive! I never come up for air! I live on pussy and hot lead! Drop a quarter, ya redneck peckerwood! Try your luck! HAHAHAHAHA!”
Mitch swigged beer and turned away from the mechanical gunman.
“More quarters?” the bartender asked.
“No.” Mitch laughed at the mannequin as the batwing doors closed on the tiny booth. “Where the hell did you get this thing?”
“Used to be in a drug store over in Carson City. A kid’s game, right along with the gum machines and the fiberglass pony ride. Of course, the gunfighter didn’t talk like that when he was outdrawing six-year-olds. My boss hired a fellow who did a little work on him. He juiced the gunfighter’s speed a little, recorded a new tape and — ”
“You think your boss would sell it?” Mitch interrupted.
“Well, I don’t know… ”
Mitch drained his beer. “What do you think, Kurt? Would the crowd down at the bar love this thing, or what?”
I nodded. “Sure they would. But what about you? I mean, can you imagine listening to Big John Dingo all night long, every night?”
The mechanical gunfighter kicked into gear as if on cue. “C’mon ya candy-assed cocksuckers! Yer dicks are wrapped in Tom Jones’ old socks! Ya got cojones the size of goober peas! Ain’t a one of you man enough to take on Big John Dingo!”
Mitch set his empty beer on the counter. “I guess it would get old pretty fast.”
“Good Tom Jones line, though,” I said.
Mitch did some business with the bartender, stocking up on Bucket of Blood Saloon souvenirs. A T-shirt, a coffee cup, even a cassette tape featuring Big John Dingo’s witty repartee. In just under three minutes, Mitch dropped thirty bucks and change.