Taylor lifted his good hand and swatted the shotgun barrel out of his face, regarding her with an unimpressed annoyance.
“Don’t do that.”
She raised the gun again to him, predictably, and this time he caught the barrel and, with a swift upward and diagonal jerk, relieved her of the weapon altogether.
His baritone rolled through the place, words both commanding and pleading with her,
“Stop. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“What are you doing here?” That voice again. Sweet, with a gentle husk, and the most beautiful accent Taylor had ever heard. He made several attempts to visually appraise her, but he was seeing black spots before his eyes, shadows creeping into his sightline and distorting the shapes and objects before him. All he gathered was long dark hair with highlights that were glimmering gold under the harsh artificial lighting and huge black eyes and skin the color of his own. He thought that she was maybe way too thin but he couldn’t tell for sure because she kept blurring into two and three versions of herself before his eyes. She smelled like a tavern - booze and smoke. Chicken wings.
Taylor blinked. She was asking him again what he was doing there, and saying it in a tone of voice that told him she’d said it several times.
“I need a place to stay.”
“You can stay here, but you have to get down.” There was a palpable, panicky urgency in her voice that hadn’t been there thirty seconds ago, and Taylor’s brow furrowed in confused curiosity.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Get down! Behind the bar. Hurry.”
He followed her gaze to the large window behind him, to a pair of dim headlights bobbing lazily into the headlights.
“Who is that?”
“Get down, right now.” She came around behind him and put her hands on his shoulder blades and gave him a shove surprisingly strong for someone so wiry toward the counter. Because of the position of her hands, this little move on her part was dizzyingly painful for him, and he jumped, quickening his pace so that she wasn’t touching him.
“I need medicine out of that van. And I need a room. Why don’t you just give me a key.”
The woman shook her head. “There isn’t time.”
“But-“
She lifted a cast-iron frying pan off the small, grimy range and raised it over her head, and there was a crazed look on her face that told him she was fully prepared to beat his skull in with it if he didn’t put his ass on the floor. “DOWN!”
Taylor growled and sat, heavily, closing his eyes, the world reeling at a sickening pace as soon as his weight was off his feet. He slumped against the bar underneath and closed his eyes as she hissed,
“Good. Stay.”
The door to the little pub opened, letting in a sneeze of cool, crisp air that felt wonderful in Taylor’s lungs. He was in pain all through his body, down to his fingertips and toes, the agony biting at him stronger and stronger, to the point where he actually felt nauseous. All he could think of was the white paper bag with the morphine inside, sitting useless and unreachable on the front passenger seat of the car. He wanted it like a desert wanderer wants water. Like a coke fiend wants blow. Like a whore wants love.
“Hi, Charlie.”
“Hi, Lana. There’s a van sittin’ out there, you know. You didn’t let nobody in, did you?” Man’s voice. Local accent. He sounded gravelly, like a chainsmoker. Gruff. None too kind.
“No, sir.”
“Well, there’s one guy sleepin’ in it. Maybe two. Didn’t get that good a look.”
“Really?” She was cool as cucumbers, from the sound of her voice, and Taylor had to commend her. It was his curiosity that was keeping him conscious, and his sense of danger. This fucker Charlie, whoever he was, gave Taylor a thick, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Gave off a bad vibe.
“Yeah, really. Back o’ the van’s fulla boxes. I’m thinking it’s one of those, you know, small parcel transport vans. The pharmaceutical companies send ‘em through here once in a while.”
Pharmaceuticals. Absofuckinlutely right, pharmaceuticals. Taylor realized, suddenly, that he was still clutching the crazy bitch’s shotgun.
“Pharmaceutical companies?”
“Right. The ones what make the medicine, you know?”
“Ah, right.” There was a forced politeness about her tone that was irking Taylor to the core. He was trembling violently, now, barely able to keep his head above the water that wanted to drag him down. There was a smattering of buckshot bulletholes in the bar not far from his face, letting in thin shards of yellow light, and he moved with all the stealth he could muster, sliding his ass down along the floor and turning his eyes on the holes. There she was…the woman who had turned a gun on him and tried to bludgeon him with a frying pan. Her back was to him, thick dark hair falling to her hips. Black and brown and white hippie skirt and small white tee shirt.
And then there was this other guy…Taylor’s eyes nearly fell out of his head when he looked at him. He was standing there with his pants and briefs down around his knees, miserable excuse for a prick hanging out, short and thick and crooked and pasty white. He was overweight by about thirty pounds, burly and redheaded with thick fingers, and the red hair didn’t stop at his head. Taylor closed his eyes. Ugh. What the FUCK?
“So I suppose you’re waiting for me to pay you.” Charlie’s voice, cold and matter-of-fact.
“I suppose so.” She sounded nervous now, like maybe the wrong answer would get her more than what she was charging him for…whatever grisly act the two of them were about to perform.
Taylor heard the rattle and squeak of the shade being drawn down, and then the whole place was dark except for the neon tube-light illumination of the alcohol selection just above Taylor’s head behind the bar.
“What is it again?” asked Charlie.
“Twenty-five.”
“Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
Taylor opened his eyes out of sheer, deprived curiosity and watched as the woman - girl, rather - hauled her crinkly skirt up around her waist, holding it out of Charlie’s way with one hand as the other hand, still clutching the meager wad of bills, went before her to brace her weight on the tabletop as she bent over it. Taylor watched with no small element of repulsion as the beast of a man came up behind the pretty, lithe brown body of the girl who had just tried to kill him and, with a grunt and a jerk, began to fuck her.
Mouth watering with copious pre-vomit saliva, Taylor turned away from the bullethole and leaned his back against the inside of the bar again, closing his eyes. There were flashes of light and color behind his lids, a nonsensical slideshow presenting itself, various images, both conjured and remembered, flickering on and off in his fucked mind. The last thing he heard before he lost his grip on the overrated torture of coherence was the crazy bartender/hooker girl’s soft voice saying,
