Tijuana Donkey Showdown Read online

  We locked eyes; I’d seen more humanity in the eyes of the beasts in Grabowski’s menagerie.

  “How’s the tour?” he asked me.

  Said it so casual I almost replied: Yeah, pretty good—

  Then he racked the shotgun and fired at me.

  Instinctively I ducked. The shot sailed over my head. The cash register exploded on the counter. A tickertape parade of shredded banknotes rained down over the store. Coogler racked the shotgun once more. Before he fired again, I turned and vaulted the counter, snatching Gizmo’s sack in one hand and Grabowski’s rifle in the other, and leaving myself with no hands to cushion my fall.

  I slammed the floor face first, performed a clumsy somersault, and crumpled in a heap of pain. Before I’d recovered, Rat-tail stormed inside the store, firing a revolver, potting clutter from the counter that clattered and smashed on the floor all around me. The revolver clicked empty and I heard him curse and then the clink of brass as he fed fresh shells into the cylinder.

  Still dazed from face-planting the floor, I teetered up from behind the counter with the rifle in my hands. I squeezed the trigger. The rifle coughed like a peashooter. The dart whistled through the air and buried itself deep in Rat-tail’s right eye. His head rocked back and he let out a stuck-pig squeal and started dancing an agonized tarantella. He fumbled for the dart and ripped it from his eye. His eyeball came with it, wrenched from the socket with a ghastly slurping sound, skewered on the dart like an olive on a cocktail stick. Bloody eyeball fluid slopped from the gory hollow. The eye that remained in his skull widened in horror.

  Coogler crashed through the door behind him.

  “Damn it, Billy. What the hell are you hollering about?”

  Rat-tail—aka Billy—thrust his skewered eyeball towards Coogler.

  Coogler said, “Jesus.”

  Then he glanced around the store at the panicked animals.

  “Jesus,” he said again.

  Then the smell must’ve hit him. “Jesus!”

  He saw me standing in shock behind the counter.

  With a snarl, he racked the shotgun and raised it towards me.

  I hurled the empty tranq gun at him, stalling him long enough to grab Gizmo’s sack and dive through the open window behind the counter.

  2.

  * * *

  I landed with a woof on a crash mat of straw. I was in the five-legged donkey’s pen. The jackass didn’t like me invading his space, started snorting and stamping his hooves. I patted his flanks, trying to calm him down. Enrique must have got the wrong idea because he turned his head and batted his eyes and gave me what I swear was a coquettish look. Then his johnson started unspooling like an ominous serpent slithering down from a tree, coiling in the dirt between his hind legs. Before I could flee, Coogler burst from the store into the zoo yard. I had no choice but to duck down behind the donkey and try to conceal myself.

  The little guy came stumbling into the yard in Coogler’s wake. “Mitchell …” said Billy, in a groggy voice. “I ain’t feeling so good, man …”

  I imagined he wasn’t, not with a head full of tiger tranquilizer. Billy could count himself lucky Tiberius was so old, that the cat didn’t require a stronger dose of tranquilizer, else he’d have been comatose already.

  Billy wobbled and collapsed facedown in the yard and started snoring heavily. Coogler crouched down beside him and checked his pulse, slapped his face but couldn’t rouse him. He rolled Billy into the recovery position. Then he climbed back to his feet, racked another round into his shotgun and started sweeping the barrel over the yard. “Mister! You come out now, I’ll make it quick.”

  Well, I wasn’t falling for that shit. Hunkered down behind the jackass, I hugged the sack containing Gizmo to my chest, more for my comfort than the dog’s. The little fucker nipped me through the sack. I yelped in pain as his snaggly fangs punctured the web of flesh between my thumb and forefinger.

  Coogler whirled towards the cry. Seeing me, he grinned, tweezing one end of his circus strongman mustache between his fingers like a vaudeville villain.

  “Alright, shitbird. Out from behind that jackass, right now.”

  I was surprised he didn’t just shoot Enrique and me both. He’d just murdered Grabowski in cold blood, and didn’t strike me as an animal lover. He approached the donkey pen slowly with his shotgun raised.

  Enrique started backing up, snorting and stamping the earth. Afraid to take my eyes off Coogler, I reached out to stop the jackass from kicking me, or crushing me against the back of the pen. I blindly gripped hold of his leg—

  It was not his leg.

