King Suckerman

The rapid fire of an automatic rifle came from the bungalow just as the Challenger’s four forty sprang to life. Its tires spat gravel, and the back end fishtailed as Ronald Thomas drove the Dodge straight for the gunman standing in front of the house. Clagget heard the greasy-haired guy issue a high-pitched, slide-whistle scream, watched his eyes widen like the eyes of an animal frozen in the road as the hood of the Challenger scooped him up and carried him right into the bungalow’s porch. The porch and its roof collapsed on one side where the force of the collision snapped one of the pillars clean in half.

Ronald backed up the Dodge in the smoke and dust. He turned it around, drove across the field to where Lucer was running toward the trees. Lucer, running without an arm, lost his balance and right about then began to go into shock. As if in his own bad dream, the big ugly biker moved his legs but seemed to be making no progress at all. Clagget figured that Ronald would be there in a few hot seconds, take care of Lucer out in the field.

Clagget pumped a round into the Remington. He walked toward the house. He passed the greasy-haired biker who had shot at him, saw that the biker’s legs had been pinned against the edge of the porch by the Challenger’s bumper. One of his legs appeared to have been amputated below the knee, while the other hung by a few strands of tendon. His jeans, ripped at the knee and open there, exposed a smashed pink-and-white stew of muscle and bone. The man was conscious, his eyes glassy and fixed, his face a tight and unholy mask.

Clagget heard a single gunshot from behind him in the field. He walked on.

He stepped up on the porch, through the broken window saw a tall woman with a Vietnam-looking rifle walking toward the front of the living room. Clagget knew then that this was his movie, his and Cooper’s. As Cooper had done, Clagget opened the screen door, went right into the house.

The woman turned as he entered, swung the rifle in his direction. Clagget dove to the side, firing while still in the air. The recoil threw him back against the wall. As he hit, he watched the woman kind of fold in on her middle, saw a shower of blood and something else erupt simultaneously from her midsection and back.

Clagget heard a funny kind of drumming sound against the hardwood floor.

Cooper stood up slowly from behind the couch, his right gun arm extended. He walked to where the woman lay kicking at the floor. He put her down with a head shot. He holstered both of his guns.

“Lord have mercy, baby,” said Cooper, talking softly to Deborah. “You was man enough for all these motherfuckers. You know it?”

“Wilton,” said Clagget, getting to his feet.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.”

“You did good, little brother. I knew you would.”

Cooper went and picked up the suitcase where it sat in a smeared puddle of blood next to Larry Spence. Cooper wiped off the handle, gripped it tight. He went to the stereo, kicked the turntable savagely. The rip of a needle on vinyl and then silence hit the room.

“I always did hate that song,” said Cooper. He turned to Clagget. “Get that grocery bag off the table, boy.”

Clagget picked up the bag. They heard the crack of gunshots then, two barely spaced reports.

“Ronald?” said Cooper.

“Finishin’ up, I expect.”

Cooper nodded one time.

They left the house, stood on the slanting porch. It was quiet now, hot and still, like it had been when they arrived. Some gun smoke hovered out in the field. Near the tree line, Clagget could see the body of Lucer lying facedown, one hand palm up at his side.

Ronald was walking away from Albert, whom he had just finished. He moved toward the Challenger, which was now parked near the bikes. Russell stood against the passenger door, smoking a cigarette, the .38 in his hand. Cooper didn’t have to smell the barrel to know the gun hadn’t been fired. Useless as he was, Russell came with Ronald, and that made carrying him more than worthwhile.

Cooper and Clagget stepped off the porch. There was blood on their clothing and a spray of it on Cooper’s face. Cooper got down on one knee, checked out the Dodge’s front end.

“Damn, Mandingo. You done fucked up my ride.”

“Had to.” Ronald shrugged, head-motioned toward Albert. “Anyway, I didn’t fuck it up near as bad as I fucked up that boy’s day.”

“I heard that,” said Cooper.

“Busted on his groove,” said Russell.

Cooper got the grocery bag from Clagget, put it with the suitcase in the Challenger’s trunk. He went to the driver’s side of the car, reached inside, got his Salem longs from where they were wedged in the visor. He passed one to Clagget, lit his own, lit Clagget’s. He took a deep drag, held the smoke in, let it out slow.

“We’re rich, fellas,” said Cooper.

Russell and Ronald gave each other skin.

“We goin’ home now, Coop?” said Ronald.

“Not just yet,” said Cooper. “Got a little business still, back in D.C.”