Pecos Getaway

        A big wet cactus kiss. Finally I'm laying down my last Ace to sink the fireball in the Corner Pocket no Tilt. It's Closing Time for you, Pappy. Chug down and get ready to pay up. Boom! Tadpole's .44 goes off.
The slug pops Big Pearl's beercan. Blood on baseboard. Tadpole is swinging the gun around, and this time it's going to be close. Boom! Pappy clutches his hip. Meanwhile I'm whipping my cuestick around like it's a straight white snake. Tadpole slumps down, a blue chalk gash across his brown Cajun cheek. Big Pearl has lost two fingers. She stoops, picks up her gold ring and begins to cry.
        Goddamn. 44! The butt crushes the backend of Tadpole's skull.
        "How you doing, Pappy?"
        He says nothing, begins to puke.
        I can't do anything for Pappy or Big Pearl, a pink waddle of a woman with butch-cropped platinum hair. She is moaning now, and wadding her hand sloppily into the folds of her skirt.
        "Call an ambulence, Henry," I say to the barman. "And you better call Sheriff Tucker too."
        Henry nods OK.
        It looks like a gob of strawberry preserves oozing under Tadpole's black shag.
        "Junior," says Henry. "You better clear out."
        "Shit no. I was in my rights. Just cracked him a bit too hard. That's all."
        "Give me the revolver, Junior."
        I hand him Tadpole's .44.
        "You're higher than a kite, boy."
        "Reckon I am. You excuse me, Henry. I'd kinda like to hit the washroom."
        "You packing any dope?"
        "Naw."
        But I am, and the feathers are stirring up, blowing all around, and I feel my knees turning to mud.
        "I'd better sit a spell."
        "Boy, you didn't have to bust his head. You know."
        "No, I don't know."
        "OK. You stay there. Right where you are."
        "Henry, you're right. I'd better clear out."
        "You stay right where you are."


                                                                                       *
 

        The Dice are rolling. Henry's backdoor slams behind me. My boots are grinding down the alley. My knees feel like swollen pockets of mud. October moon: a huge glow bulb high over the desert mountain range. The Chevy pickup starts easy. Henry's backdoor bangs open and Sheriff Tucker bounds out, comes running like a huge gray cat.
         "Stop right there, Shithead!"
         In the rearview mirror, receding away from me, he brings up his .38 Special with both hands.
         A prickly feeling runs wildfire up my neck. His gunmetal fist explodes with orange flame. Slug whine. Blue glass spiderwebs front and back, and I'm rattling away with a punched-out windshield.
         Henry had told me to stay put, but that didn't make much sense when Sheriff Tucker roared up, his siren whooping. I could smell hot blood.
        The last time I saw Pappy he was bleeding to death.
        Rimrock ten miles ahead. Milkpaint landscape, with mesquite, clumps of pubicbush in the moonlight. The desert road promises to lead me safely straight to the stars.
        Jackrabbit in the road.