Head Games (The Hector Lassiter Series) by Craig McDonald
Authors: Craig McDonald
Tags: Novel
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prone --- hugged the pavement.
The blast from the Tommy gun shredded through the college boys and exploded the windshields of parked cars in front of us. The storefront display windows behind us splintered and fell. As the slugs dug in past my feet, I struggled up and began half-running, half-limping in the direction the car had come --- trying to put some distance between me and the Mexicans before they could swing their big Caddy around for another pass. I figured they didn't mean to kill me ... not until they had Pancho's head, anyways. But the thought of being in the hands of a sadistic madman like Fierro? Frankly, that bloody prospect terrified me.
But that kidney shot was slowing me down. I fished around under my jacket for my Colt. Another car swerved around the corner. It was my Chevy. Alicia was driving and Bud was riding all-too-literal shotgun. They skidded to the curb and I ran around to the driver's side. "Over the seat, Sweet," I barked at Alicia. She slid over into the back and I slipped behind the wheel.
I got my Bel Air in gear and yelled to Alicia to lay down on the floorboards behind the front seat.
The Cadillac was just turning the corner.
I accelerated and steered straight for it. At the last moment, I veered to the right, palming the wheel with my right hand. I extended my left arm out straight, Colt in hand, and shot the Mexican driver in the face. The Caddy veered and slammed into the side of a newspaper delivery truck. One of the Mexicans in the backseat --- the one who had fired a Thompson at me --- flew over the front seat and landed on the pavement, face first and twenty feet from the Caddy.
Two down.
I was preparing to swing back around and take out the others --- finish Fierro for good --- when I saw the cop cruiser in the distance. Some L.A. flatfoot's routine patrol was about to go very crazy on him.
Cowed, I righted my Chevy and headed back toward our motel. "You guys come looking for me for a reason?"
Bud nodded and slipped his shotgun down out of view. "We got back to the hotel and the proprietor was out front, watering his garden. He said several people had been by asking after us --- some college kids and some Mexicans. We packed up quick, and left a message with the clerk to have you take a cab to the Aero Squadron to meet up with us again. It was just an accident that we spotted you when we did."
"Happy accident."
"We deserve some luck," Bud said.
Alicia sat up behind us and brushed the hair from her face. She pulled out a scarf and tied it over her head and slipped on a pair of black Wayfarers. "You looked like you were hurt, Héctor --- unable to run," she said.
"College boys from Yale got a good shot into my kidney just before they got turned into confetti. Hurts like a son of a bitch."
"Pull over," Bud said. "I'll drive now."
I pulled over. Alicia slipped back in front between us and I squeezed in. She rested her hand on my knee. Fiske --- that silver-tongued devil --- I did owe him thrice.
Bud said, "Which fraternity is going to be seeking new pledges?"
"Those dead boys were authentic Skull and Bones."
"No shit?"
"That was Fierro back there, wasn't it?" Alicia asked.
"Yeah --- for sure it was him. The Butcher. Could see the Fierro I remember from newspaper photos and the wanted posters in that old face."
Bud smiled and shook his head. "Too strange. So what now?"
"Now we get some new digs. Hotels and motels are out of the question, now. Fuckers will scour every one of those in greater L.A. for us."
Alicia arched a dark eyebrow. "What then?"
"Pull over a second," I ordered Fiske. He did and I struggled out and limped over to the newsstand. I picked up a copy of the L.A. Times . I pulled out the classified section and binned the rest. I searched the ads, arms held out a distance to see the tiny type better. "Here we go. There's a little Hollywood court apartment with a garage. So let's go claim our new bungalow. Ad claims Tom Mix once slept there."
Bud Fiske
The blast from the Tommy gun shredded through the college boys and exploded the windshields of parked cars in front of us. The storefront display windows behind us splintered and fell. As the slugs dug in past my feet, I struggled up and began half-running, half-limping in the direction the car had come --- trying to put some distance between me and the Mexicans before they could swing their big Caddy around for another pass. I figured they didn't mean to kill me ... not until they had Pancho's head, anyways. But the thought of being in the hands of a sadistic madman like Fierro? Frankly, that bloody prospect terrified me.
But that kidney shot was slowing me down. I fished around under my jacket for my Colt. Another car swerved around the corner. It was my Chevy. Alicia was driving and Bud was riding all-too-literal shotgun. They skidded to the curb and I ran around to the driver's side. "Over the seat, Sweet," I barked at Alicia. She slid over into the back and I slipped behind the wheel.
I got my Bel Air in gear and yelled to Alicia to lay down on the floorboards behind the front seat.
The Cadillac was just turning the corner.
I accelerated and steered straight for it. At the last moment, I veered to the right, palming the wheel with my right hand. I extended my left arm out straight, Colt in hand, and shot the Mexican driver in the face. The Caddy veered and slammed into the side of a newspaper delivery truck. One of the Mexicans in the backseat --- the one who had fired a Thompson at me --- flew over the front seat and landed on the pavement, face first and twenty feet from the Caddy.
Two down.
I was preparing to swing back around and take out the others --- finish Fierro for good --- when I saw the cop cruiser in the distance. Some L.A. flatfoot's routine patrol was about to go very crazy on him.
Cowed, I righted my Chevy and headed back toward our motel. "You guys come looking for me for a reason?"
Bud nodded and slipped his shotgun down out of view. "We got back to the hotel and the proprietor was out front, watering his garden. He said several people had been by asking after us --- some college kids and some Mexicans. We packed up quick, and left a message with the clerk to have you take a cab to the Aero Squadron to meet up with us again. It was just an accident that we spotted you when we did."
"Happy accident."
"We deserve some luck," Bud said.
Alicia sat up behind us and brushed the hair from her face. She pulled out a scarf and tied it over her head and slipped on a pair of black Wayfarers. "You looked like you were hurt, Héctor --- unable to run," she said.
"College boys from Yale got a good shot into my kidney just before they got turned into confetti. Hurts like a son of a bitch."
"Pull over," Bud said. "I'll drive now."
I pulled over. Alicia slipped back in front between us and I squeezed in. She rested her hand on my knee. Fiske --- that silver-tongued devil --- I did owe him thrice.
Bud said, "Which fraternity is going to be seeking new pledges?"
"Those dead boys were authentic Skull and Bones."
"No shit?"
"That was Fierro back there, wasn't it?" Alicia asked.
"Yeah --- for sure it was him. The Butcher. Could see the Fierro I remember from newspaper photos and the wanted posters in that old face."
Bud smiled and shook his head. "Too strange. So what now?"
"Now we get some new digs. Hotels and motels are out of the question, now. Fuckers will scour every one of those in greater L.A. for us."
Alicia arched a dark eyebrow. "What then?"
"Pull over a second," I ordered Fiske. He did and I struggled out and limped over to the newsstand. I picked up a copy of the L.A. Times . I pulled out the classified section and binned the rest. I searched the ads, arms held out a distance to see the tiny type better. "Here we go. There's a little Hollywood court apartment with a garage. So let's go claim our new bungalow. Ad claims Tom Mix once slept there."
Bud Fiske
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