Free Blues in the Night by Dick Lochte

brother said.
    Mace leaned back against the seat and waited for the pain in his neck to subside.
    The limo zoomed along Sorrel Canyon Road though light traffic.
    Then, suddenly, the driver spun the wheel and Mace became aware of a plaster cast on the man’s right hand and wrist. And he knew where he’d seen Sweets before. In Griffith Park, where Sweets had tried to kill Paulie.
    The limo made a right turn and began traveling on a macadam full of more potholes than Sweets was able to avoid. Mace had had a vague idea of where they were, but this road wasn’t on his memory map. It may not have been on any map.
    At first, eccentric plaster and wood houses dotted the landscape, trucks sharing their gravel driveways with old cars in need of paint and patching. But, after a couple of miles, the macadam was replaced by a plowed dirt road that was so narrow Mace wondered what might happen if they met another vehicle coming the other way.
    Maybe Timmie would get out and lift it over the limo.
    There was nothing but foliage out there on either side. No sign of human life, nor any of the accoutrements of human life, such as electricity or phone landlines. Not even barbed-wire fences or private-property signs.
    â€˜Where exactly are we?’ Mace asked.
    â€˜Just a nice quiet country road,’ Thomas said.
    â€˜Where are we headed?’
    â€˜That depends on you, actually.’
    The rough road bounced them around. Timmie did not seem to be enjoying the jouncing. ‘Make it smoother,’ he said.
    â€˜Pretend you’re riding a stagecoach,’ Thomas suggested.
    Timmie grinned. ‘Goin’ to Deadwood.’
    â€˜You’re right about him being intuitive,’ Mace said.
    â€˜He’s many things,’ Thomas said. ‘Some good, some bad.’
    â€˜You’re talking about me again,’ Timmie said. ‘What?’
    â€˜Your brother was saying you can do many things,’ Mace said.
    â€˜I can.’
    â€˜But he said you’re not strong enough to kick that door open.’
    â€˜I did not say that, Timmie. Do not kick—’
    Timmie had already smashed his boot against the door, jarring it from its frame.
    â€˜Don’t you dare . . .’ Thomas said.
    But his brother booted the door again, this time flinging it open. The limo’s forward thrust swung it back in place and, giggling, Timmie kicked it open again, this time knocking it from one of its hinges, so that it dragged along scraping against the road, stirring up dust.
    The rear of the limo was filled with wind and noise and Timmie yelled, ‘This is fun,’ and tried to move over Mace to get at the other door next to his brother.
    â€˜NO. NO. DON’T,’ Thomas shouted.
    Pinned to the back seat by Timmie’s massive body, Mace used the opportunity to slide the six-gun from the big man’s holster. Thomas’ gun was trapped by his linen coat, which was, in turn trapped by his brother’s legs. He struggled to pull the weapon free.
    â€˜Leave it,’ Mace said, pointing the six-gun at Thomas.
    Thomas ignored the threat. ‘Do you think I’d give him real bullets?’ he said.
    Mace aimed the gun at Thomas’ face and pulled the trigger.
    Click.
    â€˜Give me my gun,’ Timmie said.
    â€˜Sure,’ Mace said and smashed the gun’s barrel against Timmie’s cheek.
    The giant wailed. A tiny cut on his cheek opened up and Timmie touched it. When he saw the blood, he stopped crying. His face turned red and he scowled and began waving his arms. He rolled backward on to his brother.
    Mace felt a large boot heel digging into his right shoulder. He brought the gun down on the big man’s ankle. With a screech, Timmie straightened his leg, pushing Mace to the side of the car near the open door.
    Mace took it from there.
    The limo had slowed because of the rough road. Mace checked to make sure there were no upcoming trees, threw the empty gun at the giant