Hauntings by Ellen Datlow Page B

closed an hour before, its windows were lit, and— MP instincts engaged—I peered inside. Randall was backed against the bar, holding a knife to the neck of the wolfish clerk who had beaten him, and ranged in a loose circle around him, standing among the tables, were five men wearing tiger shorts, their faces painted with savage designs. I drew my pistol, eased around to the front, and—wanting my entrance to have shock value—kicked the door open.
    The five men turned their heads to me, but appeared not at all disconcerted. “How’s she goin’, Curt?” said one, and by his soft voice I recognized the tall guy who had slit Moon’s throat.
    â€œTell ’em to leave me be!” Randall shrilled.
    I fixed my gaze on the tall guy and with gunslinger menace said, “I’m not messin’ with you tonight. Get out now or I’ll take you down.”
    â€œYou can’t hurt me, Curt,” he said.
    â€œDon’t gimme that ghost shit! Fuck with me, and you’ll be humpin’ with Delta Sly Honey for real.”
    â€œEven if you were right ’bout me, Curt, I wouldn’t be scared of dyin’. I was dead where it counts halfway through my tour.”
    A scuttling at the bar, and I saw that Randall had wrestled the clerk to the floor. He wrapped his legs around the clerk’s waist in a scissors and yanked his head back by the hair to expose his throat. “Leave me be,” he said. Every nerve in his face was jumping.
    â€œLet him go, Randall,” said the tall guy. “We ain’t after no innocent blood. We just want you to take a little walk...to cross back over.”
    â€œGet out!” I told him.
    â€œYou’re workin’ yourself in real deep, man,” he said.
    â€œThis ain’t no bullshit!” I said. “I will shoot.”
    â€œLook here, Curt,” he said. “S’pose we’re just plain ol’ ordinary grunts. You gonna shoot us all? And if you do, don’t you think we’d have friends who’d take it hard? Any way you slice it, you bookin’ yourself a silver box and air freight home.”
    He came a step toward me, and I said, “Watch it, man!” He came another step, his devil mask split by a fierce grin. My heart felt hot and solid in my chest, no beats, and I thought, He’s a ghost, his flesh is smoke, the paint a color in my eye. “Keep back!” I warned.
    â€œGonna kill me?” Again he grinned. “Go ahead.” He lunged, a feint only, and I squeezed the trigger.
    The gun jammed.
    When I think now how this astounded me, I wonder at my idiocy. The gun jammed frequently. It was an absolute piece of shit, that weapon. But at the time its failure seemed a magical coincidence, a denial of the laws of chance. And adding to my astonishment was the reaction of the other men: they made no move toward Randall, as if no opportunity had been pro vided, no danger passed. Yet the tall guy looked somewhat shaken to me.
    Randall let out a mewling noise, and that sound enlisted my compe tence. I edged between the tables and took a stand next to him. “Let me get the knife from him,” I said. “No point in both of ’em dyin’.”
    The tall guy drew a deep breath as if to settle himself. “You reckon you can do that, Curt?”
    â€œMaybe. If you guys wait outside, he won’t be as scared and maybe I can get it.”
    They stared at me, unreadable.
    â€œGimme a chance.”
    â€œWe ain’t after no innocent blood.” The tall guy’s tone was firm, as if this were policy. “But...”
    â€œJust a coupla minutes,” I said. “That’s all I’m askin’.”
    I could almost hear the tick of the tall guy’s judgment. “Okay,” he said at last. “But don’t you go tryin’ nothin’ hinkey, Curt.” Then, to Randall. “We be waitin’, Randall J.”
    As soon as they