Dirty South

65

I could not breathe, the air snuffed from inside, my face filling with blood. My gun fell to the ground.

I jabbed my elbow back into the freak’s chest and leaned forward, pulling him off his feet. I pressed my thumb into his wrists and felt his hands open. Bone and gristle snapping. I bent back his hands and butted him in the head.

He staggered back, facedown, slowly getting to his feet. He raised his head. Grayed skin wrinkled and decayed as a dead leaf across his skull. He reached into his coat and pulled out a little revolver.

He smiled with rotten, uneven teeth that looked like a brown picket fence.

I heard the crack of a gun; I closed my eyes.

The freak doubled over and sprinted down under the dark colonnades. I grabbed my Glock and followed a trail of thin, dark blood.

I’d heard the same car running by the playground and practice fields.

I turned the corner and Bronco joined me at my side. He kept pace, a mesh Caterpillar hat scrunched down in his eyes. I was damned glad I’d called them.

“JoJo’s got cover from the back,” he said. Grinning with the hunt. “You want me to drop that man from here?”

The freak was only about ten yards away, running past the darkened shapes of metal ponies and swing sets. His right hand grasping his left arm and staggering.

JoJo crossed before him, a thick shotgun sighted across the freak’s eyes.

Bronco stopped running and held his Colt in his right hand.

We slowed to a walk.

The man wheezed as if broken inside, sputters of air coming from him. His yellow eyes squinted, face twisted into a feral look of an animal cornered. His lips quivered over his broken teeth and he moved his hand to his pocket.

“Where’s the boy?” JoJo asked, pumping the gun.

The man kept wheezing.

Bronco came up fast behind him and slammed a boot into his lower back with a hard steel toe, knocking him to the ground.

He kept his boot there, breathing hard, and shook out a cigarette from a pack, placing it dry into his mouth. “Me and JoJo used to run deer up and down Clarksdale when we was kids. I got to be pretty good. ’Cept JoJo won’t admit it.”

“Bullshit,” JoJo said, dropping the shotgun and sauntering over to the old car.

“Well, hello, Tavarius,” he said so we could all hear.

I followed and found the boy tied with laundry line across his ankles and wrists. A torn piece of brown cloth gouged deep into his mouth. He tore at it with his teeth and tried to break free when he saw JoJo.

JoJo untied him.

I dialed 911.

“What you doin’?” Bronco asked.

“Calling the police.”

“Not on this,” he said, grinding his steel toe into the small of the man’s back. “He’s out of the game.”

He kicked at the man’s head, so quick and violent that I had to turn away.

Bronco picked up the man, as if he was recently found roadkill, and dragged him to the old car. The heels of the killer’s old brogan shoes scuffing behind him. The muscles and veins in Bronco’s huge forearms bulging with his years of strength.

“Get the keys.”

I did, turning off the ignition of the old Pontiac, painted a light gold. Vinyl seats covered in duct tape.

“Pop the trunk,” he said.

I did.

“See you back at the bar,” Bronco said.

“Wait.”

“Come on, Nick,” JoJo said. “Let’s get this kid safe.”

Tavarius was rubbing his wrists. He refused to look me in the face.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know about Dio.”

He shook his head and walked away.

JoJo winked at me and followed.