The Subtle Art of Brutality

Over the top of the detective’s shouted, “Shit,” was an explosion of gunfire.

At least I’ll be able to hold you again.

You ain’t done yet, lover. Get up, Jeremiah. If you die now, I will not be waiting.

But Mariana, I—

No, you have work to do.

The man with the mustache.

GET UP!

The Judge rolled, tried to get his gun. Bullets thunked the concrete, peppering his face and hands with stinging shards.

Bassi and the detective fired, their guns barking, while screaming customers dove for cover under tables and through the doors back into the restaurant. Two men, dressed alike in the uniform of Jehovah’s Witnesses, hopped the short fence and disappeared down the street into the summer heat.

Shots tore open everything. The soda machine and its tanks of syrup and CO2, bottles of runny red ketchup and thick yellow mustard, jars of jalapenos and relish, containers of barbeque sauce. Tumblers of soda and plates of food exploded, covering the patio.

The Judge tried again to get to his gun, but couldn’t get his jeans up while dodging the shots or while fighting the damned vest that fit him like steel sport coat one size too big.

He jumped to his feet as the warmth of his own blood streamed from his mouth. Without a word, he ran for the truck. It wasn’t going to take the cops long to get here. He didn’t want to be found and he sure as hell didn’t want the truck found.

It was a short block to the truck but the Judge’s boots slipped on the asphalt. Like a dream where he ran and ran but never moved. A car came around the corner and the horn squealed. The driver slammed his brakes but the car continued, smoke pouring from the rear tires. The Judge dipped his shoulder to absorb the collision but somehow missed it.

Instead, the car ran into a storm of bullets. They thunked a trail from hood to trunk as the thing got stopped. The driver yelped and threw the car into reverse and again the tires smoked as he blasted back the way he’d come.

Ducking and dodging, trying to avoid Bassi’s shots, Bean made it to the truck’s door. A quick yank open, two steps, and his ass was deep in the seat.

A bullet hole stared at him. One bored in through the driver’s window and exited the far back side of the sleeper wall. Delicate shards of safety glass dotted the dashboard.

Someone else already shooting at you?

Bean cranked the hell outta the truck’s big motor. The engine screamed and thick clouds of black smoke filled the air.

So who was shooting?

Stanton? Or, given Bassi’s tastes, someone else altogether?

“You fucking dumbass,” he said, berating himself. Why had he ever thought Bassi could make a delivery? He’d known for years what Bassi was all about and what kind of baggage he brought with him. “Damnit, Bassi, what’d you do?”

A bullet answered. It tore into the door just behind the Judge. He heaved the truck into gear and got it moving. Inches at a time.

From the patio, Bassi kept shooting. Bullets hit the trailer and the engine housing. One bullet shattered the entire front windshield while another tore through the radiator. In the outside mirrors, the Judge saw the trailer and his balls tightened.

Smoke poured from it.

“No, no.” Bean hit the steering wheel. “Damnit.”

Bassi hopped the knee-high fence around the patio and bolted into the street, waving his arms. “That’s my weed. You ain’t getting it.”

The Judge blasted the horn. The truck kept moving, a decent bit of power now in its belly.

Bassi jumped onto the nose of the rig, catching the hood ornament and hauling himself up on top of the thing.

“Are you crazy?” Bean said.

“This is my shit.”