  I let go at once; tried to, at least.

  But the strap of my watch had somehow snagged on the loose folds of skin and bristles of the donkey’s freakish member, shackling me to him at the wrist. I cried out in horror and jerked my hand back as if from a fire, inadvertently cranking the donkey’s dingus like the arm of an old-fashioned slot machine.

  Enrique reared onto his hind legs with a heehawing cry. He thrashed his head and whinnied wildly. His reins shook free from the hitching post. And then he shot from the pen like a bullet from a gun. Coogler’s eyes widened in shock as Enrique stampeded towards him … or maybe it was the sight of me clutching a fistful of donkey-dong as I was dragged through the dirt behind the bolting beast.

  Coogler leapt from our path, rolled, came back up with his shotgun raised and his finger on the trigger. As Enrique dragged me past him, I swung the Gizmo-laden sack like a mace and chain, striking the shotgun barrel and throwing off Coogler’s aim. The wild blast blew a hole in the fence. A section of sheet metal collapsed like a drawbridge, revealing the filling station forecourt and the highway beyond. Enrique saw the opening and bolted towards it.

  I glanced back, saw Coogler rack another round and take careful aim. Enrique and me were dead in his sights. He couldn’t miss. But instead of blasting us both to hell, at the last second he fired an angry shot at the heavens. Twice now Coogler had refused to shoot the jackass. Why? I wondered. Much as it’s possible to think of anything when you’re dirt-surfing behind a jackass by its cock.

  Enrique bolted through the hole in the fence. Dust billowed in our wake as he tore across the forecourt. To my surprise, Harry was still in the Jeep. I could’ve kissed the dumb sonofabitch for not running out on me. Then I remembered I’d taken the truck keys. He’d had no choice but to stay. Harry saw me skidding through the dirt behind Enrique, and what I was holding, and his eyes bugged wide and his jaw dropped in shock. Enrique was still wearing that sign on his back: DONKEY RIDE - $5. Maybe Harry thought this was part of the tour?

  Harry’s head did a slow turn as I was dragged past the truck screaming “Help!”

  Then we were thundering away down the highway. I bobbed and moved my head, like I was still in my boxing prime, just to avoid the donkey’s storming hooves. The blacktop ripped my shirt and jeans to rags. Scraped my knees and elbows raw. My belt buckle raked the asphalt, spraying sparks in my wake.

  I glanced back once more, as much to keep the flying dust from my eyes, and saw Coogler charging through the hole in the fence. We were by now beyond firing range. Coogler bellowed in rage as we galloped away.

  He glanced at the Toronado, as if considering a pursuit, but seemed reluctant to abandon Billy, who as far as I knew, remained unconscious in the zoo yard.

  Then he spotted Harry cowering in the Jeep. Coogler smashed out the window with the butt of his shotgun, and dragged Harry, screaming, from the cab.

  The last thing I saw was Coogler shoving Harry back against the Jeep and jamming the shotgun barrel under his chin—

  Then a hoof dashed my skull, and that’s all she wrote, I was out.

  3.

  * * *

  I came to, facedown in mud, skull pounding like taiko drums, my left arm thrust stiffly before me. Peeling my face from the mud, I regurgitated a mouthful of dirt. My vision blurred into focus. Enrique’s hairy ass hovered above my head. Night had fallen. A sliver o
f moon hung in the sky like a silvery sickle blade. We were in the Sticks someplace. Enrique must’ve pulled off the highway for a rest stop. His head was bowed to drink from a waterhole. My wrist remained shackled to his johnson; my other hand still clutched the sack containing Gizmo. I didn’t know if the dog was dead or alive. I gave the sack a little shake. Gizmo gave a groggy growl. He sounded like I felt.

  Releasing my grip on the sack, I clambered gingerly to my knees, reached between Enrique’s hind legs, and attempted to unfasten the strap of my watch. It was a delicate operation. I didn’t want to goose him, and have him take off again. The watch was snagged on Enrique like a tick. To an outside observer—please god, no one was watching—it would’ve looked like I was molesting the jackass. After some effort, I managed to loosen the watchstrap and worm my hand free. My deadened arm fell limp by my side. My watch remained dangling from Enrique’s johnson like a ticking cock-ring. He could keep it. Under the circumstances, I’m sure Nic Cage would’ve understood.

