The Eye of the Moon (46 page)

Sanchez was pretty fucked off, even by his own usual fucked-off standards. It had been a crap day all round, what with the reappearance of the Bourbon Kid and the trip across town to the library. But now, having been all round the Tapioca and cleaned the place up, washed the blood off the walls and sent Sally home for the evening, four goddam customers had walked in.

The tubby bartender wasn’t in the mood for serving anyone, but he also hadn’t wanted Sally hanging around, in case any cops showed up. There was no need for her to be giving any statements to them and landing him in trouble. Of course, not one cop had shown up to take so much as a statement or fingerprint anyway. What was pissing him off most of all, though, was the fact that he wanted some peace and quiet so that he could take a look through
The Book of Death.
In particular, he wanted to run his eye over the names entered under tomorrow’s date.

So now here he was with the bar area clean(ish) again and four customers seated on stools at the bar. Nasty tough-looking bastards they were, too. Not the normal-looking tough guys you got round these parts. These guys were military men, Sanchez could tell that from the minute they walked in. They had that swagger about them, and a manner that would have intimidated most other customers, if there had been any. Their presence was enough to ensure that Sanchez kept
The Book of Death
hidden away under the bar.

Upon entering they had immediately acted oddly. One man went straight ahead to the bar while the other three hung
back a while, scoping out the corners of the barroom, very obviously checking for any potential danger lurking in the shadows.

In fact, Sanchez recognized one of them as a former resident of Santa Mondega, though he had left the city as a much younger man. His name was Bull, and he was the leader of this crew. This crew, had Sanchez known it, was Shadow Company, a team of highly decorated soldiers specializing in clandestine operations behind enemy lines. During their well-earned time off, however, they were available for hire on any muscle or rescue job, as long as the price was right. All four of them were fiercely loyal to each other, and it was this loyalty that was the principal reason why they were in Santa Mondega. They had a special job to do.

An unpaid job.

A revenge mission. One that Bull had waited many years for.

And tonight was the night.

The four of them were dressed in matching combat jackets, black pants, brown belts, tight black T-shirts, sunglasses with very dark lenses and black army assault boots. None seemed to have any headgear. What distinguished them from each other was a differing array of styles above the neck. Bull’s jet-black hair was worn in a military-style flattop. He sat at the end of the bar chewing on a thick Cuban cigar.

To his right was the distinctly eccentric Silvinho. His head was mostly shaved down to the skin, save for a four-inch-high bright pink mohawk running fore-and-aft down the middle. He also had a distinctive teardrop tattoo below his left eye, and a thin gold ring through his right nostril.

The man next to him was Razor, whose close buzz-cut was upstaged by a diagonal scar across his face from just above the right eye, through his nose and down to the left corner of his mouth. The damage had been inflicted upon him many years earlier in a fight to the death with a terrorist wielding a samurai sword.

The last man, sitting furthest from Bull but closest to
where Sanchez was standing behind the bar, was Tex. At six-foot-seven and broadly built to match, he was a giant with greasy, shoulder-length black hair and a goatee that hung down a few inches below his chin. Yet even though Tex was the biggest of the four, there wasn’t much to choose between them. Silvinho was the shortest at a mere six-foot-two, although once his mohawk was taken into consideration he was more like six-foot-six.

Each of the four soldiers had a glass of beer in front of him. When Bull took a sip, the other three would follow suit. He was clearly the pace man, and no one else’s glass was ever less full than his. He would be the first to finish his drink, and the others would then do the same. Each was now working his way through his second cigar of the day. Again, when Bull lit up, the others did so as well.

To Sanchez’s annoyance, it had been over half an hour since any of them had spoken. Bull had ordered the drinks and then the four of them had sat there in silence, staring straight ahead. Normally this would have given Sanchez the shits, but since the earlier events of the day when he had survived his third Bourbon Kid massacre, he was past soiling himself in public.

With the vile weather and it being Halloween, no one was walking the streets outside or poking their head round the doors to see if the Tapioca was open for business. That is, until an unaccompanied woman walked in. She had the walk and figure of a woman in her early twenties, but the tired look on her face suggested she might be a good few years older. Her long brown hair seemed to be dry, although the rest of her was drenched right through to the skin. A dark blue skirt covered her legs down to the ankles, but had done little to keep them dry. Sanchez noted that her similarly coloured dark-blue sweatshirt had a hood at the back, which she had obviously worn up over her head to keep her hair dry but had been smart enough to lower before she walked in.

Although Sanchez didn’t particularly like this woman, who had a colourful past and a facial disfigurement which
made it hard to talk to her without staring at it, he decided to make her welcome (insofar as he was capable of making anyone feel welcome), simply because he was becoming irritated by the lack of conversation.

‘What’ll it be?’ he asked.

‘Orange juice, please, Sanchez,’ she replied.

‘Sorry. Fresh out.’

‘Pineapple juice then, please.’

‘Fresh out o’ that too.’

‘Oh. Okay, what soft drinks do you have?’

‘Fresh out.’

‘Water?’

‘Sure. It’s kinda a yellow colour, though.’

‘In that case I’ll pass, thanks.’ She pulled up a stool next to Tex. ‘Mind if I just sit here till the rain eases up?’

