Junior saw Barbie giving him the finger—in stereo—and forgot all about Rusty. He started down the short corridor with his gun held out in front of him. Barbie’s senses were very clear now, but he didn’t trust them. The people he thought he heard moving around and speaking upstairs were almost surely just his imagination. Still, you played your string out to the end. If nothing else, he could give Rusty a few more breaths and a little more time.
“There you are, fuckface,” he said. “Remember how I cleaned your clock that night in Dipper’s? You cried like a little bitch.”
“I didn’t.”
It came out sounding like an exotic special on a Chinese menu. Junior’s face was a wreck. Blood from his left eye was dribbling down one stubble-darkened cheek. It occurred to Barbie that he might just have a chance here. Not a good one, but bad chances were better than no chances. He began to pace from side to side in front of his bunk and his toilet, slowly at first, then faster.
Junior followed his movements with his one good eye. “Did you fuck her? Did you fuck Angie?”
Barbie laughed. It was the crazy laugh, one he still didn’t recognize as his own, but there was nothing counterfeit about it. “Did I fuck her? Did I
Junior tilted his head toward the gun. Barbie saw it and jigged to the left without delay. Junior fired. The bullet struck the brick wall at the back of the cell. Dark red chips flew. Some hit the bars—Barbie heard the metallic rattle, like peas in a tin cup, even with the gunshot ringing in his ears—but none of them hit Junior.
Shit. From down the hall, Rusty yelled something, probably trying to distract Junior, but Junior was done being distracted. Junior had his prime target in his sights.
“She said you couldn’t get it up, Junior. She called you El Limpdick Supremo. We used to laugh about that while we were—” He leaped to the right at the same instant Junior fired. This time he heard the bullet pass the side of his head: the sound was
“Come on, Junior, what’s wrong with you? You shoot like woodchucks do algebra. You a headcase? That’s what Angie and Frankie always used to say—”
Barbie faked to the right and then ran at the left side of the cell. Junior fired three times, the explosions deafening, the stink of the blown gunpowder rich and strong. Two of the bullets buried themselves in brick; the third hit the metal toilet low down with a
“Got you now,” Junior panted.
The hateful sonofabitch hit the deck as Junior fired, and this bullet also missed. A small black eye opened in the center of the pillow at the head of the bunk. But at least he was down. No more jigging and jogging.
“You poisoned me,
Barbie had no idea what he was talking about, but agreed at once. “That’s right, you loathsome little fuckpuppet, I sure did.”
Junior pushed the Beretta through the bars and closed his bad left eye; that reduced the number of Barbies he saw to just a pair. His tongue was snared between his teeth. His face ran with blood and sweat. “Let’s see you run now,
Barbie couldn’t run, but he could and did crawl, scuttling right at Junior. The next bullet whistled over his head and he felt a vague burn across one buttock as the slug split his jeans and undershorts and removed the top layer of skin beneath them.
Junior recoiled, tripped, almost went down, caught the bars of the cell on his right, and hauled himself back up.