The Book With No Name (44 page)

‘Fuck the Karate Kid and fuck the Cobra Kai,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t give a shit about that. I wanna know what the fuck they want with the Eye of the Moon.’

‘Look at them carefully, El Santino,’ said Jefe, coolly. ‘If my instincts are correct, these guys are Hubal monks.’

Sanchez would normally have been keeping a very close eye on El Santino’s table. Considering that sitting around that very table were some of the most vicious people in town (and possibly, of course, the murderer of his brother Thomas), he should have been glued to the unfolding events, but as it was, his eyes were focused elsewhere. The reason for this was that he had spotted a man hanging around outside. The double doors at the front of the Tapioca were wide open and this guy was loitering on the sidewalk out front. The thing that caught Sanchez’s eye about him was that he was dressed in a red suit with yellow stripes down the sides of the trousers and the jacket sleeves. He also had a thick black thatch of hair styled in a nineteen-fifties way. To top this off, he was wearing a large pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses.

For a second, Sanchez could have sworn that his old friend Elvis had come back from the dead. That was a ludicrous idea, surely? He couldn’t understand why he had even considered it, and after studying the man for a good thirty seconds he dismissed it out of hand. There were probably a hundred Elvis impersonators in town today, and it would be a waste of time to study them all to see if they looked like someone who had died just a few days earlier. And besides, there was a rather hot-looking woman, dressed in a black PVC outfit and wearing a mask, making her way into the bar. Could it be Catwoman?

As the woman entered the Tapioca, Sanchez’s attentions were drawn back to El Santino’s table. One of the two monks was demanding their blue stone back, but they were now
faced with El Santino in his Kiss get-up, two Lone Rangers in Carlito and Miguel, and Jefe in his Freddy Krueger costume. Each of these unsavoury characters was pointing a gun at the two monks. This was a bad sign. All of these people could kick ass.

Sanchez had seen the monks fight and overcome opponents far bigger and better armed than themselves, but he had also seen El Santino and his henchmen kill on numerous occasions and knew that they were not to be messed with, not even by the two Hubal monks. He also knew of Jefe’s killing prowess simply by reputation. The only person at the table he knew nothing about was the young guy in the Terminator outfit. And he was the one Sanchez was now taking the most notice of. When suddenly the monks had drawn the attention of his captors, the Terminator seemed to have seen this as the beginnings of an opportunity to escape. So while none of the others were looking at him, he slowly and carefully made an attempt to get to his feet, gently edging his chair back from the table at the same time. He was doing it very discreetly and it looked promising for a moment, unfortunately for him, the chair blew his cover by making a loud scraping noise as he slid it back. The two masked rangers, Carlito and Miguel reacted immediately, swinging their guns round to point them at his head.

‘Siddown,’ snarled Miguel.

Dante did as he was told and sat back down, though Sanchez noticed he did not pull his chair back in towards the table. The realization had dawned on Dante that he wasn’t going to make it out of here alive, and that suddenly made him angry. One thing he had always promised himself was that he wouldn’t go out like a pussy. If his life was on the line he wanted to go out with a bang not a whimper, and since he didn’t have a gun, he was just going to have to shoot his mouth off and piss off a few people before he bought the farm. Kacy would usually be around to rein in this aggressive, confrontational side of his character, but she was nowhere to be seen. She would be back at the motel, waiting anxiously
for him to return. Well, he wasn’t going to have her hear from anyone that he died like a coward. If by chance she found out how he died, he wanted to be sure that she knew he went out like a man – like the man she fell in love with. And that man was a fearless moron. Time to prove it one last time.

‘You know what? All you guys are pussies,’ he said, addressing the whole table. ‘You stand here wavin’ your guns around like you’re in some kind of pissin’ contest, but none of you, not a single one, has got the guts to fire a shot. Now that the monks are here you’re all shittin’ it because you know if you fire just one shot it’s all gonna kick off. You’re all bluffing. So if no one is gonna fire a shot, I’m gonna get up and walk the fuck out of here. Then I’m gonna get me a gun and come back and blow all you fuckers away.’

