Mendocino Jones in No Place for the Weak at Heart

I'm Out

They walked to the truck in silence, among a large group doing the same. The full moon shone high above the Starlight's well-lit parking lot. It was like midday. Still, Mendocino was on guard, not certain if Sartain had recognized him, not sure if his gunmen were around.

They'd been late to the party, parking a long stroll away, beyond the parking lot lights. Only moonlight way out there. They walked on in silence, his jaw tightened, fists clenching and unclenching.

Footsteps crunched on gravel behind him, hushed mumbles. You want to follow someone unnoticed? Keep your mouth shut and walk softly. This night wasn't over yet. They were getting closer. How many?

Mendocino stopped, turning on his heels, facing four men who stopped also. Each man was backlit by big parking lot lights high behind them, blinding Mendocino. He blinked. Four silhouettes, each wearing a ballcap.

They fanned out, in a semi-circle. They intended to surround him.

He reached into his jeans pocket, handing Tillie the key fob. "Get in the truck."

She hesitated, staring at him, then the men.

"Go!" he said. "Lock yourself in."

"Mendo—"

"Go!"

She disappeared as they moved closer.

Mendocino measured the four from left to right. The first man was the smallest. Bow-legged. Beside him the biggest of the bunch. Tall. Wide shoulders.

Before he could check out the others, Wide Shoulders stepped forward, his right arm pulled back to punch. As he neared, mid-stride, Mendocino dodged, and took one step forward, kicking him in the crotch. Hard. Wide Shoulders writhed on the gravel, moaning.

A second man lunged, swinging. Mendocino was too fast. Like catching a line drive single-handed, Mendocino snatched the incoming fist, squeezing the knuckles as he twisted the hand, folding the man's wrist under—a practiced, paralyzing move.

The man cried out, his knees buckling as Mendocino applied pressure to the folded fist. The guy was immobilized. The move inflicted excruciating pain. He knew first-hand.

Mendocino's head whipped left then right. Both men who remained standing had fists balled but they stood still, their gazes moving from their friend on the ground to the one on his knees in front of Mendocino, then onto Mendocino, who was crouching as he clutched their friends' twisted wrist. The man groaned in anguish.

"Back off!" Mendocino yelled. "Or I'll break his wrist!"

The pair stood, frozen.

"Do you understand? I can break his wrist right now!" He squeezed tighter.

Each man began to shuffle backward, each raising his hands. "Leave him alone!" Bowlegs yelled. "Leave him alone!"

"Then back off!"

Mendocino waited until they'd backed several steps away, let go of the man's wrist, at the same time shoving him in the chest with the heel of his boot. Hard. The man tumbled backward. The other two rushed to his side. Wide Shoulders was still curled up, groaning, holding himself.

Mendocino stood still, his back straight, watching them. He squatted slowly, picked a cap off the ground, and brushed it against his jeans, holding it close. Bar W insignia. They didn't notice. Nobody rushed him. They were too busy licking their wounds.

He backed away and got in his truck, tossing the Bar W cap in Tillie's lap as he drove away, the big blue Starlight sign with its twinkling lights growing smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror.

A tiny statue sat beside him. She picked the cap from her lap and held it close in the darkness, tossing it in the back seat. "Are you okay?" He glanced at her.

She nodded.

The drive from the Starlight Club back to Tillie's felt endless. The midnight highway was a shimmering silver thread stretching across the desert, the moon so bright silhouettes of tall dagger yucca and ocotillo streaked by like eerie skeletons.

He didn't know what to say. About anything. She seemed immersed in her thoughts, a million miles away. Neither turned on the radio.

"We haven't eaten," he said a while later. "Do you want to stop somewhere? I remember passing a pancake place."

She shook her head with a slight smile. "Thanks. I don't think I could eat right now."

They drove on then, through Alpine, back to Tillie's house, neither speaking again. He walked her to the back door, waiting in the light of the screened-in porch while she unlocked the back door to the house. "I'll make sure everything is safe before—"

"Really?"

"That guy asking about you is a murderer."

"You and Amos. You both think you've got to protect everybody."

She didn't get it. Sartain was a killer.

She stood on tiptoes, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Goodnight," she said. "I'm going to bed. Thank you for a nice night."

He was dismissed. Mendocino walked past the vase of roses, through the screened porch door, and back to his truck. He heard her open the house door.

"Mendocino!" she called out. "Wait!" Tillie rushed from the porch, across the yard, stopping in front of him, and peering into his eyes. "I don't know what to say. I'm sorry Bobby made that scene. It spoiled everything. Then the fight—"

"Bobby didn't spoil anything." Mendocino's voice was ice water. "But you and Bobby Watson. That's not over. For either one of you."

"I broke up with him."

"Doesn't mean you're over him," Mendocino said. "The easiest person in the world to lie to is yourself."

She turned her face away, her gaze roaming the bright night sky. Somewhere behind the hill, a coyote howled.

"You had enough to drink to let your real feelings come out. Who cares about Bobby? You do, that's who. You're not over him and he's damned sure not over you." He paused, his voice steely. "I'm not playing odd man out."

She had not met his gaze as he talked. He'd watched her profile, her gaze moving about the sky. She was stunning. He reached out, running the back of his hand across her cheek softly. Touch her, feel her. One last time.

She turned, their gazes locked, each searching the other's eyes for a long moment.

Then Mendocino held up his hands in surrender. "I'm out."