not go to the grave that way. Slayton had buried several of
his friends. Lucius did not expect him to change his ethics now.
Kiko was light, almost too light for a person who had, a moment before, been living and breathing. Slayton laid him gently
down on the back seat of the Trans-Am. He knew that Mercy, if she had been in the bar at all, was gone by now—had fled with
all the others who might have something to bide from the police, who were sure to show up soon. The low-riders bracketing
the street made no move. If the cops were to show up, they’d leave. Slayton decided to wait a while.
He pushed the tilting seat back into place and punched open the glove compartment. Inside was his nickel-plated .45 automatic,
holding—as usual—a nine-shot clip of scooped and crosshatched dumdum loads, with the hammer down on another load in the chamber.
The audience from the bar caught a glimpse as he hefted it, and they faded inside again—those few who had remained and not
fled through the rear door.
As Slayton walked past Lucius, he said, “Get in there. Mercy’s not around, but see if you can find us a shot or two of decent
whisky.” With no protest to offer, Lucius swung his own pistol to his side and pushed into the El Condor.
Slayton put his first slug through the windshield of the Chevy. Glass blew inward all over the tuck-and-roll upholstery, and
someone inside the bar screamed in panic. The bullet plowed into the seat, spreading and flattening and destroying the center,
knocking chunks of yellow foam out to float in the air. The dumdum slugs were designed for close-range demolition on a particularly
sloppy scale.
Methodically, Slayton blew away each tire in succession. After the minor explosions of air, the car sank down onto its rims
like a wounded animal. Another shot, and a cascade of black oil dribbled from its underbelly. He paced around it, like a browser
at a supermarket, pausing to smash the driver’s window with a flat-handed blow. He angled the .45 inside, and took out the
dashboard instruments with a single violent shot. Glass and plastic shrapnel bounced around inside the car as Lucius reemerged,
toting his gun in one hand, and a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other.
Across the lot, the Bronco fired up and sped away too fast, bouncing over the unpaved surface behind the bar.
Slayton took a long pull of the whisky. “Give me your gun,” he said to Lucius, after handing him the automatic. He knew that
Lucius would be packing the heaviest loads the monster Magnum could handle.
Slayton cocked the hammer and put three well-placed shots through the hood of the Chevy, neatly drilling the engine block
and rendering the entire car a nonmobile collection of worthless junk. He handed the warm Magnum back to Lucius, and heaved
the nearly full whisky bottle through the front windshield, or what remained of it. He thought that his message was pretty
clear.
He had resisted the urge to destroy the gas tank from a distance, send the whole offensive pile of
cholo
trash up in a teeth-wracking explosion, give the cops a fireball to fix location by. When the bottle crashed through the
front of the car, the picture in Slayton’s mind had been of Kiko, with the switchblade hanging out of his stomach.
He turned back to the Trans-Am. The guards on the opposing ends of the narrow street had vanished.
“What now?” Lucius said.
“The cops are on their way. Let’s wait for them and have them escort us the hell out of here.”
11
The red message light on Slayton’s hotel room telephone was flashing urgently as the men walked into the room. It was the
only light disrupting the uniform darkness, and it was the color of danger.
It took the desk clerk a few seconds to find the memo. Slayton assumed it would be something from Winship. If the right honorable
Senator Franklin Reed were tied up in the Starshine ring, as Slayton suspected he might be, the intramural meddling with
his friends. Lucius did not expect him to change his ethics now.
Kiko was light, almost too light for a person who had, a moment before, been living and breathing. Slayton laid him gently
down on the back seat of the Trans-Am. He knew that Mercy, if she had been in the bar at all, was gone by now—had fled with
all the others who might have something to bide from the police, who were sure to show up soon. The low-riders bracketing
the street made no move. If the cops were to show up, they’d leave. Slayton decided to wait a while.
He pushed the tilting seat back into place and punched open the glove compartment. Inside was his nickel-plated .45 automatic,
holding—as usual—a nine-shot clip of scooped and crosshatched dumdum loads, with the hammer down on another load in the chamber.
The audience from the bar caught a glimpse as he hefted it, and they faded inside again—those few who had remained and not
fled through the rear door.
As Slayton walked past Lucius, he said, “Get in there. Mercy’s not around, but see if you can find us a shot or two of decent
whisky.” With no protest to offer, Lucius swung his own pistol to his side and pushed into the El Condor.
Slayton put his first slug through the windshield of the Chevy. Glass blew inward all over the tuck-and-roll upholstery, and
someone inside the bar screamed in panic. The bullet plowed into the seat, spreading and flattening and destroying the center,
knocking chunks of yellow foam out to float in the air. The dumdum slugs were designed for close-range demolition on a particularly
sloppy scale.
Methodically, Slayton blew away each tire in succession. After the minor explosions of air, the car sank down onto its rims
like a wounded animal. Another shot, and a cascade of black oil dribbled from its underbelly. He paced around it, like a browser
at a supermarket, pausing to smash the driver’s window with a flat-handed blow. He angled the .45 inside, and took out the
dashboard instruments with a single violent shot. Glass and plastic shrapnel bounced around inside the car as Lucius reemerged,
toting his gun in one hand, and a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other.
Across the lot, the Bronco fired up and sped away too fast, bouncing over the unpaved surface behind the bar.
Slayton took a long pull of the whisky. “Give me your gun,” he said to Lucius, after handing him the automatic. He knew that
Lucius would be packing the heaviest loads the monster Magnum could handle.
Slayton cocked the hammer and put three well-placed shots through the hood of the Chevy, neatly drilling the engine block
and rendering the entire car a nonmobile collection of worthless junk. He handed the warm Magnum back to Lucius, and heaved
the nearly full whisky bottle through the front windshield, or what remained of it. He thought that his message was pretty
clear.
He had resisted the urge to destroy the gas tank from a distance, send the whole offensive pile of
cholo
trash up in a teeth-wracking explosion, give the cops a fireball to fix location by. When the bottle crashed through the
front of the car, the picture in Slayton’s mind had been of Kiko, with the switchblade hanging out of his stomach.
He turned back to the Trans-Am. The guards on the opposing ends of the narrow street had vanished.
“What now?” Lucius said.
“The cops are on their way. Let’s wait for them and have them escort us the hell out of here.”
11
The red message light on Slayton’s hotel room telephone was flashing urgently as the men walked into the room. It was the
only light disrupting the uniform darkness, and it was the color of danger.
It took the desk clerk a few seconds to find the memo. Slayton assumed it would be something from Winship. If the right honorable
Senator Franklin Reed were tied up in the Starshine ring, as Slayton suspected he might be, the intramural meddling with
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