Busted Flush

The Racist and Deadhead were even more unlovely sleeping than during waking hours. The Racist lay on one of the twin beds in the threadbare motel room in his dirty underwear briefs, his lean body covered by crude prison tattoos, his greasy hair exhibiting an extreme case of bed head. He woke first, a snarl on his lips and the look of a trapped weasel on his face. Deadhead slept on, snoring, drooling, and naked. His skin was fish-belly white, his body managed to look flabby and scrawny at the same time, as skin hung off his bones in sagging rolls. He didn’t wake until the Angel prodded him with her sword tip, and then slowly, with a snort, a yawn, and a slow lifting of sleep-gummed eyelids. He looked at the Angel blankly, rubbed his crusted eyes, then suddenly came to his senses and screamed, “Don’t kill me, don’t kill me!”

Ray grinned at the Racist, whose eyes were darting around the room, seeking some manner of escape. “I hope you’ll be as reasonable as your partner,” Ray told him.

“Fuck you, pig,” the Racist said. He rolled out of bed, his legs entangled in the dingy sheet for an instant. Ray could have fallen on him then, but he held himself back. As much as he wanted to pummel the Racist into unconsciousness, he’d promised him to Norwood. He watched the Racist spring to his feet.

Maybe, Ray thought to himself, I am getting old. Or maybe, just a bit more mature.

He watched the Racist turn, hurtle across the room, and fling himself through the window next to the door.

“That had to hurt,” Ray said conversationally as the almost-naked Racist shattered the glass and landed face-first on the sidewalk beyond. He leapt to his feet and immediately fell right down again. Stuntman had already crossed the street and was approaching with a shuffling gate, a growling Moon at his heels, as the Racist struggled to his feet and they again shot out from under him as he tried to run, and he again fell on his ass.

Ray laughed out loud as the Angel and a frightened, yet perplexed Deadhead joined him at the window. It had been hard, Ray reflected, to commandeer nearly every single ball bearing in the base’s machine shop, but the look on the Racist’s face had been worth all the arguing with requisition clerks and filling out all their goddamn forms. Come to think of it, he’d like to see the look on Rodham’s face when she saw the line on the expense account for the half a ton of ball bearings that the Marines had surreptitiously spread around the motel’s parking lot while the Racist and Deadhead were sleeping in their cozy little beds.

Stuntman reached him as he was scrabbling to stand again. “Let me help you up,” he said, grabbing the Racist’s long, greasy hair and lifting.

The Racist howled like a dog and struck Norwood.

“Hit me again,” Stuntman said, and slammed him hard in the face. His blow pushed the Racist back to the ground, and Norwood fell on him, hammering away.

Ray peered out the window, watching, and after a moment said, “I think that’s enough.”

Norwood let the Racist have one more for good measure in his already bloody mouth and stood over him. “What have you got to say about ‘mud-men’ now?” he asked.

The Racist lay there and bled.

Ray looked at the Angel. “I guess we can call in the Marines and let them take possession of the prisoners.”

The Angel nodded, got out her cell.

“Can I put my clothes on?” Deadhead asked.

“Please do,” the Angel said, and made the call.

The escapees were taken into custody with a minimum of pratfalls and no real problems. The Racist was still unconscious when they put the cuffs on him and Deadhead offered no resistance.

“Watch your step,” Norwood said, grinning, as a pair of Marines helped the Racist up into the back of the detention van. Looking like he was auditioning for the role of the drunken wife-beater on Cops, the Racist just scowled.

Ray put Moon and Stuntman in charge of the prisoners, and they went back to Holloman with the prisoners and Marine guards. After the excitement died down, Ray found himself alone with the Angel. He checked his watch. It was a little short of 4:00 A.M.

“Let’s go grab some coffee and a bite to eat.”

“Don’t you want to call Washington?” the Angel asked.

Ray considered, then shook his head. “No. Let’s let sleeping dogs lie. There’s no sense in stirring them up when we don’t have to.”

“What do you want to do?”

Ray pursed his lips. “I’m sure we can find some way to pass the time until the stores open.”

“Stores?”

“So we can go ring shopping. There’s a wedding chapel where we can get married by a Tachyon impersonator—or,” he said, switching gears at the expression on her face, “we can wait until after we run down Little Fat Boy and have a church ceremony anywhere you want. Except Washington.”

“Why not Washington?” the Angel asked.

Ray shook his head. “I’m staying away from there as long as I can. Can you imagine all the frigging paperwork I’m going to have to fill out once Rodham knows I’m back?”

Double Helix