The Deacon spun around, exposing his back to the men lined up behind him.
Then it happened.
“Get ’em, men!” Moran shouted.
At once all five of the men attacked the Deacon.
Buddy the Bear sprang on the balls of his feet-lightning fast-and pounced on Sol.
One of the guys at the wall pulled a toadsticker from his coveralls pocket, flicked open the six-inch blade, and eyed me cautiously for a split second before he charged, the blade glittering in the light.
The Deacon’s gun clattered to the floor. Ben Moran grunted, pushed his massive bulk out of the chair, and scrambled after the revolver as it slid across the room. He looked up. Cubby, who had silently slipped into the cafe, had his foot on the gun. He wagged his finger. “Sit this one out, old man, before you get hurt.” Moran moseyed back to his table and settled in, an innocent bystander at the Bright Spot rumble.
I stepped back. The guy with the blade flew past me and sprawled on the floor, after he tripped on my outstretched foot. He banged his head on the wall, stuck himself in the leg with his knife, and didn’t get up. He sat there and stared at the blood that started to pool under his thigh. I toyed with the idea of tossing him the washrag that sat on the counter.
The ruckus continued. The Deacon had made short work of the first three guys and now was pounding the last hooligan into hamburger.
And Sol, his jaws clenched, was busy with the redneck. He had the big bear in a hammerlock, thumping the guy’s head on the table.
“Hold it,” Moran shouted. “I think these city folks have had enough.”
Sol looked up. Surprise was written on his face. “Yeah, guess we’re not as tough as we thought.” He dropped the redneck and the guy rolled slowly to the floor. Then with his hand, he made a slashing motion across his neck indicating to the Deacon and me-like a director making a movie-Cut, the fight scene is over.
I strolled to the counter and tossed the rag to Mack the Knife, still on the floor by the wall. The bloody mess was becoming unsightly.
The room became quiet and Moran said in a loud voice, “That girl, the one you called Jane, she just wandered in here, hungry, wanted food.” He nodded. “Gave her some, and she cleaned tables for an hour or two. That’s all I know about her.”
Sol dabbed at a cut on his lip with a napkin he grabbed from a table. “Why didn’t you tell us that before?” he asked.
“You folks come in here throwin’ your weight around, itchin’ for a bruisin’. I figure why spoil the fun?”
Sol looked at me. We both heard the whooping sounds of sirens off in the distance. It sounded like they were converging on the Bright Spot. “Where can we find the teen drug center?” I said to Moran.
He turned to me. “What is it with you? There ain’t no damn teen center out here. Where’d you come up with that notion?”
Before I could answer, Sol jumped in. “I think he’s right, Jimmy. I think the party you spoke to about the center could have said it’s in Bakersfield, not Barstow. Don’t you think?”
The sirens were getting louder. “Bakersfield?”
“Yeah, Jimmy, Bakersfield. I guess if it’s not there, then that’s the end of the line.”
Moran climbed out of his chair bit by bit. “If you folks just leave town, nice and quiet like, then there’d be no sense in pressing charges. Provided you don’t come back and bother us about this nonsense no more.”
Whoop, whoop, whoop. The sirens were blaring just outside the cafe. The police had the place surrounded.
“Come out with your hands in the air.” A bullhorn-filtered voice growled, the words bouncing off the cafe walls.
Sol’s eyes locked on Moran who stood with pursed lips, stoically, as if challenging Sol. Sol nodded once, then turned and marched outside. “Whaddya want?” he shouted into the circle of squad cars that surrounded the cafe.
The Deacon picked up his gun, tucked it away, and helped people to their feet. Their fun was over and they wouldn’t be causing any trouble. Cubby settled in at one of the tables and tried to get the waitress’s attention. He wanted a cup of coffee and a hamburger. I stood in the doorway and watched the scene in the parking lot unfold.
The bullhorn again. “Put your hands in the air.”
A half dozen of Barstow’s finest were crouched behind their black-and-whites with guns in their hands, the hands rested on the hoods of the cars, and the guns aimed directly at Sol’s chest, not a small target by any means.
Sol pranced closer to the cop cars. “Who’s in charge, goddamn it?” he shouted. It sounded as if he was getting upset again.
An angry voice flew out from behind the barricade. “Hey, fella, hold it right there-”
“It’s all right, Burt,” Ben Moran shouted through the window. “We had a difference of opinion, that’s all. And now these gentlemen are leaving.”
A swag-bellied cop, with more decorations dangling from his khaki uniform than Napoleon wore at his coronation, popped up and motioned vigorously for his troops to holster their weapons. He sauntered toward the cafe, tugging at his Sam Browne belt, which had slipped to his ass during the standoff. “What was the trouble in there?” he asked, the question directed at Sol.
“Food sucks,” Sol answered.
“Well, hell, what do you expect in a dump like this?”
“Burt, knock it off. It’s all over,” Moran hollered to the police chief. “These gentlemen are leaving.”
“Ben, we got a call. Said the old place was being held up,” the chief shouted back.
“You fool, there’s no money in here, what the hell you talking about? These guys are leaving town, won’t be back.” Moran said. “Now, do as I say and let them go.”
“Okay, Ben, you’re the boss. I ain’t gonna hold ’em. Just want to have a few words with this guy. That’s all.”
“Hey, Chief, I’m Sol Silverman. Everything is under control. We were just heading out for Bakersfield.” I heard Sol say before he lowered his voice and stepped closer to the big cop.
CHAPTER 17
Sol and I huddled outside by the limo for a few moments while Burt, the chief of police and his men pulled out. Sol told me he’d assured the chief that we were heading directly out of town and would leave posthaste without beating up on anyone else. He said it seemed easier to agree to that stipulation than to post bail and go through the rigmarole.
But we were intrigued with Ben Moran. He was obviously the kingfish in town. We speculated why he wanted us out of Barstow so badly. And how he seemed to lighten up when Sol mentioned Bakersfield.
“Bakersfield, Sol?” I asked.
“Yep, a lovely town. Don’t you think, Jimmy?”
“Sure, lovely.” I answered.
Bakersfield was an oil boom town in the 1920s, but its glory had faded when the price of oil started a steady decline in the late ’50s, and now was a struggling working class community about a hundred miles north of Los Angeles. I had nothing against Bakersfield, and in light of the Yom Kippur War, oil prices might raise yet again. But I doubted that Sol was serious when he said that the drug center could be located there.
“Bakersfield’s fine, I guess; that is, if you like the sight of rickety oil derricks on every empty lot,” Sol said, leaning against the car.
“Moran’s not that dumb, Sol. He knows we aren’t going to Bakersfield. Why didn’t he have his cop buddy, the chief, hook us up? I mean, we did mess up his joint.”
“He doesn’t want to create waves, just wants us out of town. I just said that stuff about Bakersfield to help him save face. But you’re right, Jimmy, I can feel it. Something’s going on out here, and Moran is smack-dab in the middle of it.”
“I think he’s afraid that we’ll discover something about the girl that would prove to be unsavory for him in light of his religious fervor, or at least his image of it,” I said.
“Could be, but I think he figures we’ll take off and not come back. Because if we do, he’ll have the police pick us up and hold us. What kind of snooping can we do from a jail cell?”