  I massaged some life back into my arm, hissing as the limb prickled with pins and needles. I was lucky the jackass hadn’t wrenched my arm from the socket as he’d dragged me along. Not that I was feeling very lucky just then; quite the opposite. I crawled to the edge of the waterhole, bowed my head alongside Enrique’s, and examined my reflection in the murky surface of the water.

  I’d seen better days. My forehead was gashed where Enrique had hoofed me. That’d leave a good U-shaped scar. My nose was smeared across my cheek. Fortunately, I’d broken it so many times during my boxing career that the cartilage was malleable as Play-Doh, and I was able to mold it back into an approximate nose shape. I washed my hands—thoroughly—then I cleaned my face and gulped a few scoops of brackish water.

  My wits started slowly returning; but that was nothing to brag about.

  Memories of my escape from Grabowski’s were hazy—being hoofed in the head by a jackass will do that—the last thing I remembered was seeing Coogler drag Harry from the Jeep and shove a shotgun in his face. Considering how ruthlessly Coogler had murdered old Grabowski, it didn’t bode well for Harry.

  I reached in my pocket for my cellphone and produced a rubble of broken phone parts. Well, so much for palming this clusterfuck onto the law.

  With a heavy sigh, I staggered to my feet and tried to get my bearings. Behind me, the undergrowth was trampled flat where Enrique had plowed a path from the highway to the waterhole. I figured the quickest course of action was to ride back to Grabowski’s, call the cavalry from there. That’s right, I said ride.

  I patted Enrique’s neck.

  “Alright, pard. This time let’s try it the old-fashioned way.”

  Gripping his mane, I hauled myself astride the donkey’s back, stifling a hiss of pain as my balls took my weight. It had been many years since I’d ridden, and never bareback, or on a jackass. I slung Gizmo’s sack on my shoulder like a hillbilly Santa. Then I tugged Enrique’s mane, heeled his ribs, and turned him towards the highway. I spurred him again, Enrique trotted forwards, and away we went.

  4.

  * * *

  As we neared the filling station, I reined Enrique to a halt, surveying the scene and trying to decide if I was blundering into an ambush. A small herd of petting zoo animals had escaped through the hole in the fence and were roaming the forecourt. I couldn’t see Coogler and Billy anywhere. The black Toronado with the horsebox trailer was gone. My Jeep was still there on the forecourt—what was left of it. The tires were slashed, the hood yawned open, and even from this distance I could see the engine had been shot to shit. I wouldn’t be driving out of here, although by now I considered Enrique more reliable and only slightly less comfortable than the damn Wagoneer anyway.

  I saw no sign of Harry, dead or alive. Inside the store, maybe?

  Reasonably sure that Coogler and Billy weren’t hiding in ambush, I giddied Enrique onto the forecourt, climbed down from his back, hitched his rope to the porch rail, left Gizmo’s sack on the porch, and then I warily entered the store.

  Grabowski’s Gas & Zoo had a new attraction: Flies.

  Buzzing over Grabowski’s corpse like Lilliputians swarming Gulliver.

  The old man was sprawled on the floor where he’d crashed through the window. I felt a pang of sorrow for Grabowski; he’d survived firefights in the ‘Nam, only to be back-shot by thugs in his own damn zoo. A number of animals were crowded around the corpse like mourners at a wake … or maybe diners waiting for the all-you-can-eat buffet to open.

  But where was Harry?

  It didn’t make sense for Coogler to have killed him, and then gone to the trouble of hiding his body, while just leaving Grabowski to rot on the floor; he must have taken Harry with him. What the hell was going on here? I felt hopelessly out of my depth, and I wasn’t wearing water wings.

  I went behind the store counter and snatched the landline phone from its wall mount. No dial tone. Either Grabowski hadn’t paid Ma Bell, or Coogler had cut the phone line. I slammed the phone down, cursing Harry and his ugly fucking dog for getting me into this mess. But I knew I only had myself to blame. I should’ve left well enough alone, instead of playing hero.

  Feeling eyes on me, I glanced back at Grabowski’s corpse. A mangy coyote was licking the frozen tears from his face. The sow that’d been snoring on the army rack was now nudging the old man with her snout, as if trying to revive him. The rest of the critters surrounded him like grief-stricken mourners at a chapel of rest. Was it my imagination, or were they staring at me expectantly, as if demanding I avenge their murdered master … ? Probably my imagination, yeah.

