“That depends on you. If you leave right now, we won’t have a problem. That is, if you leave and don’t come back to D.C.”
“Just like that.”
“Right.”
“And if I come back?”
“Then this is gonna go on.”
“Why don’t we just settle it right now, then?” said King.
“We probably should.”
“You’re not the type to murder me in cold blood.”
“No.”
“You want to try me. Don’t you?”
“I’d say the same thing right now if I was you.”
“You are me, fella. You’re as close to me as I’ve come across in a long while.” King smiled and pointed his chin at Lucas’s gun. “Now why don’t you throw that gun away and let’s get started.”
Lucas tossed the .38 onto the bed in Serge’s room. He stepped out of the doorway and into the hall.
King barked a laugh. “God, you’re stupid. You just made the last mistake of your life.”
“Come on.”
“I’m gonna break your fuckin neck.”
Like rams, they charged. Lucas bounced off King as if he’d hit concrete.
“How’d that feel?” said King.
Lucas came in again, tried to wrap up King’s arms, but King windmilled and broke free. King moved forward, backed up Lucas, and got him in a hug. He picked him up off his feet and threw him into a wall. The plaster cracked and Lucas felt a sting. As he turned his head he came into a punch that split his ear. Lucas righted himself, got square, and covered up, his elbows tucked into his chest. King, close in, threw a roundhouse and got nothing, then went high and hit Lucas square in the jaw, and Lucas saw white explode in his head. He felt a tooth loosen; his mouth filled with blood. King faked a right, and when Lucas brought up his arms to cover, King threw a left into his ribs and a right that stood Lucas up.
King dipped and went low for Lucas’s legs. Lucas threw his legs back and pancaked against the shot, but King was too strong, and he drove Lucas back to the wall and put him up against it. Lucas smelled sour breath as King squeezed him in a crushing hug. He fought for air, and in a panic he drove his forehead into King’s face. Lucas did it again, this time with fury, and he felt the cartilage give way on King’s nose; King released him and put a hand to his face. A great deal of blood leaked through his fingers.
“Okay,” said King. He dropped his hand.
They circled each other in the center of the hall.
King was in a stagger stance, his right leg farther forward than the left. Lucas circled to the trail leg. King came forward and grabbed Lucas by the shoulders, and Lucas cross-faced, pushing on King’s cheek with his right biceps. King grunted in frustration and broke free, and as he did his hand raked Lucas’s face.
King came in strong, faked a shot, and charged bull-like, his massive legs propelling him forward in a steamroller rush. He danced Lucas back toward the stairwell. At its opening Lucas dragged King’s right arm at the same time he dropped and held on, pulling King with momentum, and they both tumbled down the stairs.
For a few seconds, maybe longer, Lucas blacked out. He was lying at the foot of the stairs. He came to and got to his feet. The room spun. He shook the spin from his head. His left shoulder felt wrong. Blood covered his T-shirt. He swallowed blood and coughed.
King was standing, cradling his right hand. It was bent unnaturally at the wrist. Bone pushed out against bluing skin. He willed the pain from his face when he saw Lucas staring. He stood straight and smiled. His teeth were pink. His nose was a stew of smashed bone and blood.
Lucas walked toward King. He knew that King had only his left hand. But the left came fast, and he couldn’t stop it. Lucas’s head snapped back. The tooth that had loosened was now free, and Lucas spit it out onto the hardwood floor. King wheezed in laughter.
Lucas came back in, threw a wild right that missed and carried him too far, and King hit him with his left fist, once, and again, a granite head blow and a glancing punch to the split ear. Lucas staggered and righted himself, and got back into a straight stance, his weight on his back foot. He balled his fists and touched the thumb of each hand to his nose, his eyes dead on King. Lucas was finding his hands.
King jabbed with his left, and Lucas stepped away from it. He moved in quickly, grabbed King’s left triceps in a monkey grip, and with his free hand got hold of King’s broken wrist and twisted it. King screamed. Lucas dropped to one knee, shot one arm behind King’s leg, and hooked him there. In one motion he put his good shoulder into King’s torso and exploded up, and with rage and adrenaline he lifted King and tripped him. They both tumbled back to the floor, with Lucas on top. He punched through King’s nose, aiming for the back of his head. He punched him again and again until his hand was slick with blood.
Lucas rolled off of him and stood. He looked down at King, lying still on his back. His face was unrecognizable, his breathing ragged and labored.
Lucas turned and went up the stairs, gripping the handrail for support. He found his .38 on Serge’s bed, hefted it, and held it by his side. He rested for a moment, then walked back down to the ground floor.
Billy King was standing in the center of the room, a .45 in his right hand, an aluminum baseball bat held loosely in his left. One of the cushions of the couch had been pushed aside.
Lucas raised the S&W and pointed it at King.
“Fucker,” said King, a hint of regard in his voice.
“It’s over.”
King winced and let go of the bat. It dropped and rolled across the floor.
“Almost,” said King.
“Drop the gun, Billy.”
“I can’t do that, fella,” said King, and his gun hand went up.
Lucas squeezed the trigger of the .38. The slug entered King’s chest. He stumbled and fell. Lucas walked forward and fired, the cylinder of the revolver advancing with each shot. When the hammer clicked on an empty chamber, Lucas lowered his gun.
King sat with his back against the couch, blood flowing down his shredded polo shirt and into the lap of his shorts. He stared at Lucas as he took short, desperate breaths and the light leaked from his eyes. King stopped breathing. Lucas kicked him viciously between his legs and there was no reaction at all.
Lucas picked up King’s Colt, turned it on its side, and racked the slide several times. There had been no chambered round. With only one good hand, King hadn’t managed to ready the gun.
Lucas holstered the Colt in the small of his back and dropped his .38 in the pocket of his Dickies. He searched the living room floor and found his tooth, and pocketed that as well. There was nothing else he could fix or do. From the kitchen’s refrigerator he liberated a plastic bottle of water, drank half of it down, refilled it with tap water, and walked from the house.
He entered the woods, short of breath and in pain, and slowly navigated his way back to his Jeep. An hour later, he found his vehicle, parked in the lot of the shuttered gas station, a half mile away.
Twenty-Seven
Lucas stood before the bathroom mirror of his apartment. One ear was torn and bloody, and several knuckles were raw and skinned. His face had sustained scratches from the close-in fight. His jaw was swollen and bruised. It was difficult to fully bite down. When he raised his arms to remove his T-shirt, his left shoulder pained him greatly, telling him that his rotator cuff had been strained or torn in the fall down the stairs. It hurt to take deep breaths. When he smiled he could see the space where his incisor had been. He looked like a hillbilly meth dealer who’d taken a beat-down at the hands of police.
Lucas took a long shower. After he’d dried off, he phoned Marquis Rollins.