She unzipped his fly and released his growing erection.
"This'll be the best damn dollar you ever spent," she promised, dropping her knees to the clean white tiles.
Relaxed, sweaty, and tired, he exited the washroom a half hour later, counted heads. The jukebox was still wailing. He shut the door to the sound of the whore fishing in the trash can for her utensils.
A fly buzzed his ear. "Wait a cyc, where did the Indian guy go?"
As if in response, the jukebox went silent.
"I think he left," the kid said.
Macon glared at Casp. He shook his head. "No one's been through this door, boss."
"Left?" Macon looked at the counterman. "Did he go out the kitchen?"
"No, boss."
"Then-"
Macon heard plastic flapping. He followed the sound to the music player. Behind a shelving unit filled with stacked boxes of dry supplies a hole in the wall, plastic-covered, flapped. He suspected there'd once been a wall-unit air conditioner, probably long since sold off, the hole then filled with a couple of layers of roofing sheet.
Well, you'd have to expect a few rats to dodge a trap. Maybe Stutters-with-Gimp wasn't as stupid as he looked.
The whore came out of the washroom.
"Anyone who doesn't want to be dead, follow me," Macon said, looking pointedly at her. "You too, Red. Casp, bring up the rear, I don't want any more stragglers."
He strode out the door. The Transporter waited in the lot near the exit. They probably wouldn't be able to see into the windowless back compartment until they were inside. He just needed them to follow him to the back doors. Half of your Authority was in how you presented yourself, walked, talked, confidence bred-
Hands swung down out of the daylight like a mousetrap snapping shut. Before Macon processed that a man-a very strong one-must be up on the Wayside roof, somehow he was in the air, swung aloft by the straps on his Model 18 and his own field harness. He sagged as his gun hitched around some invisible projection, he could just see the shoulder brace of the folding stock ...
"Casp!"
A shadow dropped, the steel hammer pick in its hand. The Indian-
He heard Casp grunt.
Three wet strikes. Two quick, one loud and slow-a secret knock struck by a hatchet on a melon-and Casp fell. He looked like a toppled chess piece. The same neat collar, the same well-trimmed hair, facedown in front of a nowhere fill-up, all those hours in the gym punishing a punching bag obviated . . .
"Run for your lives," the Indian yelled to those inside, his stutter gone.
He swung one leg up on the roof, yanked on his gun until the strap came free, then felt himself fall-pulled down.
The ground hit him, hard.
A flurry of legs and he rolled over. Still had the gun. Smelled blood, saw it leaking out of Casp.
Horror in the lot. Red ran out of the driver's compartment on the Transporter. Those fools . . .
The Indian and Red were throwing bundles into the back of his Pooter. His Pooter! They climbed in, pressed the starter.
Macon raised his gun, sighted. He'd blow their brains out and let a sanitation squad clean up the Pooter.
PKEW! the gun rocked sideways in his hand. It had never done anything like that before in his range practice. He lowered it, tried to work the ejector but it wouldn't slide.
Misfire-
No, the Indian had jammed something in the barrel. The gun's mechanism was jammed. Shit-this had never happened to him in the field before, he'd had classroom training.