The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels) (15 page)

I could feel Robby getting jazzed up. His adrenalin was starting to kick in. So, before he got into it with the bartender, I said, “Budweiser.”

“Bottle or can?” the bartender asked.

“Can’s fine.”

“Yeah, I like mine in the can too,” said the walking toothpick.

While he was getting the beers, Robby said, “That’s him. Over there playing pool.”

I looked over to the pool table where there were two guys playing. One looked about 40 and my size and build, the other guy was around thirty and about the size of . . . King Kong, or maybe Godzilla.

Oh shit
.

“He’s the guy about my size, right?”

“Wrong,” said little Robby Gray

Shit…shit….shit.

When the bartender brought our beers, I said, “He’s paying for it,” pointing to Robby.

While Robby was pulling out his money, I surveyed the room. It was a typical southern bar. The décor was your typical beer signs on the walls, peanut shells on the floors, bar stools at the bar, and the clientele were your model . . . ex cons.

Shit…shit…shit
.

There were enough jail house tattoos to cover a billboard.

“Robby, this might not be the place to do this,” I whispered, trying to sound fearless.

“This is the perfect place to do this,” he said evenly, staring a hole in Godzilla’s back.

He picked up his beer and sucked it down in four long pulls. He softly set the empty can down on the bar, and the little man walked over to where the two biggest guys in the room were playing pool.

My back was to the bar, with my right elbow resting on it, my hand hanging just above my hip. There was no rush. There is plenty of time to do whatever needs doing. I didn’t hear the music from the jukebox, I couldn’t hear the chatter of barroom talk. I was as calm as a clear pond on a windless day. I wasn’t praying. I was waiting.

Robby walked over and put a dollar down on the side of the pool table.

“I’ll take the winner,” he said, to no one in particular.

Then almost everyone was looking at the table. Not a good sign.

The smallest of the two big ones looked down at Robby and said, “This is our table.”

“What the fuck you mean, your table? You own this place?” Robby said with a truckload of attitude.

He had positioned himself between the two. Godzilla was behind him. It didn’t look good to me. I started easing my t-shirt up with the fingertips of my right hand.

Godzilla laid his pool cue down on the table, then reached over and put his humongous hand on Robby’s right shoulder, grabbing him.

Shit
.

It was fast, very fast. Robby whirled, his face was about even with Godzilla’s chest. He threw an uppercut, getting the full force of his body into it. It landed right between Godzilla’s legs. He followed it up with three more in rapid succession, each blow landing in the exact same spot as the first and ending with Robby on his toes.

Godzilla’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Four or five guys stood up from their tables, and a small crowd looked to be forming.

No one moved toward them, yet. No one, including me, believed it was over.

Godzilla started to bend at the knees, slowly sinking. His face getting closer to Robby’s. Robby bent his knees a little and gave him two more sharp uppercuts to the balls.

Now Godzilla’s eyes were starting to bulge. When his chin was about even with the top of Robby’s head, Robby calmly brought his left hand up and put it under Godzilla’s chin, raised it and exposed what little neck was there. It was enough. Robby hit him in the Adam’s apple with one fast overhand right and followed it up with four short, hard punches.

Godzilla went down hard. The guy had to weigh 300 pounds and when he hit the floor, dust rose.

Now there was a crowd, and it was starting to close in on the pool table.

The other big guy was just starting to realize what was happening. He turned his pool cue around and choked up on it, like he had done it before. Through the dust and smoke he started moving towards Robby’s back.

There was a white chalk cone on the shelf under the pool cue rack. It looked like a new one, about ten inches high and still a good four inches in diameter at it’s base. It was between the guy with the pool cue and Robby.

I shot it from the hip. I didn’t remember pulling the gun. The .45 was very loud in the small confines of the bar, stopping all movement in the room. All but for Robby.

Through the white chalk dust cloud that was raining down over everybody within ten feet of the table, I saw Robby reach into his back pocket and pull out the kel-lite stick.

Over my right shoulder, I sensed the bartender making some kind of move. I quickly turned and having to reach only a little, slapped slim along-side his head with the barrel of the Colt.

He went down hard. When he fell, a sawed off shotgun dropped from his hands onto the floor.

Now everyone but Robby was looking at me. I motioned with the barrel of my gun for everyone to give Robby some room. I never really pointed it at any one individual. They somehow got the message.

The little big guy had dropped the pool cue and was now trying to blend in with the wall. It was hard to do. He was all white. His face looked like someone had thrown flour into it. Every time he blinked, he looked like a white owl, his eyes looking extra large through the chalk.

The back of Robby’s blue shirt was speckled with chalk, and Godzilla had taken a blast of white chalk in his face.

I reached over with my left hand and picked up my can of Bud for the first time. I was thirsty. Everyone was looking at me. The only sound was the music coming out of the jukebox, Johnny Cash singing about some boy named Sue. I could relate.

That was the only sound. That is, until the first time Robby hit Godzilla in the mouth.

It made me wince. Me and everyone else.

Robby had the kel-lite stick in his fist like a roll of quarters. There was about an inch or so sticking out of each side of his closed fist. He had rolled Godzilla over onto his back and was sitting on his chest. He looked so small.

He would hit him once with his fist, then again with the part sticking out. He alternated this technique for about ten grueling seconds. Every punch after the first was a sound like someone beating a big wet graveled sponge. Ten seconds is a long time.

