Out of the Blue by M. M. Harrold

Author:M. M. Harrold [Harrold, M.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781915433039
Publisher: Red Dog Press/Bloodhound Books

PART II

LOUISIANA, TEXAS & ARIZONA

28

Trouble I didn’t need was seated in a diner next to a nondescript single-story motel in a small town in west Louisiana. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. The motel and the town. Next to the motel was a dirt lot. Next to the dirt lot was the liquor store where I’d bought the rot gut whiskey that had led to the throbbing pain that gripped my temples. Trouble was leggy and blonde. Real trouble was the man seated across from her. Real trouble was not blonde. He was a Latino with pit bull genetics, a bald head, and a piranha tattoo swimming across his neck.

They walked out before me, and I watched them through the window. Arguing. I finished my omelet and ordered another cup of coffee. The couple had good arguing endurance. I finished the coffee. The check was under nine dollars. I left a hundred-dollar bill. Change was something from my past. At least for now. It was blood money. I really didn’t want it. But even blood money is green. I walked out. A bell chimed.

“Get in the car,” I heard him growl. He slapped her. Hard. This guy sucked. I could just about tolerate him yelling. Hitting her was unacceptable. He grabbed her arm. She writhed around, trying to get loose. She got away from him and started towards me.

“Can I have a ride?” she asked. “To get away from this fucking psycho.” She turned her head back towards him and raised her voice to shriek fucking psycho directly at him. Predictably, this didn’t exactly work to de-escalate the situation. The skin the piranha swam grew redder. The man started towards me. The woman got behind me. The man pulled a knife out of a pocket. I didn’t have a gun. I’d just stopped in for breakfast and coffee. Stupid, but it turned out smart. I’d fought guys with knives before. He held the knife dagger style, blade down. He brought his elbow back and up over his ear, raised the knife near his right eye and thrust it towards me. He was crazy and irate but not particularly proficient. I let the blade come towards my shoulder, pivoted and ducked down avoiding the blade, twisted my hips, and delivered a liver punch with my left fist. He buckled and fell to his knees. The knife was still in his hand, blade back.

He dropped the weapon as he tried to brace himself with his right hand. As I kicked the knife away, I saw the two patrol cars. They plowed to a hard stop in the loose gravel. Two corn-fed white cops stepped out and drew down.

“Don’t move,” the older of the two deputies said. He was relaxed. His gun, an old-school .38 revolver slung low in its holster. The other deputy was shorter. Young. Buzz cut. Oakley sunglasses, even though it was overcast. His gun, a slick Glock .40, was in his hand, gripped tight in a black glove. They handcuffed us.

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