Showdown
I crossed the street quickly, but not too quickly because I didn’t want to outpace the other members of my ragtag support team. David trotted next to me with his shotgun held next to his leg. Hank Kellerman plodded along behind while Harrison Stiles brought up the rear.
Walt had come through the tavern door to stand on the sidewalk and look anxious. A glance in his direction told me that he didn’t want to defy me by interfering, but he also didn’t want to leave me alone. I hated that we’d had words so soon after we’d reconciled from our two-day long argument, but there was nothing I could do about it at the moment. I hoped I’d have the chance to make it up to him later.
Walt’s presence encouraged me to approach the men in the shop with greater caution than I usually would have used. I drew my revolver from its holster and held it ready at my side. I made a rapid, visual assessment of the layout of the garage and called assignments to the team behind me. “I’ll take Stan and the truck. Hank and David, go inside and find the others. Bring them up front and gather them by the tow truck. Harry, you’re with me. Cover the far side of the truck and keep your other eye on the street. Everyone got it?”
Three affirmative answers encouraged me forward. I stepped into the gloom of the garage and stood a few feet away from the driver’s side of the tow truck. Stan noticed me. His face twisted into a disgusted frown. “Lookie who it is,” he sneered, “an old fag.”
I leveled my gun at Stan and held it on him. “HANDS!” I commanded. “Show me your hands!”
Stand raised his hands above the steering wheel. He held them up but didn’t show any fear on his smug face. I got the idea that he still felt like he was in charge, but I didn’t know why.
Harrison went around to the passenger side of the truck and held his gun on the man who had been hooking one of the cars to the winch. He brought the man to the front and told him to stand still near the truck cab. David and Hank Kellerman went deeper into the shop. I heard some startled shouts, but no gunshots. Kellerman and David marched the last two men to the front of the shop and stood them in a row across the front of the tow truck.
Ted was stunned to see his former employer. “Mister Ploughman, what are you doing here?” He asked.
Ted’s voice and the cadence of his speech surprised me because of its youth. I thought it odd that the man who I’d seen performing an enthusiastic act of sex on Stan, sounded very boyish. David told Ted to be quiet. He moved to the front of the group and took up a position of watchfulness with the shotgun cradled in his arms.
I kept my wary attention on Stan’s smug face. “Shut the motor off and toss me the keys.” I ordered.
Stan didn’t move. “You don’t know shit from Shinola, stupid old fag.” He sneered. “It’s an engine. Motors are electric.”
Stan stomped down on the throttle of the tow truck. The idling engine roared as more blue smoke belched from the tailpipe. Stan was trying to test me. He was trying to see if he could get my goat enough to make me lose focus. I suspected he had a trick up his sleeve, but I wasn’t going to let him use it.
I shifted the aim of my gun and squeezed the trigger. The hammer drew back and snapped on a round. The snub-nose .38 barked and kicked and fired a bullet which shattered the driver’s side of the two-piece windshield of the truck. Because the glass was safety glass, it remained intact, but the blast sent a spider web of cracks across the pane.
Stan reacted with shock and rage. He took his foot from the truck’s throttle pedal and shouted. “WHAT THE FUCK, FAGGOT?” He demanded.
I kept my voice low and growled at him. “Cut the crap. Shut the truck off and toss me the keys.”
The gunshot rattled Stan, which was the point of it. He did as he was told. He lowered his left hand to the ignition and clicked it off. He pulled the keys from the dashboard and held them up to throw. Just before he tossed them, his devious eyes shifted in his head, and he grinned his smug smirk. Stan threw the keys to one side of me. I expected to hear them hit the concrete floor of the shop, but they didn’t land. Instead, I heard the sound of the keys as they were caught by the hand of someone next to me.
I stole a quick glance to see who caught the keys. No one was supposed to be next to me. My eyes landed on the pinched and worried face of my husband. As soon as they did, I understood what happened. Walt had been drawn by the sound of the gunshot. When I fired to threaten Stan, Walt came running with the athletic silence of his rubber-soled shoes. That’s why I hadn’t heard him approach. Stan had seen him. That’s why Stan smiled and threw the keys to Walt. He’d done it to divert my attention. Stan’s diversion worked. Walt’s presence distracted me.
I kept my gaze on Stan but directed my words to Walt. “Go back across the street.”
Walt wasn’t so easily moved. “What was that shot? Is everyone alright?”
“I shot.” I explained. “I fired a shot to let the smug son-of-a-bitch in the truck know I’m not fucking around. Go back across the street.”
“I’m staying.” Walt insisted.
