The Rebel’s Revenge

By then, the whisky bottle was already in the air. It completed a full 360-degree spin from leaving Ben’s hand to flying past the storekeeper’s nose, over the counter and impacting the foxy guy smack in the middle of the forehead with its heavy glass bottom.

Being no kind of a physicist, Ben was dimly aware that the force of a thrown object was based on some complex formula involving vectors of mass and velocity, acceleration and momentum. Newton’s Second Law, if he remembered rightly. But however it measured up in scientific terms, it was plenty forceful enough to have a significant effect on its target.

And yet, it wasn’t so much the high-speed collision between a full bottle of whisky and his cranial frontal bone that would forever change the foxy guy’s life. It was the reflex nerve contraction that ran through his whole body at the moment of impact and caused his index finger to jerk against the trigger of his .357 Magnum while still tucked pointing vertically downwards inside the front of his jeans.

With the hammer cocked, the average Smith & Wesson revolver carries a very light trigger pull. A mere three or four pounds, requiring just a flick of a finger to release the hammer and drop the firing pin against the primer of a waiting cartridge. Which was exactly what happened within the confines of the foxy guy’s trousers at the exact moment the bottle whacked him in the forehead and knocked him sprawling backwards off his feet.

The blast of the gunshot, even somewhat dampened by a layer of denim, was grenade-loud inside the store. Almost as ear-piercing was the shriek of agony that followed as the foxy guy realised that he’d inflicted some terrible damage to himself down there.

To the sound of his buddy’s ululating wail, the big guy finally moved. He shoved the old storekeeper away hard and swivelled the shotgun one-handed towards Ben. The calm smile on his big moon face had creased up into a bared-teeth sneer of fury and hate. The twin muzzles of the shotgun pointed Ben’s way.

But just as suddenly, they were pointing straight up towards the ceiling as Ben closed in on him and diverted the weapon with a flying high kick to the big guy’s right forearm that dislocated his wrist tendon and sent the gun tumbling out of his grip. It fell to the linoleum floor with a thud, unfired. By the time it had landed, Ben had got the big guy’s dislocated wrist trapped in a merciless Aikido joint lock. One that was so painful and debilitating, it didn’t matter how big or strong you were; you were going down.

The big guy was on his knees in moments, helpless, head bowed, gasping. Keeping hold of the arm and wrist, Ben kicked him in the throat. Hard enough to knock the rest of the wind out of him without doing any permanent damage. The big guy toppled to the floor with a crash that made the cans and bottles on the store shelves wobble and clink.

The other moron was lying on his back a few feet away behind the counter, squealing like a pig and clutching his injured groin, far too preoccupied to think about reaching for the revolver that had spilled out of the waistband of his blood-soaked trousers. The barrel and cylinder of the gun were spattered bright red, and there was a lot more of it pooling on the floor. There was a perfectly circular weal the size of a bottle base imprinted on his forehead.

Ben let go of the big fellow and stepped around the counter to slide the fallen revolver away with his foot. Looking down at all the mess and blood, he saw the shattered remains of the Laphroaig Quarter Cask and shook his head in sorrow. What a waste. Why couldn’t he have lobbed a six-pack of Dixie beer at the guy instead?

But there was no use crying over it. It was the idiot on the floor who had much more to cry about. Ben eyed the gory spectacle of his crotch and said, ‘Looks like you emasculated yourself, pal. You’ll be singing mezzo soprano in the parish choir from now on. Maybe that’ll teach you. Then again, I doubt it.’

He turned to look at the storekeeper. The old guy was cowering against the counter, boggling from under a protectively raised arm as though he thought Ben was going to hit him next. So much for gratitude.

There was a phone with a curly plastic cord attached to the wall behind the counter. Ben pointed at it. ‘I’m guessing the Sheriff’s Office is only open nine till five, but there must be a number for the local dispatch centre. Call it. You’d best get them to send a couple of ambulances, too.’

The old man relaxed a little as he realised he wasn’t about to become Ben’s next victim after all. He lowered his arm and gaped down at the prostrated form of the big guy on the floor, then peered over the counter at the other one still yowling and thrashing in a slick of his own blood.

‘Holy shit, mister. I never seen nuthin’ like it. You went through those two boys like a goddamn hurricane.’ Motioning at the big guy, he added, ‘That there’s Billy Bob Lafleur. He’s one evil sumbitch, not right in the head if you get what I’m sayin’. Knowed his mother, way back. She was crazy too. This other fella, he must be from outta town. Jumpin’ Jesus, look what he done. Plain shot off his own balls.’

You could hardly hear yourself think in the place for all the racket. Ben stepped back over to the castrated would-be robber and knocked him out with a quick kick to the temple. Silence at last. He pointed again at the phone. ‘Make the call and let’s get it over and done with. Then I’d like a replacement bottle of whisky to take back to my hotel.’

‘I ain’t got no more of those, sonny. You just broke the last one.’

‘Then I suppose I’ll have to settle for a Glenmorangie instead,’ Ben replied.

‘It’s on the house,’ the old man said. ‘Least I can do for a feller who just saved my life.’ He stuck out a wizened hand. ‘Name’s Elmo. Elmo Gillis. Owned this store since ’seventy-two and never had no trouble until these two dipshits showed up.’

