Free This Wicked World by RICHARD LANGE Page B

chrome revolver clutched in his fist.
    “Gun!” the black guy shouts.
    He and the white guy open fire, the muzzle flashes shockingly bright in the dark room; the noise painful, each explosion like a hammer blow to Virgil’s chest. Eton flops back into the chair with part of his skull blown away. Blood gushes black from half a dozen holes in his body. His mouth opens once, twice, gulping, desperate, and then his head slumps forward, and he’s dead, dead, dead.

5
    V IRGIL RAISES HIS HANDS OVER HIS HEAD AND CLAMPS HIS eyes shut. “Stop!” he yells. “I’m Olivia’s brother. My sister is Taggert’s girlfriend. Don’t shoot me, sirs. Please don’t shoot me.”
    “Shut the fuck up,” the black guy says.
    “Yes, sir.”
    Virgil opens his eyes and realizes he’s not breathing, hasn’t been since the shooting started. Sucking in too much air, he coughs. Through a gunsmoke haze he sees the two men standing over Eton’s body, their pistols still trained on him, as if he might spring back to life and begin squeezing off rounds at any moment.
    “What a stupid fucking play,” the white guy says.
    “Yeah, well, you’re calling Taggert about it, not me,” the black guy replies.
    Virgil lowers his arms and notices that his Buccaneers jersey is spattered with a jelly of brain, bone, and hair. Vomit surges from his stomach into his mouth, and he barely manages to choke it back. “Sirs, I gotta get this shirt off or I’m gonna puke,” he says.
    Both men turn to look at him.
    “That’s fucking nasty,” the white guy says.
    “Go on,” the black guy says.
    Virgil lifts the jersey over his head and throws it across the room, sits there shivering in his wife beater. A gurgle rises from Eton’s corpse, blood draining, settling. Virgil stares at the floor to avoid looking at the body and to avoid making eye contact with the black guy, who’s now pointing his gun at him.
    “What are you doing here?” the black guys asks.
    “Dude was a friend of my sister, Olivia. Talk to her. She’ll tell you.”
    “Don’t get a tone with me.”
    “I’m not. I’m sorry.”
    The white guy lights a cigarette, then pulls a phone out of his pocket, flips it open, and punches in a number.
    “Boss? Spiller. Things went all to hell here. Your man drew on us as we were explaining the situation, and me and T.K. had to put him down. Also, there’s a witness, some kid who was staying here with the guy. He claims to be Olivia’s brother.”
    Virgil leans forward on the couch and shouts, “I won’t say nothing, Mr. Taggert. I swear!”
    “Shush,” T.K. hisses, raising a threatening finger.
    “Right, her brother,” Spiller says. “What’s your name, kid?”
    “Virgil. Virgil Cherry.”
    “Virgil,” Spiller says into the phone. He listens for a long time, then says, “We can do that, sure. Whatever you think’s best. Right. Okay. Good-bye.”
    Spiller slaps the phone shut, crams it into a pocket. He lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face, and Virgil glimpses a large tattoo on his stomach, a naked devil woman with her legs spread wide.
    “Let me guess,” T.K. says. When he speaks again his voice is a hoarse growl: “ ‘You shit, you eat it.’ ”
    Spiller shrugs and says, “He wants us to clean up as best we can and get out to the ranch pronto.”
    “We should just burn the place down,” T.K. says in his own voice. “Do everybody a favor.”
    He walks over to where Eton flung his gun when he was shot, on the floor halfway across the room. He picks up the revolver and sets it on a table, next to a bowl of dusty wax fruit. “You know the drill,” he says to Spiller. “Find something to wrap him in.”
    He then turns to Virgil on the couch. “Duct tape,” he says. “Any around here?”
    Virgil tears his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Maybe in back? In the laundry room?” he says.
    “Show me.”
    “You’re not gonna kill me, are you?”
    “You’re not gonna give me a reason to, are