what’s your name, hon?”
“Harold. Harold Reed.”
“Mr. Reed, Harold,” she said with a wide yellow smile, extending a hand and her big bosom over the bar, “don’t you be a stranger now. Never let it be said the Dixie Club can’t take a little ’structive criticism.”
Grinning, Harold Reed was counting his money as he went out the bar exit.
I said, “That’s damn decent of you, Dixie.”
She looked distracted. “Uh, yeah. Price of doin’ business.”
“I just wanted to thank you for the free drinks for my wife and me.”
She realized who I was suddenly (or anyway, thought she did). “Well, it’s my favorite honeymooner. You bet—my pleasure. You all come back.”
“Oh we will.”
I went quickly into the restaurant where Luann had just finished her ice cream. Without sitting, I took a look at the bill, which was under ten bucks, and left fifteen. Took my bride by the hand and went out.
They were fast. Dixie and her husband were already in motion, trailing the bouncer who was dragging the salesman from the parking lot to between the main building and the motel. A big air conditioner was making a lot of noise nearby.
I told Luann: “Get our bag out of the room and put it in the car. Here are the keys.”
I handed them to her.
She nodded.
“You get in the car and wait for me. Keep your head down.”
She nodded, and scurried off.
The slice of moon was painting the overgrown area behind the buildings a deceptively peaceful ivory. Forming a semicircle, they were in the ankle-high grass, but a thicket of weeds and kudzu and God knew what else was waiting like an all too penetrable wall just a few yards away.
So pale he almost glowed, Dix was smoking, grinning, his mustache riding his sneer like a surfboard does a wave. He had a gun in one hand, a snubby .38. He stood near Dixie, who faced the bouncer and his prisoner. The captor had a roundish head, a stupid face, long brown stringy hair with sideburns, and was beefy verging on fat. His chin sat on another one and his little eyes peeked out from piggy pouches. For a big guy, he didn’t look like much trouble to me.
But he was plenty of trouble for the salesman, whose arms he held pinned back. . .
. . .if not as much trouble as the big-boobed beehive redhead in the black waitress uniform and the white apron, which was already splashed with blood.
The three places where she had hit him in his bald skull with the hammer were easily visible, ribbons of red trailing from each. The little guy was woozy from pain but the mercy of unconsciousness hadn’t come his way yet.
Chicken wasn’t the only thing that got well-battered at the Dixie Club.
She snarled, “What do you think, Dix? Has our guest learned his lesson? Or does he go for a swim in the swamp?”
Dix had a laugh that was mostly cigarette cough, a harsh, terrible disruption in a night where insects and birds sang. “Put him out of his fuckin’ misery. That sample case may not be no small change, ya know.”
The little salesman said, “You can have the watches! Take them! Let me go !”
She raised the hammer and I said, “That’s enough.”
I stepped into view with the nine millimeter raised their way. No silencer, but that chugging air conditioner should do the trick.
Dix’s gun was at his side, as limp as that jaw of his, which had just trapdoored open. The bosomy broad whirled toward me and blood flew off the hammer’s head like scarlet spittle. Her lip was peeled back and her teeth looked feral and her big green bloodshot eyes looked fucking nuts.
“ You! ” she said.
“Drop the hammer,” I said.
“Fuck you!”
I shot her husband.
She dropped the hammer.
And the bouncer dropped the little guy, and took off running, toward that wall of bushes. The nine millimeter slug entered his head in back and a clumpy stream of things that had been inside it projectile-vomited out his forehead.
Dix was slumped in the grass, awkwardly on his side, an uncomfortable position
“Harold. Harold Reed.”
“Mr. Reed, Harold,” she said with a wide yellow smile, extending a hand and her big bosom over the bar, “don’t you be a stranger now. Never let it be said the Dixie Club can’t take a little ’structive criticism.”
Grinning, Harold Reed was counting his money as he went out the bar exit.
I said, “That’s damn decent of you, Dixie.”
She looked distracted. “Uh, yeah. Price of doin’ business.”
“I just wanted to thank you for the free drinks for my wife and me.”
She realized who I was suddenly (or anyway, thought she did). “Well, it’s my favorite honeymooner. You bet—my pleasure. You all come back.”
“Oh we will.”
I went quickly into the restaurant where Luann had just finished her ice cream. Without sitting, I took a look at the bill, which was under ten bucks, and left fifteen. Took my bride by the hand and went out.
They were fast. Dixie and her husband were already in motion, trailing the bouncer who was dragging the salesman from the parking lot to between the main building and the motel. A big air conditioner was making a lot of noise nearby.
I told Luann: “Get our bag out of the room and put it in the car. Here are the keys.”
I handed them to her.
She nodded.
“You get in the car and wait for me. Keep your head down.”
She nodded, and scurried off.
The slice of moon was painting the overgrown area behind the buildings a deceptively peaceful ivory. Forming a semicircle, they were in the ankle-high grass, but a thicket of weeds and kudzu and God knew what else was waiting like an all too penetrable wall just a few yards away.
So pale he almost glowed, Dix was smoking, grinning, his mustache riding his sneer like a surfboard does a wave. He had a gun in one hand, a snubby .38. He stood near Dixie, who faced the bouncer and his prisoner. The captor had a roundish head, a stupid face, long brown stringy hair with sideburns, and was beefy verging on fat. His chin sat on another one and his little eyes peeked out from piggy pouches. For a big guy, he didn’t look like much trouble to me.
But he was plenty of trouble for the salesman, whose arms he held pinned back. . .
. . .if not as much trouble as the big-boobed beehive redhead in the black waitress uniform and the white apron, which was already splashed with blood.
The three places where she had hit him in his bald skull with the hammer were easily visible, ribbons of red trailing from each. The little guy was woozy from pain but the mercy of unconsciousness hadn’t come his way yet.
Chicken wasn’t the only thing that got well-battered at the Dixie Club.
She snarled, “What do you think, Dix? Has our guest learned his lesson? Or does he go for a swim in the swamp?”
Dix had a laugh that was mostly cigarette cough, a harsh, terrible disruption in a night where insects and birds sang. “Put him out of his fuckin’ misery. That sample case may not be no small change, ya know.”
The little salesman said, “You can have the watches! Take them! Let me go !”
She raised the hammer and I said, “That’s enough.”
I stepped into view with the nine millimeter raised their way. No silencer, but that chugging air conditioner should do the trick.
Dix’s gun was at his side, as limp as that jaw of his, which had just trapdoored open. The bosomy broad whirled toward me and blood flew off the hammer’s head like scarlet spittle. Her lip was peeled back and her teeth looked feral and her big green bloodshot eyes looked fucking nuts.
“ You! ” she said.
“Drop the hammer,” I said.
“Fuck you!”
I shot her husband.
She dropped the hammer.
And the bouncer dropped the little guy, and took off running, toward that wall of bushes. The nine millimeter slug entered his head in back and a clumpy stream of things that had been inside it projectile-vomited out his forehead.
Dix was slumped in the grass, awkwardly on his side, an uncomfortable position
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