The Skunge (19 page)

She whipped her head back, smashing it into his nose. It crunched satisfyingly, and Sonch howled. Blood from his broken nose sprayed the back of her neck, and fat warm droplets inched their way down the nape of her neck.

"You broke my nose, you fucking bitch," He said in her ear, his breath warm and redolent of beer and pot. One hand crept up and squeezed her left breast painfully. "Looks like I'm gonna have to
take
what I—"

She stomped her heel down onto his foot, and even through his cowboy boot she felt something snap and grind. This time he roared like a wounded jungle cat.

"You goddamn whore," he wheezed. She stomped again, but this time he shifted his foot out of the way. She lunged forward. He was already off balance from raising his foot, and they crashed to the floor. Sonch landed on her, driving the breath from her lungs. Her teeth clacked together, and she spit out a chunk of something suspiciously like a fragment of tooth.

They rolled back and forth, knocking into an end table. She could hear the whir of the camera even over his grunts and muffled cursing. He clambered around her like a monkey, moving to put her into a full-nelson. She twisted both arms at the same time as she jammed her ass backwards into his gut. His breath puffed out in a surprised grunt, and suddenly one of her hands was free. She reached back over her shoulder and clawed for his eyes, feeling two of her fingers slip into his mouth. With a growl he crunched down on them, and she cried out as she felt her index finger crack. Fire raced up her arm, but instead of withdrawing her hand, she drove it further into his mouth, as hard as she could. Her nails raked the roof of his mouth, and he spit out a garbled curse.

His forearm slipped from under her chin to her mouth, and she sank her teeth into the fat part of his forearm. She bit down as hard as she could, and felt hot salty blood squirt into her mouth. Sonch screamed, his voice pitched toward the upper register. She dug in, shaking her head back and forth like an energetic terrier. Muscle and flesh tore under her jaws. Her nose ran, and snot dripped down Sonch's skin to mix with his blood. He screamed again.

Then she was free. She rolled away and jumped to her feet. Sonch rose, spitting blood out of his mouth and eyeing her balefully.

"Do you want some more, you limp-dick?" Her voice shook, but she felt calm. Eager, even. "Because if you come at me again, I am going to make sure you leave here tonight without your balls." She knotted her hands into fists and raised them to chest height.

"Is that so?" Sonch no longer sounded amused. He sounded cranky and sullen, like a toddler refused a toy. He reached down into the front of his pants and withdrew a ugly little handgun. It was shiny and black and looked like it meant business.

Sugar felt coolness wash over her. Sonch hefted the gun, making sure the light hit it, displaying it to her like a dark jewel.

"Listen, asshole," she said. She scratched at a sudden burst of itching under the flesh of her arm. "Maas is going to cram that thing up your ass sideways if you don't leave me alone. You know that, right?"

"It turns me on when you talk all dirty like that. Tell you what, honey. I'm going to let you off with a warning." Sonch's eyes twinkled in the dim light of the bedroom. "The warning is this: if you don't get on your knees and swoggle my hoggle, I'm going to bend you over that bed and gun-fuck you until you rupture an ovary. You hear me,
mamacita
?" He stepped toward her, eyes sparkling with Satanic glee. She tensed, readying erself. Her entire body blazed with itching.

She heard a whisper, like tall grass in a breeze, a thud, and Sonch dropped to the carpet like a sack of dirty laundry. He thumped to the floor, eyes rolled back in his head. Behind him stood Arneson, eyes as bleak as ever. He tucked a flat black club into the front of his jeans and shook his head at Sonch's crumpled form.

"Fucking asshole," they said in unison. She quirked a smile, and he returned it. He reached down to take the gun, and made it disappear.

"Would you be a good boy and take care of this for me?" She said, nudging Sonch's arm with her toe. "I've got a bath running." She didn't miss the not-too-quick run of his eyes up and down her body.

His voice was thick. "Yes ma'am."

She took her time strolling into the bathroom. When she looked back over her shoulder, an invitation on her lips, he was already gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

The next morning, Arneson pulled into a spot just vacated by a silver Honda, lit a cigarette, and checked his mirrors. He hummed along under his breath with the mindless pop on the radio. He watched out the windshield, fiddling with the radio, tapping the wheel with his fingers. Tension burned in his gut like a hot wire. Brightly-lit tourist birds flocked the sidewalks, cawing at the kitschy quaintness of Santa Colima's downtown. Bookshops, windows displaying homely unglazed pottery, restaurants with one-word, abstract names like BONHOMIE, KANG, CUCINA.

He checked his watch again. At a few minutes past eight, a guy in a navy-blue t-shirt and khakis walked past. Arneson got out and followed him into a nearby coffee shop. Everything inside was muted earth tones: green or brown or beige, as if the shop had grown up out of the ground, ready to make coffee and accept credit cards.

Arneson ordered a black coffee and leaned against a shelf stacked with whimsically-painted mugs. When they called his name, he got his coffee and walked into the men's bathroom.

He stood at the urinal. Within thirty seconds, he heard the door open behind him. The other man spoke while washing his hands.

"When I leave here, there's going to be a phone on the counter. Disposable and untraceable. It's going to ring in two days. You're going to pick up and ask if Victor is calling. If you get
any
answer other than 'Extension Three', destroy the phone and scramble. Otherwise, you'll get your instructions. Got all that?" The man sounded vaguely amused.

Arneson watched the other man's movements reflected in the chrome fittings on the next urinal. "Yeah, I got it."

"Enjoy your coffee." The man dried his hands and left the bathroom. Arneson washed his hands, staring into the mirror.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Arneson's phone buzzed. Maas, sounding unusually jolly for so early in the morning. Not a good sign.

"So. The wind speaks. It whispers in my ear. Do you have any idea
why
it whispers in my ear?"