“DAMNIT WALT!” I shouted. I planned to say more, but Stan’s voice clubbed its way into my attention.
“Are you two a couple? A pair of old queers worried about each other. That’s sweet.” Stan mocked my husband and me. “You should kiss and make up. I’ll wait.”
I got mad at Stan’s mocking. I aimed my revolver and pulled the trigger again. The gun barked and another hole appeared in the already shattered windshield of the tow truck. Walt swore in surprise at the sound. “SHIT!” He shouted.
Stan stiffened in the tow truck seat. He scowled at me. I growled at him to try to regain control of the stand-off. “I’m done fucking around. Get out of that fucking truck and line up with the others. Try anything, and I’ll drill you.”
Stan lowered both his hands out of sight. I yelled at him. “Keep your right hand up!” I shouted.
Stan argued with me. “The door sticks, faggot. I need both hands to open it.”
I didn’t like that Stan was still calm enough to insult me. I was also sick and tired of being nice to the smug son-of-a-bitch. I wanted some revenge against the liar, the cheat, the asshole who’d made the whole case much more complex than it needed to be. I decided that I was going to kick the living shit out of Smug Stanley and I was going to needle him into giving me a reason.
I played on the one thing which I knew would get Stan’s goat. That one thing was Ted. “Call me a faggot, will you? How much of a faggot do you think I am? I’ve got your little slut boy out here. Maybe I’ll fuck him.”
Stan didn’t like my idea. He glared raw hatred at me. “Fuck you!” He snarled.
I saw that Stan was getting mad, but he wasn’t mad enough. I needled him some more. “Maybe we’ll all fuck him. I’ll tie you up and make you watch. I bet your slut boy will love it.”
Stan did exactly as I wanted. He lost his temper. I expected that he would leap from the truck and come at me with his fists flying. I was looking forward to it. I planned to hand my gun off to Walt so I could use my fists to get my revenge on Stan. I didn’t care how young and strong he was. I knew I was a better fighter than him. At the very least, I was more ruthless than he would ever dream of being.
Unfortunately for me, Stan did one thing I hadn’t counted upon. He threw the truck door open and raised a chromium automatic pistol which must have been hidden in the door pocket. Stan gritted his teeth with fiery rage and pulled the trigger.
I fired back. I gave Stan the three rounds I had left in my revolver and pulled the trigger until the hammer snapped twice on spent brass. Three red spots sprouted from the chest of Stan’s white t-shirt. The spots quickly spread as the white fabric soaked up Stan’s blood. Stan’s gun-hand went slack. He dropped the automatic, and it clattered to the ground. He remained upright in the truck seat just long enough for me to watch the light of his life leave from his eyes.
Stan started to pitch forward. He looked like he was going to slump out of the seat. Before he did, the windshield glass exploded into the cab of the truck with the thundering boom of cannon fire. Stan’s face was all but blasted from his skull. His dead body continued to slide forward until it crumpled to the ground and lay still on the shop floor.
I looked toward the others to see where the cannon fire had come from. David stood with the butt of the sawed-off shotgun pulled hard against the front of his shoulder. Both barrels streamed with cordite smoke. At first, I didn’t understand why David fired. I soon realized that as Stan slumped forward, it appeared like he was getting out of the truck, perhaps to attack me. David fired to stop him.
David lowered the gun and threw it away from himself. It hit the concrete floor with a hollow rattle. “What did I do?” David asked. He looked down at his hands and spoke to them. “I killed him. I killed a person. I killed him. I killed him! I KILLED HIM!”
I saw that David was getting hysterical. I wasn’t close enough to him to slap him out of it, so I bawled at him. “DAVID! I KILLED HIM!”
David stared at me, glassy eyes in a slack expression. I held my spent revolver up to show David. I repeated myself. “I killed him. He was already dead when you shot him. I watched him die. Thank you for what you did, but it was unnecessary. You didn’t kill him. I killed him.”
David nodded at me. He blinked hard. When he opened his eyes, they had lost their glassy appearance. I saw that he understood. “You killed him, not me.” David said to show he’d received my message. “Law,” David asked as he pointed a shaky finger at my middle, “are you alright?”
I looked to where David pointed and saw there was a hole in the front of my suit jacket. I stowed my gun in its holster and opened my jacket to find my shirt wet with bright red blood. The sight of the wound must have alerted my brain to its presence because pain flared inside me. I pressed my right hand into my stomach to put pressure on the wound. I swore to vent my anger over being shot in the stomach of all places. “GODDAMNIT!” I shouted and gritted my teeth to endure a spasm of agony.
