He giggled. I strained against my bonds.
“A wild time,” he said. “We’re sending someone to do her who really enjoys that kind of thing. Knows how to bring out the best in a woman. Try to get that image out of your mind. The look on her face when it actually happens and she realizes what’s going on. The sounds she’ll make.
Wink wink wink from the couch.
I said, “Bring out the best in a woman, huh? Then it sure wouldn’t be a job for you. When’s the last time Randy saw anything stiffer than her own upper lip?”
The Kewpie doll turned malignant. He began coming at me, arms up, boxer-style.
Aldward said, “Not now,” in a jaded tone.
Latch didn’t seem to hear, kept coming.
Wink.
I backed away, danced on fear-laden legs. My turn to leer. “Sure, Gordie. Nothing like a fair fight. But who’s going to protect you when D.F. finally realizes that without Randy’s big bucks you’re not very useful? Just a wimpy little piece of limp-dicked shit. Second cadre all the way?”
Latch said, “Give me the knife, D.F. I’ve had enough.”
Ahlward raised the blade, holding it out of reach. “Don’t be an idiot. It has to be done the right way.”
Latch backed off.
I said, “Roll over, Gordon. Say bow-wow, Gordon.”
Stuck out my tongue and dog-panted.
Latch charged me, swinging.
I moved to meet him, faked a shoulder butt, faded back suddenly just short of impact and caught him off guard. Again. He grunted in anger, regained his balance, and charged again.
Ahlward put the gun down, reached out, and restrained him with one hand. The other held on to the knife.
Gun on the desk. But no free hands.
I kept talking, bouncing on my feet. “Play dead, Gordon. Eat your kibble, Gordon. Don’t wet the rug, Gordon.”
Ahlward screamed at me: “You shut the fuck up!”
Latch shook off Ahlward’s hand and lunged again.
At the same time a pale bulk rose from the couch, a polar bear coming out of hibernation. Taking hold of Latch’s shoulders, shoving him forward.
Latch fell heavily. Toward Ahlward. On Ahlward. His weight causing the red-haired man to stumble backwards, onto the desk, a look of surprise on the blunt features.
Latch was on top of him, thrashing wildly. Ahlward tried to shove him off, cursing and twisting to get free. Trying to get to the gun.
Latch remained sprawled on top of him.
Screaming.
The two of them wrestling.
Then Ahlward’s face was speckled with blood.
Showered with it.
Latch screamed. A terrible sound; more than just frustration.
Blood kept spurting, Ahlward thrashing away from it, spitting it.
Something shiny and sharp emerged from the soft freckled flesh on the back of Latch’s neck. Worked its way through like a burrowing grub.
Silver, sharp-nosed grub. The knife point, ruby and silver.
Latch gurgled and tore at his throat.
The knife kept nosing its way out.
Ahlward gave a hard, two-handed shove. Latch came loose. Inertia threw Ahlward backwards, off the desk top, onto the swivel chair, stricken by astonishment.
Milo moved unsteadily toward the gun. Reached out for it, touched the butt, missed. The weapon skidded across the wooden surface and sailed away, landing somewhere on the floor.
Ahlward dove for it.
I felt a hand on my wrist, yanking. Freeing my hands. “C’mon!”
Milo limped toward the door. I followed him, dazed. Watching Latch sink to the floor, the knife still embedded in his neck. Hands grabbing the handle, gurgling, trying to yank it free.
Salivating blood.
His eyes rolled back…
“C’mongoddammitalex!”
Yanking me.
The two of us out the black door, slamming it.
Into the hall. Four black-shirts, smiling, as if savoring the tail end of a joke. They saw us and the smiles hung in mid-air.
Milo howled at them and kept coming. The smiles vanished and they looked terrified. Naughty kids, unprepared for reality. One, a dark-haired fat boy with an old man’s jowls, wore a bolstered pistol and reached for it. I used my shoulder and hit him hard. Ran past the sound of pain-screams and cracking bone.
Running through a cardboard alley.
Warning shouts. The crackle of gunfire.
We took the first turn available, meeting up with two more Gestaposcouts- girls. They could have been sorority sisters discussing pledge night. One put a hand to her mouth. We hurtled past, bowled them over, heard girl-squeals.
Fuck chivalry.
More gunshots.
Louder.
I looked back as I ran, saw Ahlward, pumping his legs, screaming orders that no one was heeding. Calling for his troops, but the troops were frozen, unprepared for reality.
A cold rush of wind as something tore into a carton inches from my head.
Another turnoff, just a few yards away. We ran for it. Above all the noise I could hear Milo gasping, saw him put a hand to his chest.
More gunshots.
Then a louder sound.
Earthquake loud, rumbling up from the cement floor. Rattling the floor as if it were paper.
Cartons tumbled in our path like giant, tantrum-stricken building blocks. Someone screamed.
More screams. Panic. The way the schoolyard must have sounded.
Another rumble. Even stronger, bouncing us like toys, knocking us to the floor.
More boxes toppled. Cartons shot up in the air, tossed by an unseen juggler, and landed with dull, sickening thumps.
Milo tripped, was down. I helped him to his feet. He looked deathly, but resumed running.
No sign of Ahlward, a jumble of cardboard behind us, shielding us.
We made the turn. Black-shirts scattering. The auto-shop smell of seared metal…
Another roar.
The hiss of disintegrating plaster.
We climbed over boxes, ran around them. Milo stopped, hand on chest, legs bowed, head down.
I called his name.
He said, “… fine…” He swallowed air, did it again, nodded dully, and began moving again.
Another explosion. The building shivered like a wet puppy. More cartons crashed down around us, a Vesuvius of PRINTED MATERIALS.
We swerved, dodged, managed to make our way through the rubble. Another turn. Past the forklift…
Metal clatter, more hiss. More thunder. Screams of agony.
The hiss grew louder. Joined by an unmistakable odor.
Burning paper. A sudden, burgeoning heat.
Demolition music. Tongues of orange licking the ground just a few feet away.
Filthy, inky smoke oozed from between the boxes, rising to the top of the warehouse, darkening it.
The heat intensified. Through it another cold rush.
Thunk. Shredded cardboard.
Ahlward emerging from the smoke, howling soundlessly, ignoring the smoke that churned behind him, mindless with hate.
He aimed again.
There was a clearing in the cardboard wall. I ran toward it, realized Milo wasn’t with me. Looking over my shoulder, I saw him. Hand to chest.
A wall of smoke had risen between him and Ahlward. Shots came through it.
Milo looking from side to side, disoriented. I went back for him, grabbed his hand. Felt the resistance of his weight on my wrist, straining the sinews…
I pulled hard. He managed to get going again. I saw the sliding metal door of the loading dock just a few yards up. Shredded like foil and blackened around the edges.
Metal fragments scattered on the ground. Glinty treasure on a bed of masonry dust.
And something else.
A black-shirt. Prone. Blond crew cut. Pale, broad face. White eyes. Husky body stretched out, limp.
Two pieces of body. The trunk separated from the legs. Bifurcated by sliding-door shrapnel.
Closer to the door, another corpse, half buried in metal and offal. A charred head above hamburger. Four others, barely discernible, moist spots in the ash pile.
My gorge rose. I began to choke.