It was a variation of a song called “Indian Reservation,” which was recorded by Paul Revere and the Raiders, a band not generally remembered for its biting social commentary. Carrie Lanier thought the new lyrics were insipid, but she liked the simple tune and tom-tom rhythms. She was singing the third verse when she turned into the trailer park and spotted a bloated bodybuilder firing a pistol into the side of her double-wide.
Without hesitating, without even honking the horn, Carrie Lanier took aim.
Pedro Luz was so thoroughly engrossed in assassinating Joe Winder in the shower that he didn’t hear the 1979 Buick Electra until it mowed a row of garbage cans ten feet behind him. Pedro Luz started to run but tripped over a garden hose and pitched forward, arms outstretched; it seemed as if he were tumbling in slow motion. When he stopped, the Buick was parked squarely on his left foot.
He lay there for a full minute, bracing for agony that never came: Each of the twenty-six bones in Pedro Luz’s foot had been pulverized, yet the only sensation was a mildly annoying throb. Four thousand pounds of ugly Detroit steel on his toes and not even a twinge of pain. Incredible, Pedro thought; the ultimate result of supreme physical conditioning! Or possibly the drugs.
Apparently the driver had abandoned the Buick with the engine running. Steroids and all, Pedro Luz could not budge the sedan by himself. Meanwhile, the gunfire and crash had awakened other denizens of the trailer park; bulldogs yapped, doors slammed, babies wailed, a rooster cackled. Probably somebody had phoned the police.
Pedro Luz probed at the bloody burrito that was now his left foot, protruding beneath a Goodyear white-wall, and made a fateful decision.
What the hell, he mused. Long as I’m feeling no pain.
Dr. Richard Rafferty’s assistant called him at home to say there was an emergency, he’d better come right away. When he arrived at the office, the doctor sourly observed a tow truck parked in the handicapped zone. Inside the examining room, a husky one-eyed man with a radio collar lay prone on the steel table.
Dr. Rafferty said: “Is this some kind of joke?”
The couple who had brought the injured man said he had been shot at least twice.
“Then he’s got a big problem,” said Dr. Rafferty, “because I’m a veterinarian.”
The couple seemed to know this already. “He won’t go to a regular doctor,” Joe Winder explained.
Carrie Lanier added, “We took him to the hospital but he refused to get out of the truck.”
Dr. Rafferty’s assistant pulled him aside. “I believe I saw a gun,” he whispered.
Skink opened his good eye and turned toward the vet. “Richard, you remember me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“The night that panther got nailed by the liquor truck.”
Dr. Rafferty leaned closer and studied the face. “Lord, yes,” he said. “I do remember.” It was the same fellow who’d charged into the office with a hundred-pound wildcat in his bare arms. The doctor remembered how the dying panther had clawed bloody striations on the man’s neck and shoulders.
Skink said, “You did a fine job, even though we lost the animal.”
“We gave it our best.”
“How about another try?”
“Look, I don’t work on humans.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” Skink said.
“Please,” Joe Winder cut in, “you’re the only one he’ll trust.”
Skink’s chest heaved, and he let out a groan.
“He’s lost some blood,” Carrie said.
Dr. Rafferty slipped out of his jacket and told the assistant to prepare a surgical tray. “Oh, we’ve got plenty of blood,” the doctor said, “but unless you’re a schnauzer, it won’t do you much good.”
“Whatever,” Skink mumbled, drifting light-headedly. “If you can’t fix me up, then put me to sleep. Like you would any old sick dog.”
TWENTY-SIX
Charles Chelsea decided that “dapper” was too strong a word for Francis X. Kingsbury’s appearance; “presentable” was more like it.
Kingsbury wore a gray silk necktie, and a long-sleeved shirt to conceal the lewd mouse tattoo. The reason for the sartorial extravagance was an invitation to address the Tri-County Chamber of Commerce luncheon; Kingsbury intended to use the occasion to unveil a model of the Falcon Trace Golf and Country Club Resort Community.