Rage Against the Dying

Fifty





The two of us both listened harder for the second knock. Only Coleman, still in a stupor from the pain and drugs, had not reacted. I would have taken the chance of bolting out the door if it hadn’t been for the tape around my ankles. I had time for one loud yelp that probably couldn’t be heard all the way outside before Emery backhanded me across the face. While I was stunned, he put a strip of the tape over my mouth before going into the public room of the bar, closing the door behind him.

After trying and failing to shout through the tape, I let my head drop, my cheek resting against the blood-soaked thin carpet. I quieted my ragged breathing as well as I could and listened with all my might, while rubbing my face against the rough nap of the carpet to make the tape come loose.

“Hold on just a moment,” I heard Emery call loudly enough for us all to hear. Footsteps seemed to go away from the bar, and that was confirmed when I heard a motor go on, possibly the dishwasher in the kitchen. That muffled the sound of the footsteps further, until the sound of music blended with the dishwasher, but softly so it wouldn’t appear he had just turned it on. I don’t know what was playing, some old twangy country western thing. Then his voice again.

“Well, hello there. We’ll be open in just a bit; I had to take care of a small problem. An appliance.”

Whoever was there must have stepped through the door because I could hear a man’s voice, barely distinct over the music if I held my breath and listened with all my senses. “I’m actually looking for someone.”

“Nobody here but me right now.”

“Just the same, I was wondering if I could ask you a question?”

“What’s that?”

“Ever hear of a man named Gerald Peasil?”

Pause. “No, I’m sorry. I haven’t. Who is he?”

“We’re following up on a half-dozen phone numbers and this is one of the places he called.”

Pause. “You know, I’m not being hospitable. Please come in and have a drink, Officer…”

“Coyote. Deputy Sheriff.”

A longer space of quiet as Max must have moved farther into the bar.

“I’m Emery Bathory. I’ve seen you here before.”

“It’s a popular place.”

“Come.”

“Mr. Bathory, I don’t have much time.”

“And neither do I. But it is civilized, as well as good business, to offer you hospitality. Come.”

The dishwasher and the jukebox blotted out the sound of footsteps, so I couldn’t tell where they were, but the quiet made me assume they were moving in the direction of the bar. I imagined Emery going behind, angling carefully so Max couldn’t see the gun shoved in the back of his pants, Max standing at attention or sitting on a stool.

“Soda?”

“No, thanks.”

“So you think this, who did you say?”

“Gerald Peasil.”

“You think this Gerald Peasil might have called here?”

“Well, yes, we know he did, but he’s not the one I’m looking for. It could be a coincidence, but there’s a car parked in the lot just behind your place. Belongs to a woman I’d like to talk to.”

“Why do you think she’s here?”

“She’s a short woman with very white hair. Older but fit.”

Was Max playing Emery? No, he had managed to get the deleted phone numbers off Peasil’s phone, but he would have no reason to suspect that Emery was the one connected to Peasil, let alone a killer himself. Max would see the number of Emery’s Cantina as just a bar on a list of takeout joints, a routine check. At best, Max might have suspected that Peasil was contacting one of the patrons here and had been about to follow through on that lead when he saw my car.

The door was hardly more than a sheet of paneling. If it was thin enough to hear their conversation easily, it might be flimsy enough to bust open with one good kick if I put all I had into it. I jerked my body, trying to roll closer to the door. I managed to get onto my back, pain shooting up my spine and down my arms, which were pressed at an unforgiving angle into the floor. All the while straining desperately to listen.

“You must mean that little older lady who started coming in here with someone from the FBI, I think. A tall, very pretty young woman with short curly hair.”

“You saw them together here?”

“A couple of times, yes. But you’re interested in the older woman?”

“Yes.”

“She was here earlier. Why do you want to see her? Has she done something wrong?”

“I just have some questions about an ongoing investigation.”

It was hard to move and hear what was happening at the same time, but I managed to roll over twice, getting halfway to the door. Not fast enough. Rolling onto my back again, and using my knuckles behind me for leverage, I sat up.

“So when was she here?” Max asked.

“It has been a busy day, so I’m not sure I can say with any precision. She didn’t stay long. I think she met that FBI agent and they headed off together, left her car in the parking lot. You could leave a message for her, though, on her windshield. And of course if they come in here later I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”

There was a small silence, then Max again: “I don’t think she could be that far away.”

“Why is that?”

“The tote bag she usually carries is on the front seat of her car.”

“How careless.”

I was inching my way forward now, nearly to the door, and could see that the lock was on my side, which meant Emery couldn’t have locked the door. That would make it even easier to kick open. Falling to my side and drawing up my knees. Kicking at the door, but not close enough to connect. Inching forward a little more. I happened to look in Coleman’s direction and her eyes were wide open, staring into mine, knowing what was happening.

“Level with me, Mr. Bathory. Is she here? Did she talk you into cov—”

I’d only have one chance to surprise them both. I drew up my knees again and crashed the door open.

Max turned to look, and even Emery was distracted for a second before drawing my 1911 from the back of his pants and shooting Max in the chest.