"Sonch."

"Sonch." Maas sighed, and Arneson felt the wind whisper in his own ear. "I need you to deal with him. Immediately. I'm getting some, uh…push-back about that whole…thing the other day. I mean
serious
push-back. Folks are not happy, and it's affecting business. So, I need to offer assurances that the concerns are heard, and addressed. Can I count on you? Today?"

"Yes."

"I mean, I need to
prove
that this kind of thing won't happen again. Ever. OK?"

Even though he had been expecting it, Arneson felt his stomach drop. "Sure."

"Good." Arneson heard the clicking of Maas's computer mouse. Having put the issue of Sonch behind, the bastard was resuming his normal daily routine. Arneson felt a moment of burning hatred for Maas, sitting in his office with the northern exposure light, Journey or Night Ranger on the stereo, full and happy as a tick sucking the blood from a deer's ass. "So, what about you, Arneson? How are things?"

"Good."

Maas paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was veined with something green and poisonous. "Seriously: what have you been
doing
? Anything you need to tell me?"

Arneson felt the ice under his feet crack.
Step carefully. You are in a delicate spot here.
"Doing my job," Arneson said. Maas didn't miss much; a man in his position, it didn't pay to do so.

Another pause, longer. Then Maas snorted into the phone. "Christ, dude, lighten up a bit, would you? You're so humorless." If Arneson could have traveled over the airwaves and popped through Maas' phone, he could have cheerfully throttled him. "It's OK to pretend to be human every once in a while."

Arneson said nothing.

"Alright then. See you soon. Don't forget: make sure Sonch knows why."

"Will do."

Arneson hung up, his mind ticking over. Doing this to Sonch would be hard. Up until the killing in the trailer, and the attack on Sugar, Arneson would have said he liked Sonch. That had changed, but still: you didn't work cheek-by-jowl with someone for this long, then just turn around and shoot him in the face. He tried on plans, and threw them away when they didn't fit. Maas hadn't given him any room to maneuver—only rope to hang himself.

He hung a hard right and stepped on the gas, heading back into town, toward Sonch's place.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

He awoke slowly, groaning and blinking, lifting one hand to block the morning sun streaming in through the grimy windows. He hocked and spat a wad of phlegm, but it only dribbled down the side of his face. "Shee-it." He swabbed his face with the first thing he could pick up; his own underwear. His hand roamed the floor next to his grungy mattress, looking for cigarettes. He knocked over a half bottle of Jack Daniels and cursed when his hand dragged through the wet patch. He licked the brown liquid off his tobacco-stained fingers.

"You always were a class act, Sonch," Arneson's voice rasped from beside him.

His eyes popped open, bloodshot as two egg yolks in tomato juice. "Jesus, Arneson, you scared the fuck outta me. Please let this be a nightmare, 'cuz it's way too early to get up." His head flopped back onto the mattress.

"No such luck."

The place was a shambles: food lay rotting on plates, dirty clothing pilled everywhere, squadrons of flies buzzing like a somnolent choir. The place was as hot and fetid as a Florida swamp.

"Shit, last night must have been something. My head's aching fit to split. Did you bring me home?" Sonch fumbled around the floor again, looking for his cigarettes. This time he was lucky, and dug up a crumpled pack with one bent nail sticking out. "I don't remember shit, but my
Christ
, the bean-pounder I've got. If it's all the same to you, I'll just lie here and—"

Arneson drew his pistol, bringing it to bear on the spot between Sonch's eyes. Sonch stared into the black mouth of the barrel, and something clicked in his throat when he swallowed.

"Hey, what the fuck, man! Get that thing out of my f—"

Arneson's slap echoed in the reeking confines of the apartment like a small caliber pistol. Sonch held a hand to his face, shocked.

Arneson tapped him on the cheek with the barrel of the gun. "Get up."

"Shit, man!" Sonch's eyes blazed with sudden recall. "It was you. You cold-cocked me."

Arneson stared down at him. "I did. You were out of line. But I'm here now because Maas sent me."

"What?" Sonch had sweated through his shirt, leaving a damp upside-down half moon like a sickle blade. "No. No
way."

"The man's getting pressure from your little escapade at jolly old Meth-Head Acres, and he threw you under the bus. Tough old world."

"But—"

"
But
, I am giving you a get out of jail free card."

"What? You're kidding me." Sonch sat up. "You wouldn't go against Maas."

"No,
you
wouldn't go against Maas. I'm not you." Arneson lowered himself onto a nearby chair, the barrel still pointing at Sonch. "Get cracking."

Sonch snorted. "Right. Just going to let me walk away, huh?" His eyes darted to something on the floor. Arneson had already clocked it: one of Sonch's swords, unsheathed and half-buried under a pile of stained clothes. "At least let me get some clothes on. Something I want to be buried in, you know?"

"Spare me the theatrical lunge for your pigsticker. I'm serious, I'm letting you go. I'm
making
you go."

"Shit, man, I don't about this."

Arneson actually laughed. "Are you serious? Here I am, offering you a get-out-of-shallow-desert-grave-free card, and you're having trouble making up your
mind?
"
Arneson nudged a crumpled duffel bag with his boot. "Hustle up."

"I need to stop at a couple places, pick up some cash and—"

Arneson leaned forward, pushing the gun into Sonch's face. "You need to leave town, now, or you can go with option B. Your choice."

Sonch actually appeared to be thinking it over. "I don't get it. Why are you letting me go? Why not kill me?"

Arneson kicked the bag at him. "The only thing you need to know is get moving. Pack up your shit and get going. Now."

Sonch began stuffing dirty clothes into the bag, cutting his eyes to the gun and away. "I never took you for a softy, Arneson."