The Deputy by Victor Gischler Read Free Book Online Page B

questions. And that’s half the battle.
    I smoked and walked and wondered if that was all bullshit or not.
    When I got back to Main Street, I saw the Ford Mustang Mach 1 parked right behind my Nova.

CHAPTER SIX
    I was halfway across the street, and they didn’t see me at first, the three Mexicans standing around the Nova looking through the windows. I froze, puffed the cigarette, and wondered what to do.
    I didn’t do anything. They saw me first.
    They nudged each other, pointed in my direction, stood up straight and moved away from the Nova. I could either haul ass or square my shoulders and get all Johnny Law.
    “What seems to be the trouble here, gentleman?” I said.
    I’m just not very smart.
    They edged closer, taking it slow, looking me over.
    All three wore silk shirts, buttons undone to reveal gold jewelry. The one in the lead wore a black shirt. His head was shaved, gold hoop earrings. The two behind him were in red, beards, various tattoos. It looked like somebody had driven though town and puked a Los Lobos tribute band into the street.
    One of the redshirts fired off some syllables in Spanish, and I caught the word pistola .
    The one in the black shirt looked me over again and shook his head. “No.”
    My hand automatically went to my belt. No gun. Shit. It was still in the Nova.
    The Mexicans grinned and came at me.
    I plucked the Winston out of my mouth and flicked it at the lead guy’s face. It bounced off his cheek, orange sparks flying, not really doing any damage, but he flinched and pulled up short. I went low and jabbed a fist in his ribs, heard some of the air go out of him. A second quick punch for good measure.
    Some personal history: When you’ve played guitar in as many roadside honky-tonk shitholes as I have, you learn to throw a few punches. You learn that hesitation can earn you a black eye and a fat lip.
    The two red shirts closed in on either side. I felt the stars go off hot behind my eyes as a fist slammed into my face.
    Some additional personal history: I always took more than I dished out.
    They grabbed at me fast, trying to wrestle me down. I kicked out, connected my heel with something and heard a grunt. More fists in my gut and a blow to the back of my head, and I oozed down to the asphalt.
    I lay there a second with the vague sense of them standing over me. Pressure on my chest. My eyes focused and I saw it was a boot, the bald one keeping me down with a foot on the chest. The other two went through my pockets.
    I found my voice and managed, “What the hell, man?”
    “ Quiate tu boca .”
    Right.
    One of the red shirts yanked a set of keys out of my pocket, held them up and jingled them. “ Aqui .”
    They chattered at each other some more, and I got the idea they were talking about what to do with me. I thought about shoving the guy’s boot off my chest and making a run for it, but I still had cartoon tweety-birds circling my head, and I was hoping I could think of some better plan that didn’t involve me running and having three Mexicans jump on my back.
    I got lucky. Headlights sparked into view at the end of Main, coming right toward our little scene in the street. The Mexicans jabbered at each other again, and one of the red shirts gave me a goodbye kick in the ribs before they all jumped back in their muscle car. They squealed the tires as they tore away from the curb. I flinched away as a tire came within three inches of my head.
    I sat up, watched the taillights vanish the other direction out of town. I wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. The other car came up behind me, and I twisted to look, muscles sore, a vague pain through my whole body.
    The kid stuck his head out of the window of the Trans Am. “You okay, man?”
    I stood slowly, a miserable groan leaking out of me. “I told you to go home.” His mouthy pal wasn’t in the passenger seat anymore.
    “Who was that just drove off?” he asked.
    “Bad guys.”
    “You going to chase