Chapter Forty-Eight
If he hadn’t had three cracked ribs, Doc would have laughed at Russell’s expression when he spotted them on the bench. The prick probably thought he was coming in to see the remains. And now here we are alive, hipped up, pretty obviously more than the usual hostage/rescuer relationship. Remains to be seen. But watch, he’ll deal with it.
And he did cope pretty well. Rushing to Dancy, kneeling to embrace her. Over his shoulder she rolled her eyes at Doc. Not his typical behavior, one could assume.
“Look at you, my God, you’re a mess. But at least you’re safe.” Turning to Doc, he said manfully, “I’ve got to hand it to you Hardesty. You got in, got it done, and got out.”
“Yeah, well…she started it,” Doc growled, standing up and walking towards the door. Primo was standing just inside, and for once his smile didn’t look sad. The dozen State Judicial Police, TAC squad toughs that Russell had brought, were swarming around clearing up matters of jurisdictional interest. Nobody paid much attention to Doc and Primo moseying out the door.
It was just getting light in the parking lot, which was full of battered local and Tepic police vehicles, Martillo’s Buick, the Mustang, and the taxivan they’d taken to the Cama de Piedra. The cabbie sat at the wheel, mucho bummed. At the sight of Doc he flinched, then threw his hands out in a “what up” gesture. Doc showed him a smile that was less reassuring than he probably thought, and Doc stepped over to the van peeling off what a hicktown taxista would see as a major chunk of change. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he said.
“Hey, at least the drinks were free,” the driver deadpanned. “And at least you didn’t shoot me. Or fuck me.” Doc stepped over to the Buick. The keys were in the ignition. He opened the door and motioned to Primo, who grabbed his pack out of
a police car and tossed it in the back seat of the Buick. He looked up at Doc without expression.
“Did you really kill Martillo?”
“Fraid so.”
“Incredible. And also Lios Leyva?”
“No. Martillo shot him. His men are all dead.” Doc paused, “You might make the case that the blonde killed all of them. But I did my part. I showed up.”
Primo nodded. He found the blonde-as-genocide-weapon theory totally credible. To Doc, he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” Doc said, “Everybody is.” Then he glanced at Primo and said, “But thanks. Us assassins need sympathy, too.”
“What else you need is medical attention.” Primo had moved in to examine Doc more closely. The man seemed to be one big bruise crosshatched with welts and the catch in his breath sounded like bad ribs, maybe a damaged diaphragm. Through his open shirt, it almost looked like some maniac had cut off one nipple.
Doc made a chopping gesture with his hand. “Ah, fuck it. I’ll rest up on the trip back. All the doctors are going to say is to stay out of fights. And I just don’t feel like fighting anybody at the moment.”
He opened the door of the Buick and swung in behind the wheel as Dancy, Russ, and a big bunch of cops came out of the station. Immediately one of the local cops approached the car, shaking his finger in the negative. Doc got out and looked down at the cop as he explained that he very much considered the car his by right of spoils and that anyway the Feds would certainly grab it otherwise. The officer was thinking that one over when Doc handed him the key to the Mustang. A more desirable car, though less valuable and notorious. And much more likely to stay his. The cop pocketed the key, smiled at Doc, and held the door open for Dancy as she swept prettily into the passenger seat. Russ took that in for a minute, then walked up to the Buick with a determined stride.
Doc stepped up to meet him. He said, “I just gotta know. Exactly how stupid do you think we are? Scale of one to ten.”
Russell was taken aback, but decided to bluster it out. “Listen, Hardesty, my wife…”
Doc lifted his left shoulder enough to draw Stan’s eye, then slammed the heel of his right hand straight into his nose, which flattened with a loud pop and a rich gout of blood. As he bent forward, hands cupping his nose, Doc sidekicked a knee, then quickly punched the edges of the orbits of both eyes, filling them with blood from the split skin. Primo was so startled that even his impassivity slipped a little. You just don’t think a big, husky man can be devastated so quickly.
Dancy gave a little hand gesture and made a mouth; oh, those men. Primo glanced at the police, but they only seemed interested in watching. The Feds that had just driven up from Tepic in a car with Stan looked like they might even cheer.
Brought to his knees and blinded by blood and pain, Russell never managed to throw a punch. He tried to block what he could see, but didn’t manage to keep Doc from punching and kicking the absolute shit out of him. Dancy called out the window, “When you’re through, do I get a few shots?”
That took some of the steam out of Doc, who looked down at the cringing Russell, feeling totally disgusted. “Ah, to hell with it,” he wheezed, his ribs suddenly clamping down with bands of hot orange pain. “Time’s up. The answer is: Barely stupid enough.”
Stan, wiping blood out of his eyes and squinting up at Doc, babbled desperately. “Hardesty. You don’t understand. Talk to me, man. We can work something out here. Before you go off half-cocked…”
“Poor choice of words, asshole,” Doc growled, but he’d caught Dancy’s eye and was fighting a grin.
“Listen, don’t lose it, play ball with me here. You can come out of this with anything you want.”
“Don’t mention it Stan, baby. I’ll just take your wife.” Doc took a step toward the Buick then added, “Hell, everyone else did.”
Dancy pouted, “Oh, thanks a lot, Doc. Boy, let yourself get ravaged by half of Mexico just one time and you never hear the end of it.”
Russell, rolling up on his knees looked in her direction and said, “Dancy,,,”
Doc grunted as he slipped behind the wheel. “Christ, I think that actually hurt me more than him.” He backed the Buick out of the lot and turned south, towards the ferry terminal in Vallarta. Nobody was in a major hurry to help Stan up.