  But I knew I couldn’t walk away from this.

  Harry might’ve been an asshole—hell, there was no ‘might’ about it—but I couldn’t just abandon him, and risk him haunting me to my dying days. There was nothing else for it; I’d have to ride back to The Henhouse and call the cops from there.

  Before leaving the store, I picked Grabowski off the floor—I didn’t trust his critters not to eat him—and laid him in state on the counter. The little possum snuggled beside him like chief mourner, looking genuinely distraught, and I choked down a lump in my throat. I shrouded his corpse with a few tee shirts from the souvenir stand. I could’ve used one of the shirts myself, to replace the shirt I’d ripped to rags being dragged behind Enrique. Unfortunately Grabowski didn’t stock my husky size.

  I went back outside to Enrique and Gizmo.

  John Wayne once said:

  “Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.”

  I was scared to death, all right; dealing with a monster like Mitchell Coogler, you bet I was. But as I lowered myself gingerly onto Enrique’s back, hissing as my balls were squashed beneath me, I only wished I had a saddle.

  FIVE

  DONKEY TONK

  1.

  * * *

  Enrique trotted to a stop outside The Henhouse. I dismounted stiffly, gave my legs a little shake to coax my balls back down from my abdomen, and then hitched Enrique to the wing mirror of Lou’s car. Toting Gizmo’s sack on my shoulder, I went inside.

  Walt was behind the slab, still experimenting with the recipe for his Skunk Ape cocktail like the Nutty Professor in his lab. “You’re late,” he said, not looking up.

  It wasn’t like Walt was rushed off his feet. The place was near most dead, apart from a huddle of college kids in the corner I might’ve carded, had I been at work on time. Most of the regulars had blown their paychecks, not to mention their loads, at last weekend’s Wet G-String Nite.

  Lou was there, of course.

  After heading home to freshen up, he’d reclaimed his spot at the end of the stage, and was waving a buck under Marlene’s ass like a loyal courtier fanning his queen’s derriere. He gave me a little nod as I entered—my torn and bloody appearance didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest—before returning his attention to Marlene.

  I collapsed on my stool at the end of the slab.

  I said to Walt, “I need
a cold beer, change for the phone, my jackass needs water, oh, and here—” I handed him the writhing grain sack: “Put this somewhere safe.”

  Walt finally noted my appearance, blinked, but didn’t comment right away. He peered inside the sack and wrinkled his nose. “The hell are you bringing a rat in my place?”

  “It’s a dog.”

  “Say it is?” He took another look. “Ugliest fucking dog I ever saw.”

  Walt removed Gizmo from the sack, holding the dog at arm’s length like he was clutching a baby with a stinky load in his diaper. He didn’t seem to know what to do with the mutt. Finally he shoved Gizmo on the back-bar’s top shelf, where it was too high for him to jump down. Gizmo scuttled back and forth along the shelf, yipping furiously at Walt. “Screw you, too,” Walt said.

  Walt looked outside and saw the jackass peering through the window like a horny teenager spying on the gals. “I thought Muffet was gonna give you a truck?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Well shit, Reggie. You show up late for work on a jackass, with a rat-looking dog in a sack, looking the way you do—more than usual, I mean …” He propped his elbow on the bar and leaned towards me. “I wanna hear it.”

  “Later,” I said. “Right now I’ve gotta call Randy-Ray. Can I get a quarter?”

  “Am I gonna get it back?”

  “Damn it, Walt!”

  Walt opened the register and fished out a quarter. I went to the phone kiosk and called the town stationhouse. Martha Gooch, who doubled as Randy-Ray’s secretary, answered the phone. “I’m sorry, Reggie,” she said, when I asked to speak to Randy-Ray. “But the Constable’s unavailable right now. He’s on a stakeout.”

  “Which steakhouse?”

  “StakeOUT,” she said. “He’s chasing a lead on that—that bucket seller business.” For a moment I wondered what she was talking about. In all the excitement, I’d almost forgotten about Randy-Ray’s swollen gonads. “He gave me strict instructions he isn’t to be disturbed,” Martha said. I could hear the guilt in her voice; her eye for a bargain had nearly cost her husband his manhood.