CHAPTER 8
Helmet Head
Before Fagan could reach the table the skull popped up and shoved him back hard with pile driver arms. Fagan stumbled and grabbed the barstool for support taking it down with him. Fred hurried out from behind the bar and got in the skull’s face as Fagan regained his feet.
“Come on, Chainsaw. I thought you guys weren’t gonna cause me any grief.”
“That was before this pig walked in,” Chainsaw said. “How do we know he didn’t off Larry himself?”
“You heard the man,” Fred wheedled. Fagan felt sorry for the bartender, forced to grovel before this pack of jackals.
“He didn’t do it. He’s a cop for Chrissake!”
“Cops are crooked as your right leg,” Wild Bill said, picking up his burger and chomping a coaster-sized hole.
“Yeah, ya fuckin’ gimp,” Chainsaw said. “Weren’t for us you’da closed this pit long ago.”
Fagan could have arrested Wild Bill for assault right there. But one did not provoke a pack of jackals. He could always charge him later.
Cowlick whipped out a bindle and a balisong and divided some lines on the tabletop. The name “Mad Dog” was stitched over one breast. His blade made a chopping sound against the wood. “You need a bump, Saw.” Mad Dog bent and hoovered a line, sat back and spread his arms bodaciously with a grin of satisfaction, taunting Fagan.
Fagan swallowed. His throat felt like a diesel exhaust. He couldn’t find any spit. Maybe he was having a panic attack. He was at their mercy. He dare not show the slightest sign of fear or they’d crush him. Without the stool to support him he’d collapse. His knees felt like Jell-O. He brushed the pistol at his hip hoping no one noticed.
Chainsaw slowly turned, sat at the table and rotated it on its axis until the meth lines were before him. This rotated Wild Bill’s burger two feet to his left and in irritation Wild Bill grabbed the table like a big steering wheel and twisted it back just as Chainsaw’s straw came down.
Wild Bill picked up his burger and lopped off another quarter. He set it down.
“You done?” Chainsaw said.
“For the moment.”
Chainsaw rotated the line back and snorted. He rotated the hamburger back into place. He got up, scooping the police helmet, strode to the bar and slammed it down on top of Fagan’s tumbler shattering glass everywhere. Quick as a cobra he grabbed Fagan’s leather lapels and jerked him close.
Fagan drew the gun. Chainsaw shoved him back six inches and slapped the pistol out of Fagan’s hand as if he were a child. He grabbed Fagan by his belt and jacket and threw him savagely to the floor.
“Larry was a Road Dog, motherfucker,” he growled. “He was a friend of mine.”
Lightning struck followed almost immediately by the thunderous crack. The lights flickered. Chainsaw jerked forward and kicked Fagan in the ribs with the tip of his steel-toed road boots. Fagan felt it crack.
Fred ran out from behind the bar and grabbed Chainsaw’s arm.
“Chainsaw don’t—!”
Chainsaw shook the bartender off and elbowed him in the face without even looking. Fred fell to the ground groaning. Fagan got to his feet, charged with his head low and took Chainsaw down amid the crunch and scrape of overturning chairs and breaking glass.
“Stop it!” Macy snapped from behind the bar with an edge of hysteria.
Fagan grabbed an empty beer bottle and brought it down base first in the middle of Chainsaw’s forehead whacking the shaved skull onto the wood floor. The thug was stunned. Fagan felt a sick triumph in his gut.
Wild Bill shoved his chair back so hard it skidded into the wall. He yanked the Bowie loose lifting the heavy wooden table an inch in the air. The table banged the floor. Fagan scrambled to his feet, back to the bar, searching for his pistol while keeping his eyes on Wild Bill. Fagan grabbed the red-upholstered bar stool and held it like Jungle Jim in the lion’s den.
“I’m a police officer!” he said.
Wild Bill came on like an angry mountain, lupine fangs gleaming behind his unkempt beard, blade catching bar light as he flipped it hand to hand.
“Bill!” Macy barked.
BLAM.
For an instant there was stunned silence as ears imploded from the force of the blast. Plaster fell in chunks onto the bar thinning to a steady column of dust as particles continued to trickle from the hole in the ceiling. Fred stood on a chair behind the bar cradling a truncated pump-action Remington twelve gauge.
Another goddamn felony.
Even Wild Bill stopped, blinking stupidly like a pig. His face split into a wide grin.
“Fred. I never knew you had it in you.”
The bartender surveyed the room, shotgun at parade rest. His blue eyes were bright and blazing and his mouth was buttoned shut with extreme emotion.
“We all know what this is about!” he snapped. “Helmet Head.”
***