The blood looked brighter than it normally would. Contrasted against the white chalk it was reminiscent of Christmas. Blood was starting to pool on the floor around Godzilla’s head.

Now, men were looking at me again. This time was like maybe I ought to do something, before Robby killed him.

I looked over behind the bar and saw Skinny was still napping. There was just a little blood around his head, or maybe it just looked like a little compared to what I had just been looking at.

I took another pull on the beer, then motioned with my gun again. Men started separating, making an aisle for me to walk through. It didn’t look big enough. I motioned again. Now it was.

As I started walking, a man to my right sitting at a table I was going to have to walk by, with a black teardrop tattooed under his eye, made a small move. I knew he had a gun and was getting in position to pull it after I walked by.

Just before I got to the table, I moved and was beside and just a little behind him before he could pull it. I had the .45 stuck behind his ear. I put out my left hand, snapped my fingers and opened my palm. He didn’t move, so I pushed the muzzle hard into his head, hard enough to bend him over. I repeated the hand gesture. He slowly took out a little .38 snub nose revolver and set in gently into my hand. Now I had two guns.

I walked over to where Robby was sitting on top of Godzilla. He had slowed down some. He was breathing rather hard now, and what had once been Godzilla’s face was now bloody hamburger.

He was still alive, because I could see bubbles coming out of the hamburger every time he exhaled.

I looked over at the little big guy and motioned him further away. He moved. Still holding the .38, I leaned over and very gently put my left arm around Robby, hooking him under his armpits. I straightened up and set him on the floor beside me.

He was pretty tired by now, even though it had only been about thirty seconds since the first blow.

It was a busy half minute.

He looked up at me, then down at the bloody pulp on the floor. He looked like the American Flag. Red, white and blue. Mostly red.

He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, took it off and using the inside, started wiping the blood from his face, hair and arms. His wiry, muscular body was shining with sweat. He was as defined as any body builder I’d ever seen.

I could smell it, the blood. So could everyone else in close proximity. The jukebox had run out of quarters. You could hear the bubbling breathing of Godzilla, and from somewhere behind the bloody meat, what sounded like kittens mewing.

I heard a movement behind the bar, and found myself crouched, holding both pistols, aiming them at the bar.

Skinny’s head became visible. After he focused on me, he slowly raised both his hands above his head and stood up.

I motioned with my gun for him to get out from behind the bar. He did. It was amazing how well these guys understood me.

Robby walked over to the little big guy and said, “When he recovers enough to understand what you say, you tell him I said, “When you kick a little guy in the balls, you better kill him. Also tell him if I see him in Shreveport again, I’ll kill him.”

“Who
are
you?” asked the little big guy.

“Just a little guy,” Robby said and walked out the door, holding a bloody, blue and white shirt in his right hand.

“Who are you?” he asked me.

I motioned for him to go over to a table and to sit down. He did. I then motioned for everyone standing to sit down. They did. Some sat on the floor if there weren’t enough chairs.

I backed out of the room toward the front door, raised my t-shirt and stuck the .45 in the front of my pants. I put my trigger finger to my lips and said, “Shush.” I emptied the cylinder of the .38 onto the floor. The bullets made a racket in the hushed room. I wiped my fingerprints off with the bottom of my shirt, dropped the pistol, turned around and went through the door.

When I walked into the parking lot, Robby had pulled his patrol car around and the passenger door was open. I got in and we drove off. The door to Pop’s didn’t open, and I looked until it was out of sight.

“I don’t think anyone saw your squad car,” I said.

“You’re really something, Tucker, yes sir, really something,” he said, grinning at me.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I said. “I sure hope I never piss you off.”

“Yeah, well, he had it coming. He’ll never look in the mirror for the rest of his life without thinking of me.”

“If he’s got the balls to look in a mirror,” I said. After we both realized what I’d said, we started laughing.

It was good to be alive.

Robby said, “You never said a word.”

“What?”

“You never said a word. After I walked over there, you never said a word. You covered my back and controlled that whole bar without saying one word. You shot the shit out of that chalk cone,” he said, laughing. “You are one cool fucker, Tucker,” he said. “That’s what I’ll start calling you, Cool Fucker Tucker.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. It didn’t have the ring of Cool Hand Luke.

“If you ever call me that, I’ll shoot you dead.”

His laughter escalated.

What he had done to Godzilla was an ugly, ugly thing to behold. But, I had to give him credit. He took that guy on his home turf, and he didn’t use his power as a cop to do it.

“What’d you do with the gun you took off that con?” he asked.

“You saw that?”

“Yeah, I looked over my shoulder once or twice, ya know, just to see what was going on. The asshole I was working on wasn’t going anywhere.”

I realized that if he was aware of all that, while doing what he was doing, he was the cool one.

“Yeah, well, I emptied it and dropped it on the floor. It was a cheap piece of crap.”

“Damn, I could’ve used it. Oh, well, fuck it.”

I didn’t ask what he could have used it for. I didn’t think I wanted to know.

He pulled over to the side of the road, got out, went around and opened the trunk and closed it. When he came back around, he was buttoning a black short-sleeved shirt.

He got back behind the wheel and peeled out.

“Did you see that teardrop tattoo on that con with the gun?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Know what it means?”

“No,” I said.

“It means that he killed someone in the joint.”

“Swell.” I said.

“Yeah, swell. How’d ya know he had it?” he asked.

“Body language, he telegraphed me.”

We rode in silence for a few minutes. Then I noticed we had missed the turn to take me back home.