“I gotta make a phone call,” Durgess said to Asa Lando.
“One more thing. It might could help.”
“What?”
“He stomped a man to death, Durge.”
“No shit!”
“Six, seven years ago. Some superdumb tourist,” Asa Lando said, “hopped on his back so the wife could take a picture. Like he was ridin’ a bronco. Old El Jeffy went nuts is what them Argentines told me. Threw the tourist fellow to the ground and mushed his head like a tangelo. Made all the papers in South America.”
Durgess smiled crookedly. “So it ain’t just any rhino we got here, Asa. It’s a killer rhino. A world-famous killer rhino.”
“Exactly right. That help?”
“You bet your ass,” Durgess said. “Call me when he wakes up.”
Mr. Gash couldn’t believe that the bum with the crimson eye and the weird checkered skirt had showed up in the dead of night, in the middle of the woods. And packing a pistol!
“I said, the boy is mine.”
Mr. Gash leered. “You’re into that, huh, pops? A rump ranger.”
“I’ll take the woman, too.” The bum motioned with the gun toward the station wagon containing Desirata Stoat.
“Pops, you can have the ‘boy.’ He’s dying anyway. But the lady,” said Mr. Gash, waving with his own gun, “she stays with me. Now get the fuck outta here. I’m counting to six.”
The bum flashed his teeth. The braids of his beard were dripping after his jog through the rain; tiny perfect globes, rolling off the bleached buzzard beaks. Mr. Gash was unnerved by the sight, as he was by the man’s eerie calm. Being cold and unclothed had put Mr. Gash at a psychological disadvantage in the standoff. By rights he should have felt cocksure, a single-action Smith being no match for his trusty semiautomatic. Yet all it would take would be one lucky shot in the dark—and even a bum could get lucky.
Mr. Gash elected to proceed carefully, lest his pecker be blown off.
He said to the burn: “You can have the dog, too.”
“I was hungry enough, Mr. Gash, I just might.”
“What kinda sick kink you into, pops?” Mr. Gash levered himself to one knee. His foot made a sucking sound when he tugged it out of the mud. He was somewhat flattered that the bum knew his name.
“The governor sent me, Mr. Gash. I’ll take over from here.”
“Hooo! The governor!”
“Yessir. To fetch that young man.”
“Well, Mr. Robert Clapley sent me,” said Mr. Gash, “to do the exact same thing. And my guess is Mr. Clapley pays a whole lot handsomer than the governor. So we got a conflict, don’t we?”
A jingling came from the pines, and McGuinn’s shadow appeared at the edge of the clearing. The second gunshot had launched the dog on another fruitless search for falling ducks, and he had returned only to encounter yet another human with a gun; an uncommonly large human who smelled of fried opossum and wood smoke. McGuinn’s mouth began to water. Unspooling his tongue, he trotted forward to greet the stranger in the customary Labrador manner.
Mr. Gash saw what was coming and steadied his arm, preparing to fire. Here was the opportunity he’d been awaiting: The bum wouldn’t be able to ignore the dog. Nobody could ignore that loony pain-in-the-ass mutt. And the moment the bum got distracted, Mr. Gash would shoot him in the heart.
From the car, Desie called out: “McGuinn! Come, boy!”
Naturally the dog paid no attention. On his way to meet the stranger, he stepped blithely over Twilly Spree, sprawled bleeding on the ground.
“Bad boy! Come!” Desie shouted, to no avail.
McGuinn sensed that the extra-large human with the gun presented no menace, but rather the promise of an opossum snack. It was imperative to make friends…
As the dog’s nose disappeared beneath the hem of the bum’s checkered kilt, Mr. Gash’s forefinger tightened on the trigger. He was waiting for the bum to react—to recoil in surprise, yell in protest, shove the dog away. Something. Anything.
But the bum didn’t even flinch; wouldn’t take his good eye (or the.357) off Mr. Gash. He merely stood there smiling, a smile so luminous as to be visible on a moonless night.