Part 11 (2/2)
”No, I swear.”
They had him up against the side of a truck. Bronco. White. Rusty as h.e.l.l. Ford Bronco, Winder thought. In case I live through this.
In case anybody might be interested.
The big goon spun Joe Winder around and pinned his arms while the one named Angel slugged him on the point of the jaw. Then he hit him once in each eye. Winder felt his face start to bloat and soften, like a melon going bad. With any luck, total numbness would soon follow.
Angel was working up a sweat. Every time he threw a punch, he let out a sharp yip, like a poodle. It would have been hilarious except for the pain that went with it.
Finally, Spearmint Breath said, ”I don't think he knows jack s.h.i.+t.” Then he said something in Spanish.
Angel said, ”Chur he does, the c.o.kesucker.” This time he hit Joe Winder in the gut.
Perfect. Can't breathe. Can't see. Can't talk.
The big goon let go, and Winder fell limp across the hood of the truck.
The man named Angel said, ”Hey, what the fug.” There was something new in his voice; he sounded very confused. Even in a fog, Joe Winder could tell that the little creep wasn't talking to hima”or to Spearmint Breath, either.
Suddenly a great turmoil erupted around the truck, and the man named Angel gave out a scream that didn't sound anything like a little dog. The scream made Joe Winder raise his head off the fender and open what was left of his eyelids.
Through misty slits he saw the husky no-neck goon running toward the bridge. Running away as fast as he could.
Where was Angel?
Something lifted Joe Winder off the truck and laid him on the gravel. He struggled to focus on the face. Face? Naw, had to be a mask. A silvery beard of biblical proportions. Mismatched eyes: one as green as mountain pines, the other brown and dead. Above that, a halo of pink flowers. Weird. The mask leaned closer and whispered in Joe Winder's ear.
The words tumbled around like dice in his brainpan. Made no d.a.m.n sense. The stranger bent down and said it again.
”I'll get the other one later.”
Joe Winder tried to speak but all that came out was a gulping noise. He heard a car coming down the old road and turned his head to see. Soon he became mesmerized by the twin beams of yellow light, growing larger and larger; lasers shooting out of the mangroves. Or was it a s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p?
When Winder turned back, he was alone. The man who had saved his life was gone.
The car went by in a rush of noise. Joe Winder watched the taillights vanish over the crest of the bridge. It was an hour before he could get to his feet, another twenty minutes before he could make them move in any sensible way.
As he staggered along the pavement, he counted the cars to keep his mind off the pain. Seven sped past without stopping to help. Winder was thinking, Maybe I feel worse than I look. Maybe the blood doesn't show up so well in the dark. Two or three drivers actually touched the brakes. One honked and hurled a Heineken bottle at him.
The eighth car went by doing seventy at least, heading eastbound to the island. Joe Winder saw the brake lights wink and heard the tires squeal. Slowly the car backed up. The door on the pa.s.senger side swung open.
A voice said: ”My G.o.d, are you all right?”
”Not really,” said Joe Winder. Half-blind, he was trying to fit himself into the car when he encountered something large and fuzzy on the upholstery.
It was an animal head. He hoped it was not real.
Carrie Lanier picked it up by the snout and tossed it into the back seat. She took Joe Winder's elbow and helped him sit down. Reaching across his lap, she slammed the car door and locked it. ”I can't believe this,” she said, and stepped on the accelerator.
To Joe Winder it felt as if they were going five hundred miles an hour, straight for the ocean.
Carrie Lanier kept glancing over at him, probably to make sure he was still breathing. After a while she said, ”I'm sorry, what was your name again?”
”Joe. Joe Winder.”
”Joe, I can't believe they did this to you.”
Winder raised his head. ”Who?” he said. ”Who did this to me?”
NINE.
Carrie Lanier pulled off Joe Winder's shoes and said, ”You want me to call your girlfriend?”
Winder said no, don't bother. ”She'll be home in a couple hours.”
”What does she do? What kind of work?”
”She talks dirty,” said Joe Winder, ”on the phone.”
Carrie sat on the edge of the bed. She put a hand on his forehead and felt for fever.
He said, ”Thanks for cleaning me up.”
”It's all right. You want more ginger ale?”
”No, but there's some Darvocets in the medicine cabinet.”
”I think Advils will do just fine.”
Winder grunted unhappily. ”Look at me. You ever see a face like this on an Advil commercial?”
She brought him one lousy Darvocet and he swallowed it dry. He felt worse than he could remember ever feeling, and it wasn't only the pain. It was anger, too.
”So who beat me up?” he said.
”I don't know,” said Carrie Lanier. ”I imagine it was somebody from the park. I imagine you stuck your nose where it doesn't belong.”
”I didn't,” Joe Winder said, ”not yet.”
He felt her rise from the bed, and soon heard her moving around the apartment. He called her name and she came back to the bedroom, sitting in the same indentation on the mattress.
”I was looking for something to bandage those ribs.”
”That's okay,” said Winder. ”It only hurts when I breathe.”
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