Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017
- Автор: Фузилли Джим, Харрис Шарлин
- Год: 2017
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017». Краткое содержание книги:
Good advice. I should have taken it.
Instead I caught the next shuttle bus from the ghost-town location back to the Red Desert Lodge.
At the front desk, I asked a brighteyed blonde with a stud in her nose to check the sign-out log to see who’d borrowed my car the previous weekend.
“William Boyd,” she read.
“Boyd? Is he with the crew?”
Blondie frowned, doing a quick scan of her computer screen. “There’s no William Boyd registered at the Lodge, Mr. Gates. But...?”
“But?” I prompted.
“Wasn’t Hopalong Cassidy’s real name William Boyd?”
I stared at her blankly.
“You know, Hoppy?” she said eagerly. “Old-time cowboy on TV?”
“Was he in Tombstone?”
“I... don’t think so. He would have been like way too old by then.”
“Never mind,” I sighed. “I know who borrowed my car.”
I found Clete Peterzak in the lodge gym. Tall, slim, and hard as a railroad tie, Clete was shirtless, showing off his iron-pumper muscles and elaborate tats, practicing fast draws in front of a mirror. On a hardwood floor, with no safety mat. Which is one risky damn thing to do. His matched ’73 Remington pistols were originals, probably worth five grand apiece.
“Toby Gates,” Clete said without turning, “what are you doing walking around? I thought I killed you.”
“The script killed me, hotshot. Did Marvin tell you about the changes the brass wants?”
“Yeah. Says they’re tired of shooting the same old, same old, want a real gunfight, with wax bullets. We can skip being wired up with exploding blood packs and all that nonsense. It’ll be as close to real as they can make it, without us actually killing each other.”
“That’s the plan.”
“It won’t be much of a fight, pal. I’ve been timed with lasers at a sixth of a second. Faster than a bat can blink. What are your times like?”
“I honed my chops in Afghanistan, Clete. No timers there. And it won’t matter anyway. Let’s say you’re right, say you’re actually twice as fast as me. Your draw takes a sixth of a second, mine takes a third. Do the math, genius.”
“Marv said you think we’ll just shoot each other. But that won’t happen. I’ll drop you on the first take, Toby. Know why?”
“Nope, but I’m guessing I’m about to find out.”
“Math only works for machines, bud, but we’re real live gunmen, shooting real live bullets, even if they’re just wax.”
“So?”
“So down deep, you know I’m younger and faster. And when the big moment comes? You’ll try to jack up your speed. But a fast draw has to be pure reflex, Toby. If you even think about your speed, you’ve already lost. The old-time gunfighters, Wild Bill, Wyatt Earp, Ringo? Think they did any math before a gunfight?”
“Most Western shootouts never really happened. They’re myths.”
“Well, I won’t myth, Toby,” Clete grinned, cocky as a high-school quarterback on Friday night. “You should figure on dying dramatically when I kill you.”
“Same to you, pal,” I said, turning to go.
And I almost left it there. I was tempted to. But couldn’t quite do that.
“Was there something else?” Clete asked, admiring his front spin in the mirror.
“Neither one of us will ever beat Big Mack, you know. We’ll always be the bad guys.”
“I’m good with that. I grew up in East L.A. Bad guys do just fine there. Real bad guys,” he added, jerking a thumb at his gang tats. “Besides, some movie bad guys make it big. Charles Bronson, Jason Statham.”
“You won’t, Clete. A studio lawyer cornered me today. They know Noreen’s having an affair.”
“I’ve heard that,” he said smugly. “I hear they think it’s you. Did you rat me out?”
“Don’t borrow my car again, Clete.”
“Or what? You’ll call me out?” He executed a perfect border shift, his right-hand gun spinning like a pin-wheel into his left hand. “It’s almost funny, you know? Must be fifty extras in this film wearing guns, but we’re the only two who are gunfighters for real.”
“Wax bullets aren’t real.”
“Lucky for you, chump.”
“I guess we’ll find out.” I shrugged. “If you borrow my car again, I’ll report it stolen. Clear?”
“You don’t want to do that, Toby,” Clete said, his grin a little crazy. Aiming his pistol at my face, he slowly cocked the hammer. Six inches from my nose, the muzzle looked gigantic. It was so close I could count the rounds in the cylinder. They were blanks, but at this distance it wouldn’t matter. The muzzle blast could blind me or split my skull like a watermelon slammed with a sledge.
Neither of us moved, our eyes locked like laser sights.
Clete pulled back his right-hand gun, instantly replacing it with his left.
Then he went into a dazzling bit of gunplay.
“Forward spin, reverse spin, cross spin, border shift, owl-hoot shift,” he called out, executing each maneuver flawlessly as he announced it, two guns in action at the same time, both weapons whirling like pinwheels, silvery blurs, even to my practiced eye.
At the end he spun both guns into their holsters. Then slicked back an imaginary moustache. “Tombstone,” he said.
“What?”
“Ringo’s gunwork in Tombstone. The saloon scene.”
“Very flashy,” I conceded, “until you drop one and blow your nuts off.”
“I’ve never dropped a piece and never will, Toby. If anybody’s minus his nuts, it’s you.”
And I realized he actually believed that. That he’d never fumble a weapon, or come down with dysentery the day of a fight, or say the wrong damn thing to a woman he loved. It hadn’t happened to him yet, so he assumed it never would.
Christ, how old was Clete? Mid twenties, tops. Still young and dumb enough to think he’d be magic forever.
I remembered that feeling. At twenty, most guys think they’re ten feet tall and bulletproof. Some of us outgrow it.
If we live that long.
And I definitely needed a drink.
Stepping into the lounge in the Red Desert Lodge is like a time warp, a flashback to the Old West. The long, oaken bar is polished to a bright shine. A dozen coats of varnish cover carved initials and obscenities that span a century, or two. Billy Cobb home on leave, August 4, 1953. For a grate blow job call Hannah at Middlefield 2431.
The furniture is just as crude. Hand-hewn tables and cedar log chairs upholstered with buckskin, complete with burned-in brands. Wyatt Earp would feel right at home.
Not much action this early in the day. A few extras from the Big Mack movie were pounding brews after the morning shoot, tourist families with kids in the dining area, hoping to spot a celebrity.
And at the end of the bar? One honest to God old cowpoke. Faded denims, broke-down boots, wild gray hair. His left eye was covered by a black patch, lost, along with his leg below the knee, in a stampede scene in a Mack McCray movie stunt back in the day. My Uncle Jocko.
After his injury, he came home to the family ranch at Whitehorse to heal up. I was fourteen that summer, eager to soak up everything he taught me. Gun work, horse falls, rope tricks. How not to lose an eye and half a leg. When he went back to L.A., it broke my young heart.
But years later, when I showed up on his doorstep fresh back from Afghanistan, dazed and confused by things I’d seen — things I’d done? — Jocko took me in without a quibble. Found me movie work, handling horses at first, then as a gunman, killing stuntmen for the cameras, instead of sniping jihadis for real. He’s my all-time favorite uncle, and one look at my face told him something was up.