“That’s me,” said Winder. “You must be the one who wanted to talk about Dr. Koocher.”
The goon named Angel turned off the flashlight and buried it in his jacket. “Two hours with these damn mosquitoes and you standing right here, the whole fugging tine!” He punched Joe Winder ferociously in the kidney.
As Winder fell, he thought: So they’re not here to chat.
His head bounced against limestone and he began to lose consciousness. Then he felt himself being lifted by the armpits, which hurt like hell. They were carrying him somewhere in a hurry.
The husky one, Spearmint Breath, was talking in Joe Winder’s ear. “What’d he say on the phone?”
“Who?”
“The rat doctor.”
“Nothing.” Winder was panting.
“Aw, bullshit.”
“I swear. He left a message, that’s all.” Winder tried to walk but felt his legs pedaling air, being swept along. “Just a message was all,” he said again. “He wanted to see me but he didn’t say why.”
In his other ear, Joe Winder heard the wiry one call him a stinken fugging liar.
“No, I swear.”
They had him up against the side of a truck. Bronco. White. Rusty as hell. Ford Bronco, Winder thought. In case I live through this.
In case anybody might be interested.
The big goon spun Joe Winder around and pinned his arms while the one named Angel slugged him on the point of the jaw. Then he hit him once in each eye. Winder felt his face start to bloat and soften, like a melon going bad. With any luck, total numbness would soon follow.
Angel was working up a sweat. Every time he threw a punch, he let out a sharp yip, like a poodle. It would have been hilarious except for the pain that went with it.
Finally, Spearmint Breath said, “I don’t think he knows jack shit.” Then he said something in Spanish.
Angel said, “Chur he does, the cokesucker.” This time he hit Joe Winder in the gut.
Perfect. Can’t breathe. Can’t see. Can’t talk.
The big goon let go, and Winder fell limp across the hood of the truck.
The man named Angel said, “Hey, what the fug.” There was something new in his voice; he sounded very confused. Even in a fog, Joe Winder could tell that the little creep wasn’t talking to him—or to Spearmint Breath, either.
Suddenly a great turmoil erupted around the truck, and the man named Angel gave out a scream that didn’t sound anything like a little dog. The scream made Joe Winder raise his head off the fender and open what was left of his eyelids.
Through misty slits he saw the husky no-neck goon running toward the bridge. Running away as fast as he could.
Where was Angel?
Something lifted Joe Winder off the truck and laid him on the gravel. He struggled to focus on the face. Face? Naw, had to be a mask. A silvery beard of biblical proportions. Mismatched eyes: one as green as mountain pines, the other brown and dead. Above that, a halo of pink flowers. Weird. The mask leaned closer and whispered in Joe Winder’s ear.
The words tumbled around like dice in his brainpan. Made no damn sense. The stranger bent down and said it again.
“I’ll get the other one later.”
Joe Winder tried to speak but all that came out was a gulping noise. He heard a car coming down the old road and turned his head to see. Soon he became mesmerized by the twin beams of yellow light, growing larger and larger; lasers shooting out of the mangroves. Or was it a spaceship?
When Winder turned back, he was alone. The man who had saved his life was gone.
The car went by in a rush of noise. Joe Winder watched the taillights vanish over the crest of the bridge. It was an hour before he could get to his feet, another twenty minutes before he could make them move in any sensible way.
As he staggered along the pavement, he counted the cars to keep his mind off the pain. Seven sped past without stopping to help. Winder was thinking, Maybe I feel worse than I look. Maybe the blood doesn’t show up so well in the dark. Two or three drivers actually touched the brakes. One honked and hurled a Heineken bottle at him.