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Show Acting Alone Page 370 ridged skin of his big thumb, Axelrad somehow managed to work himself loose. But the shlemiel immediately, stupidly backed himself up against a wall, very uncommandolike. "You aint creepin free this time to scare my sisters," screamed Spikey. He cocked back his stubby little arm and took aim. Sam plied his 303 pounds assertively, just as he'd once done with little Axelrad and his pals in the Chicago and/or Houston blues specialty bar. And, even in mid-swing, the writer in Sam was asking, to the rhythm of the aboriginal groupgrunt and the Litany of the Sacred Heart, "Wait. How would Spikey know the kid's religion and politics?" And, even more distracting, "Would Sister What'sername have approved of your preppy pogroms ten years ago? Whose bestiality are you striking out at? Whose face are you saving?" A Latino beat, Latino beat in the blood in the ears. The butt of Spikey's palm just barely had time to kiss a little love-pat onto the tip of Axelrad's Semitic nose before that hand was stayed for time and all the eternities. The back of the sergeant's head was simultaneously harder and softer than expected. There was a protracted sensation of the shovelblade slicing through fibers of soft scalpmeat; but also there was a loud, downward-inflected noise, a bonk or a banff, like steel sparking against asphalt. The pick attachment jammed between blond-fuzzed brainstems. Spikey turned, the shovel flaring out in back like the crest of a yellow stegosaurus. He looked straight at Sam with both eyes surprised and already dead. Spikey went down among rat poison, yellow crystals adhering to the moist edges |