The four soldiers paid her no attention, but Sanchez smiled. ‘Sure, as long as you abide by the smoking ban.’

‘It’s okay.’ She smiled back politely. ‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Then you’re outta here. The Tapioca is for smokers only. Non-smokers are banned.’

The woman looked across at the four men sitting on stools to her left. Each of them was staring straight ahead and puffing on a thick brown cigar.

‘You serious?’ she asked.

‘’Fraid so,’ said Sanchez.

‘Really?’

‘Really. You’re gonna have to start smoking or leave.’

Tex turned to the woman and blew a lungful of smoke in her face. He then looked her up and down before staring her in the eye and saying in a slow Southern drawl, ‘Take the hint, lady.’

The woman got down from her stool and pulled her hood up over her head. She threw a disappointed look at Sanchez and then made her way back out into the rain.

Sanchez saw an opportunity to lighten the mood with his four customers. ‘Strange broad, that one,’ he said, hoping for some reaction from one of them. They all ignored him, but he
carried on regardless. ‘“Mental Beth”, they call her.’

At the far end of the bar Bull glanced over and fixed the bartender with a glare. It was meant to suggest that Sanchez button it, but the thick-skinned server of dubious drinks misinterpreted it as a sign of interest and continued his tale. ‘She went mental as a teenager because her mother wouldn’t let her see some boy. Killed her mother in cold blood one Halloween. Slit her throat from ear to ear.’

Silvinho, the spiky-pink-haired dude sitting next to Bull, looked over at Sanchez as if the story had piqued his interest.

‘Where to where?’ he asked.

‘Ear to ear,’ Sanchez replied, using his finger to draw an imaginary cut around his throat from one ear to the other.

‘Where to where?’

‘Ear to … oh, cut it out!’

Sanchez saw the pink mohawk quivering slightly and realized the man was making fun of him and inwardly sniggering at him. As it happened, however, the mood lightened a little. From having seemed to be in a virtually trance-like state the four men were all now smirking and exchanging knowing looks.

‘Finish your fuckin’ story, barman,’ Bull called out from the end of the bar. The story involved bloodshed so the four of them couldn’t help but be somewhat interested.

‘Well, she killed her mother by slittin’ her throat from ear to ear.’

‘Where to where?’ all four men chimed.

‘
Ha-fuckin
‘
-ha.
Well, anyway, her mother wouldn’t let her meet this boy at the end of the pier that night. So she goes mental ’cos she’s promised the boy she’ll be there at a certain time, and in her rage she kills her mother. Then the dumb bitch rushes back to the pier and it turns out the boy wasn’t even there. He never fuckin’ showed up. She then got arrested and spent ten years in prison for murder. Ever since she got released she comes down here every Halloween and stands at the end of the pier until the end of the witchin’ hour, hopin’ that this boy will come back. That’s why everyone calls her
“Mental Beth”. Reckon the kid probably figured out she was crazy and got the hell out. Still, she ain’t bad-lookin’ though.’

‘I’d do her,’ Tex announced.

‘That scar’s kinda off-putting though, ain’t it?’ Razor remarked. The other three members of Shadow Company paused a moment and then nodded in agreement.

‘I remember that story from the papers,’ said Bull, as if talking to himself. ‘Eighteen years ago today. Same night as my father was murdered.’

Sanchez felt the mood turn again.
Shit!
What could he do to prevent that horrible, awkward silence from returning? A witty comment was required. ‘Cut her mother’s throat from ear to ear,’ he joked, drawing the imaginary cut again.

Bad timing. All four men shook their heads to show their distaste at his joke. Then, as if programmed, they all returned to staring soullessly ahead like statues once more.

The awkward silence did not last for long this time. After less than a minute Bull’s cell phone rang, the sudden sound making Sanchez visibly jump. None of the men paid him any attention, however, and Bull quickly pulled his phone from the pocket of his pants and answered it within two rings.

‘Yeah this is Bull … Got it … Thanks.’ He disconnected the phone and slid it back into his pocket, then he got up from his stool.

‘It’s time, fellas. We’ve got him.’

Dante, Peto and the Bourbon Kid made their way out of the police station without having to kill anyone else,
which was nice,
Dante thought. Word had obviously spread around town that the Kid was back and killing for fun and, as it happened, for personal reasons as well, for a change. Santa Mondega’s most wanted was now wearing his dark robe again. The hood rested down around his shoulders, leaving his bloodied face and hair on show for once. Dante and Peto looked little better dressed in their shit-stained and bloodied police uniforms.

The black V8 Interceptor was parked where the Kid had left it, fifty yards from the station. The darkened streets were now deserted, partly because no one wanted to be out while there was a chance of being shot and killed for no reason, and partly because the rain was getting a lot harder. Several hanging baskets outside a flower shop on the other side of the street from the police station were swaying violently in the wind. Many of the plants and much of the soil that had filled the baskets were disappearing down the street along with the usual litter of old newspapers and food wrappers, all being blown along the wet roadway and sidewalks towards the centre of town. From time to time the moon, full and blue, appeared from among the rain clouds racing through the sky. Even when it did, the rain continued, as hard as ever.