El Santino had had enough. He pointed his gun at Dante’s head. Although his face was plastered in make-up, that couldn’t disguise the rage written all over it at having some punk accuse him and his men of being pussies.

‘Listen, boy,’ he snarled. ‘I ain’t even sure yet why you’re here. I’m already thinking of blowin’ your head off right now. You wanna live a little longer, you’d better convince me that you serve a purpose in this whole conversation, ’cos right now you’re looking like a spare part. Now, I’m gonna count to three, and if you haven’t convinced me that you’re worth keepin’ alive, I’m gonna pump two in your face. Then I’m gonna get carnival on you.’ He stepped forward, thrusting the muzzle of his gun towards Dante’s face, leaning over the table as he did so. ‘ONE … TWO …’

Dante began to laugh, raising his left hand to gesture El Santino to stop counting. Around the barroom, everyone else looked on nervously, all fearing the sound of the first gunshot.

‘I’ve just worked you out,’ said Dante, pointing at El Santino and smiling. ‘You know, you’re the odd one out here, fella. See them monks with their karate outfits on? That’s befitting, they look cool and they can kick ass. Your two buddies in the cowboy outfits, they look the part, too. They
look like a couple of bandits, probably ass bandits, but bandits even so. Your other friend here with his Freddy Krueger outfit, he looks like a scary mother, and bless him, he probably is. That’s why he’s wearin’ the mask, ’cos it hides how fuckin’ ugly he is. But you, your outfit doesn’t belong. You’re here countin’ up to three, but you’re dressed as a rock star. Well, let me tell
you
somethin’.
That’s
not very rock ’n’ roll. Countin’ to three and lookin’ like you do, I think you look more like that guy from Sesame Street. You know the one,
The Count?
Only difference being that he can count to more than three, and kids are scared of him. In short, what I’m sayin’, Mr Bigshot, is that you – well, you’re nothin’ more than a fuckin’ muppet.’

‘WHAT?’ El Santino was outraged. No one had spoken to him like this in years. In fact it was likely no one had ever dared to speak to him in such a way. To shoot Dante in the face was now no longer quite enough for him. He had to come back with an insult of his own first. He stood pondering for just a few seconds, then responded in a low, venomous voice, dripping with sarcasm. ‘You know what, son? Your outfit suits you perfectly, ’cos if I’m not mistaken, the Terminator always believed he was indestructible, but you know what, every Terminator film I’ve ever seen has ended with him getting killed. Let me now
show
you what that’s like.
Hasta la vista, asshole.
’

If Dante had ever had a chance of escaping, it had now gone.

Sanchez, who was still watching from behind the bar, was preparing to duck down to get out of the way of the blood and brains, not to mention bullets, that were about to be sprayed everywhere, when he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye.

From out of the shadows behind the table another figure stepped forward to join the fun. It was dressed in an all-in-one white romper suit with large black buttons down the front. The face had been painted white, the eyes rimmed with heavy black eyeliner. A large black tear had been painted below
the left eye. The costume was topped off by a pair of pointy black slippers and a half-black-half-white conical hat. It was a clown. Not a circus clown, but one of the sad miming clowns often found performing on street corners in Europe. Then this apparition dropped a couple of sawn-off shotguns down from its long sleeves, caught one in each hand and pointed them both at El Santino’s head.

‘Stop pointing that fucking gun at my boyfriend or I’ll blow your fucking head off!’ the clown ordered in a high-pitched girly voice. Good old Kacy. Although Sanchez had no idea who was in the clown’s outfit, Dante recognized her voice straight away.

A Mexican standoff had now developed around El Santino’s table, and Sanchez wasn’t happy about it. Not happy at all. He had seen these situations before, and there was always a bloodbath. It wouldn’t be wise to take his eyes off the action in case someone accidentally waved a gun in his direction.