Ben took his hand with a smile. ‘I’m Ben. I appreciate the kindness, Elmo. But I’m happy to pay for it, and the broken one too.’

Elmo made the phone call. Ben rested against the counter and lit up a Gauloise, savouring the peace while it lasted, and not much relishing the prospect of having to deal with the cops. For some reason, he and law enforcement officials seldom seemed to gel.

It wasn’t very long before they heard the whoop of sirens, and the street outside became painted with whirling blue light as a pair of identical Crown Victoria police patrol cruisers with CLOVIS PARISH SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT emblazoned on their doors came screeching up at the kerbside.

‘That’s Sheriff Roque,’ Elmo said, pointing through the store window at the car in front. ‘Meaner’n a wet panther, that one.’

‘Bad cop?’ Ben asked him.

‘Hell, no. Ol’ Waylon is the best sheriff we ever had.’

From the lead car emerged a large, raw-boned officer in a tan uniform and a broad campaign hat jammed at an angle onto his greying head. His face looked about as soft and good-humoured as a mountain crag in winter. Joined by a pair of deputies from the cruiser behind, he pushed inside the liquor store and halted near the doorway, surveying the scene with gnarled fists balled on his hips.

And now Ben’s evening was about to get started in earnest.

Chapter 5 (#u0996fefc-3da0-5fb5-8429-1e493b385096)

The sheriff glanced around him. His eyes were pale and hooded, and threw out a flat cop stare that landed first on the prone shape of Billy Bob Lafleur, then on his unconscious partner in crime, and finally on Ben, scrutinising him carefully.

Ben noticed that in place of his regular service gunbelt and sidearm, Roque wore a fancy buscadero cowboy rig with an old-style Colt revolver nestling snugly in its holster. The floral pattern tooled leather went well with his boots, which were definitely non-issue as well. Deviations from the standard uniform evidently didn’t matter too much down here.

Without taking the stare off Ben the sheriff asked, ‘What the hell happened here, Elmo?’ He spoke loud and slow, as if measuring every word. Which might have been partly to make himself heard by Elmo, knowing the old guy was hard of hearing. Ben guessed that in a small community like this one, everyone knew everyone else, their secrets, their problems, their history.

Elmo answered, ‘These boys tried to hold up the store. And this fella here, he stopped it. Took ’em down in one second flat. You shoulda seen it, Waylon. Ol’ Billy Bob had a gun right in his face. I never saw anyone move so fast.’

‘They dead?’

‘They’re alive,’ Ben said. ‘Just sleeping. But they’re going to need those ambulances PDQ. That one has a badly dislocated wrist. The other’s got probable concussion, and he’s losing a lot of blood from a gunshot wound.’

‘Meatwagons are on their way,’ the sheriff replied. Still in the same loud, slow drawl, strong and authoritative. He aimed a thick, gnarly finger towards Ben. ‘Who shot’m, you?’

Elmo answered for Ben. ‘He shot himself, Waylon. Damn fool blew off his own pecker.’

Apparently quite unmoved, the sheriff gestured to his deputies. One drew a pistol and kept it trained on the two robbers, as though they were in any state to resist arrest, while the other slapped on cuffs. A few late-night passersby had gathered in the street, drawn by the police sirens and rubbernecking through the store window at what was going on.

Keeping his back to the window the sheriff said, ‘Elijah, would you move those folks on?’ The deputy called Elijah hastened outside to carry out the command. The sheriff said to the other, ‘Mason, get on the radio and find out where those meatwagons are at, before this asshole goes and bleeds to death right here in front of us.’

Mason was the deputy with the drawn pistol. He was hatless, with brown hair spiky on top and shaved up the sides like a Marine. His face was fleshy and pasty and burned by the sun and his eyes were somewhat dull. He glanced nervously at Roque. ‘What about these boys?’

The sheriff replied calmly, ‘They’re unconscious, Mason. I think I can handle it. Now scoot and get on that darn radio.’

Mason holstered his weapon and ran out to the car. The sheriff watched him go, and shook his head with a sigh. ‘’Bout as sharp as a bowlin’ ball, that one.’ Then he turned his flinty eyes back on Ben. ‘I’m Waylon Roque, Sheriff of Clovis Parish. I don’t believe I know you, Mister—?’

‘Hope. Ben Hope.’

‘You ain’t from around heah.’

‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ Ben said. ‘I’m just a tourist, that’s all. Arrived here in Villeneuve this afternoon and I’m staying at the Bayou Inn. I’m only in town for the Woody McCoy gig the night after next, then I’ll be heading back home.’ He slipped his passport from his pocket and held it out.

The sheriff took the passport and gave it a quick once-over, then seemed satisfied and tossed it back. ‘A Brit.’

‘Half Irish, for what it’s worth. But I live in France.’

Roque pulled a face, as if he thought even less of the Irish than the Brits. ‘Jazz fan too, huh? I’m more of a Jimmie Davis man, myself.’

Ben smiled. ‘You are my sunshine.’

But Roque wasn’t one for chitchat. ‘What’s your occupation, Mister Hope from France?’

‘I work in education,’ Ben replied. Technically correct although economical with the truth. He didn’t think it necessary to reveal to Roque what kind of education the training facility at Le Val offered, or to whom. Information like that tended to invite too many questions.