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that is.”
“You want to ask im some more now that he’s tenderized?” Carmo asked.
“You kiddin? Look at im. He don’t even know his own name anymore. Fuck him.” He started to
turn away, then turned back. “Hey, asshat. Here’s one to grow on.”
That was when he kicked me in the side of the head with what felt like a steel-toed shoe.
Skyrockets exploded across my vision. Then the back of my head connected with the baseboard, and I
was gone.
16
I don’t think I was out for long, because the oblongs of sunlight on the linoleum didn’t appear to have
moved. My mouth tasted of wet copper. I spat half-congealed blood onto the floor, along with a
fragment of tooth, and set about getting to my feet. I needed to hold onto one of the kitchen chairs
with my one working hand, then onto the table (which nearly fell over on top of me), but on the whole
it was easier than I thought. My left leg felt numb, and my pants were tight halfway down, where the
knee was swelling as promised, but I thought it could have been a lot worse.
I looked out the window to make sure the panel truck was gone, then began a slow, limping
journey into the bedroom. My heart was taking big soft walloping beats in my chest. Each one
throbbed in my broken nose and vibrated the swelling left side of my face, where the cheekbone just
about had to be broken. The back of my head throbbed, too. My neck was stiff.
Could have been worse, I reminded myself as I shuffled across the bedroom. You’re on your feet, aren’t
you? Just get the damn gun, put it in the glove compartment, then drive yourself to the emergency room. You’re
basically all right. Probably better than Dick Tiger is this morning.
I was able to go on telling myself that until I stretched my hand up to the closet shelf. When I did
that, something first pulled in my guts . . . and then seemed to roll. The sullen heat centered on my
left side flared like coals when you throw gasoline on them. I got my fingertips on the butt of the gun,
turned it, hooked a thumb into the trigger-guard, and pulled it off the shelf. It hit the floor and
bounced into the bedroom.
Probably not even loaded. I bent over to get it. My left knee shrieked and gave way. I fell to the floor,
and the pain in my guts whooshed up again. I got the gun, though, and rolled the cylinder. It was
loaded after all. Every chamber. I put it in my pocket and tried to crawl back to the kitchen, but the
knee was too painful. And the headache was worse, spreading out dark tentacles from its little cave
above the nape of my neck.
I made it to the bed on my belly, using a swimming motion. Once I was there I managed to haul
myself up again, using my right arm and right leg. The left leg held me, but I was losing flexion in
the knee. I had to get out of there, and right away.
I must have looked like Chester, the limping deputy from Gunsmoke, as I made my way out of the
bedroom, across the kitchen, and to the front door, which hung open with splinters around the lock. I
even remember thinking Mr. Dillon, Mr. Dillon, there’s trouble down at the Longbranch!
I crossed the porch, seized the railing in my right fist, and crabbed down to the walk. There were
only four steps, but my headache got worse each time I jolted down another one. I seemed to be losing
my peripheral vision, which couldn’t be good. I tried to turn my head to see my Chevrolet, but my
neck didn’t want to cooperate. I managed a shuffling whole-body pivot instead, and when I had the car
in my sights, I realized driving would be an impossibility. Even opening the passenger side door and
stowing the gun in the glove compartment would be an impossibility: bending would cause the pain
and heat in my side to explode again.