‘I’ll have a Bloody Mary, please, bartender,’ Sanchez heard a woman’s voice say from close by. He was on autopilot and managed to find a tall narrow glass from under the bar, pour the woman a Bloody Mary using the ingredients from three different bottles, and throw in a few ice cubes and a slice of lemon, all without actually watching what he was doing. He never took his eyes off El Santino’s table.

‘I love your outfit, Sanchez,’ said the woman, in the hopes of getting a little of his attention. He continued to stare across at the table.

‘Thanks.’ It was then that it dawned on him that he recognized the voice. He took his eyes off the standoff for a moment. Standing in front of him at the bar was Jessica. She was the one dressed as Catwoman, and boy, did she look
hot!

‘Jessica, you look amazin’, but… er … your boyfriend Jefe, in the Freddy Krueger outfit over there? He’s kinda in trouble.’

Jessica checked out the standoff at the table. The whole
bar had fallen silent by now. There were about forty other customers in the Tapioca and they were all frozen in place, watching the events unfold at the table, not daring to make a sudden movement, yet all ready to dive for cover or run for the exits should they hear just one shot.

‘Oh shit,’ said Jessica out loud.

Jefe, recognizing her voice, glanced over at the bar. As soon as he did so he knew it was a mistake. He was a professional, and he should have known better than to take his eyes off the situation unfolding at El Santino’s table. The person to take advantage of Jefe’s slip was Kyle. His lifelong dedication to training in martial arts meant that his reactions were unbelievably quick and he saw this as his chance. In an instant he lashed out with his left hand and whipped Jefe’s pistol from his hand. It slid out of the bounty hunter’s grasp as if it were a wet bar of soap, such was Kyle’s deft sleight of hand. As soon as he had relieved Jefe of his weapon he turned it on him. The monks, too, now had a gun.

‘Hand over the Eye of the Moon and let us be gone,’ Kyle ordered.

From his reasonably secure vantage point behind the bar, Sanchez was now unsure who had the upper hand. Carlito and Miguel were pointing pistols at a depressed clown. The clown was pointing a pair of sawn-off shotguns at El Santino, who in turn was pointing a gun at Dante, and Kyle was pointing a gun at Jefe. Sanchez had seen some pretty weird shit in his time, but this beat the lot. It was only getting worse too. Jessica in her Catwoman outfit was gently creeping over there, no doubt to try to save Freddy Krueger, or Jefe, whichever way you wanted to look at it.

The uneasy tension that had increased tenfold when Kyle disarmed Jefe was finally broken by El Santino. His trigger finger was getting itchy, and his patience was short.

‘Jefe. Give me the stone,’ he ordered. ‘The eclipse is starting. Throw me the stone now, and I swear I’ll give you a hundred grand for it this afternoon.’

‘Don’t you move,’ Kyle said calmly, pointing his gun right
at Jefe’s forehead. ‘You give that stone to me and then I’ll let you live. Give it to him and you die now.
Let me repeat that.
You give it to him … and you die now.’

‘Bullshit. You drop your gun or you die first,’ said a voice from behind Kyle. It was Jessica, and she was pointing a pistol of her own at him. Right at the back of his head, in fact. The barrel was less than six inches away from his skull.

Sanchez knew that things had now gone too far. A shot from one of the parties concerned was imminent. He began picking up empty glasses from the bar and placing them down on the shelf beneath the counter without ever taking his eyes off the standoff. The less glass around when the bullets started flying the better. But who would shoot first? In Sanchez’s mind it would be El Santino. He was the one who wanted this blue stone so desperately, and he was the most fearless of them all. He was afraid of nothing. Bullets bounced off this guy. Rumour had it that he had been the target of countless assassination attempts in the past and had been shot on more than one occasion, but the guy, this giant of a man, just wouldn’t die. He was as tough as nails. Of course, the same could be said of Jefe. He had been involved in more gunfights than John Wayne, if what people said was true. And what was to stop Carlito or Miguel firing the first shot on behalf of their boss? Truth was, anyone at that table was capable of shooting first, apart from Jefe, the Terminator guy and Peto, the only ones who weren’t armed. Peto seemed unfazed by the situation, but the Terminator looked about ready to dive for cover.