POW!
The gunshot cracks the room in half. Galt and Loogie go flat on the floor, fat bellies slammed to the concrete.
“WHAT THE FUCK!” squeals Frenchie, running toward the gunshot. He stops, then drops to the ground, too.
El Brujo’s body flies backwards, head first, away from the wall. The back of his head slams like an apple being thrown full force against brick.
The rest of him follows. He then slides like a rag doll to the ground, his head slumping toward me.
I look at his face.
He has a perfect hole in the center of his forehead.
He’s breathing, though. His body pants in little breathy sounds. It’s erratic and fleeting.
Just like the rat a few minutes ago.
Just like me.
Chaos erupts. Galt and Loogie leap to their feet and pull out guns. Allie slithers out of the hole and falls to the ground, her breathing labored and loud. She stands, quickly, and holds the gun, waving it wildly in the general direction of me and the men.
Frenchie rolls across the ground and steamrolls right over me. He’s on top of me, pressing me down, his weight making it impossible to breathe.
He smells like rotten pee.
I’m lifted to my feet, my body a bag of bones and loose rope, as he pulls me to him, standing. One arm is around my waist. I can’t even hold up my body weight. His arm is slick against me. He’s groping the flesh at my hip over and over, and missing his grip.
I’m bloody and broken and he’s doing something I don’t understand.
“Get your hands off her!” Allie shrieks, pointing the gun at Frenchie, who now has his own gun drawn and pointed at her.
His aim is steadier than Allie’s.
“You fucking killed him, Girlie Girl,” Frenchie says to her in a voice so calm, so smooth, it’s like a snake is speaking directly to my brain. “You did it. You killed the biggest mastermind in the world. Little old you.” He licks his lips. “The one that got away.”
“Put her the fuck down, Frenchie,” Galt orders.
I feel Frenchie’s grip loosen for a second. Then he redoubles. When he squeezes, I can’t breathe at all. My nerves go crazy, firing at will, my skin like molten lava and dirty electricity in a hothouse.
“You ain’t my boss no more, Galt,” Frenchie growls. “Maybe I’m yours now.”
Loogie and Galt burst into hearty laughter.
“You think you’re taking over for El Fucking Brujo? That’s fucking sweet, Frenchie. You and what army? I needed a good laugh today. One more fucking joke outta you and I can go do my daily crap with a smile on my face,” Loogie says. He has a strong accent—New York?—and sounds like a mobster.
“I got an army, all right. You listen to me.” He bites my neck so hard I feel the skin tear. “I get whatever I want now. I been dealing with El Brujo’s shit for so long I dream in Spanish now. You two are just some clowns who came along after. You can have my sloppy seconds, but I’m the new El Brujo.”
The laughter dies down.
Loogie’s bald forehead wrinkles in rolls of fat as his eyebrows shoot up. “He’s serious!” he says to Galt.
Galt shakes his head and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his vest pocket, lighting one. “He thinks he is.”
The casual tone of their conversation is almost as unnerving as the press of Frenchie’s obvious erection against my butt. How can they have Allie pointing a gun at them, me in Frenchie’s arms as a human shield, and light up a ciggy like it’s break time at the check processing center?
Galt steps toward Frenchie, who backs away, dragging me with him. Frenchie wrenches my neck. I catch the now-dead eyes of El Brujo. He’s a few feet away from me, his feet tangled with the mousetrap holding the dead rat.
And Frenchie has moved right in front of the open hatch as Galt bears down on him. Galt holds his gun loosely in his hand. He clearly views Frenchie as no threat.
But then Frenchie points his own gun right at my temple.
“You stay back, Galt, or I’ll kill her.”
“Why do I give a fuck about this little chickie?” Galt snorts. He evaluates me like he’s examining a side of beef.
Allie’s eyes meet mine. She doesn’t know where to point the gun. Why isn’t she shooting someone? Anyone? Chase told her not to shoot Galt.
Why?
“You give a shit about her, Galt,” Frenchie says in a triumphant voice, “’cause she’s your son’s piece of ass.”
“Chase? She’s fucking Chase?” Galt grunts. “You and I know Chase is fucking her.” He points to Allie. “The one with the gun.”
Allie waves the gun. “Hello? Yes. I have a gun. You all seem to be ignoring me.” She looks over at Loogie and her eyes go really wide.
He shakes his head so imperceptibly I wouldn’t notice it, except I’m noticing everything now. I can see the tiny hairs on Galt’s ears. Smell the garlic in the lunchmeat Loogie ate for breakfast. Detect the scent of Chase’s deodorant on Allie.
I can see, smell, taste, feel and intuit everything.
All the men continue to ignore Allie.
“No,” Frenchie says. He’s gloating. He pulls me to him, his arm like a cinch string on a sack, and then adds:
“Your other son.”