Smiling, while a filthy 128-pound hairball sniffed at his privates! Mr. Gash was disgusted.
“You’re one sick bastard,” he spat at the bum.
A voice from behind Mr. Gash: “Look who’s talking.”
He turned to see Desie at the car door, modeling his snakeskin corset. Assuming that the perverted bum would be transfixed by Mrs. Stoat, Mr. Gash decided to seize his chance.
“You’re all sick!” he snarled.
In the moment between uttering those words and pulling the trigger, something unexpected happened to Mr. Gash. The bum shot him twice. The first slug clipped off his right kneecap, toppling him sideways. The second slug, striking him on the way down, went through one cheek and out the other.
Flopping about, Mr. Gash felt a large boot descend firmly on his throat, and the semiautomatic being pried from his fingers. He began to choke violently on a gob of mud, and he was slipping into blackness when a huge fist snatched him by the hair and jerked him upright to a sitting position. There he coughed volcanically until he was able to expel the gob.
But it wasn’t mud. It was an important segment of Mr. Gash’s tongue, raggedly severed by the bum’s second bullet. Only when he endeavored to speak did Mr. Gash comprehend the debilitating nature of his wound.
“Zhhooo zhhaa off mah fugghy ung!”
The bum tweaked Mr. Gash’s chin. “Not bad, sport. You could’ve been a rap star.”
“Zhoooo zhhuuhh of a bizhhh!”
The bum hoisted Mr. Gash by the armpits and heaved him headfirst into the leering grille of the Buick. Mr. Gash crumpled into a grimy naked heap on the ground, and he would have preferred to remain there indefinitely until his multitude of fiery pains abated. The bum, however, had other plans.
Twilly was no longer floating down a river. He was lying flat on a tailgate. The good news was, his vision had returned, more or less. Two silhouettes hovered over him: Mrs. Desirata Stoat and a tall hoary stranger with silvery twines growing from each side of his face. The stranger was using a finger to probe the gurgling hole in Twilly’s thorax.
“Hold still, son,” the man advised.
“Who are you?”
“You call me captain, but for now shut up.”
Desie said, “Honey, you lost some blood.”
Twilly nodded dully. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn he’d lost every drop. He could barely hoist his eyelids. “You OK?” he asked Desie. “He hurt you?”
“Nothing that three or four months in a scalding bath won’t cure. But no, he didn’t get what he was after,” she said, “thanks to you and McGuinn and this gentleman.”
Twilly swallowed a deep breath. “Somebody’s been shooting a gun. I smell it.”
“Son, I told you to hush,” the captain said. Then to Desie: “You got something clean I can use on him?”
She retrieved her bra from inside the car. With a pocketknife, the captain cut a swatch of padding from one of the cups. He folded the foam into a makeshift plug, which he gently worked into Twilly’s wound.
“Somewhere in my raincoat,” the captain said to Desie, “there’s a phone. Can you get it for me?”
Twilly shut his eyes. Moments later Desie took his hands, her touch supernaturally hot. He was losing it; slipping under. He heard the beeps of a keypad, followed by half a conversation. The captain’s voice trailed Twilly into a dream, his third ever. He believed it might be his last.
“Jim, you awake?”
In the dream Twilly was on a beach that looked very much like Toad Island. It was straight-up noon.
“Listen, how many helicopters they got waiting around on the governor these days?… Because I need to borrow one. The fastest they got. ”
In the dream Twilly was chasing after a black dog, and the dog was chasing after a man. They all were running hard.
“It’s the kid, Jim… Gunshot to the chest. Be nice if they could round up a doctor for the ride. ”
In Twilly’s dream he somehow caught up with the dog, passing it with a terrific kick of speed. Rapidly he gained ground on the man who was running away. Drawing closer, Twilly saw that the man was wearing baggy Jockey shorts and a sleeveless undershirt. He looked scrawny and old, too old to be moving so fast.