The Mexico Run Read Online Free Page B

wasn't a pleasant smile.
        "He'd kill me. That's what he'd do. He'd beat me to death."
        "Who'd kill you? The manager? Who is he? Your father?"
        "Not my father."
        "All right then," I said, "you're free, white, and twenty-one…"
        "Eighteen," she said.
        "All right then, you are free, white, and eighteen. What's holding you? Why don't you just go? Nobody can keep you if you don't want to stay."
        She stood up and turned her back to me, and her hands went behind her, and she jerked the man's shut out of the Levi's and lifted it half over her head. She didn't say anything, and there was no need for her to say anything.
        For a moment, I myself was unable to say anything, as I stared at her naked back. It was criss-crossed with ugly, red welts. She let go of the shirt, not bothering to tuck it in, and turned around and reached for the Jack Daniels bottle.
        "That's what the son-of-a-bitch did to me this morning, when he found me packing a suitcase."
        "Is the child yours?"
        She shook her head. "His."
        "You should go to the police," I said.
        "He is the police. He's the deputy sheriff here."
        "Well, any son-of-a-bitch that would do that…"
        I stopped in mid-sentence. I didn't stop because of what I was thinking. What I was thinking was why the hell am I getting involved in something that is none of my business. This girl means absolutely nothing to me. I have no interest in her, I don't even want her.
        But even as that flashing thought passed through my mind, I wondered if I wasn't lying just the slightest bit to myself. In any case, my plans were made, the things I had to do certainly didn't leave room "for becoming involved with some girl who had her own set of problems, and who, without question, would sooner or later solve them in her own particular fashion.
        What stopped me in mid-sentence was the door crashing open.
        He stood just inside the door, and when I looked at the width of his shoulders, I figured that the only way he could have gotten through was sideways. He was a big man all around, and he must have weighed well over two hundred and sixty or seventy pounds. A good sixty or seventy of it, however, was in his belly.
        He had short red hair, tiny, close-set eyes, a chin like a mud scow, and a nose which had been broken at least twice. He was wearing a stained sweatshirt, a pair of khaki pants, and tennis shoes. No socks. His hands hung at his sides, at the end of hairy arms, and he could have hired them out to a Hollywood studio for an ape picture. He smelled of sweat and stale booze.
        For a second or two he just stood inside the room, and his eyes went from me to the bottle on the table to the girl. Then he moved, and for a big man it was fantastic. He was across the room like a cat. One hand reached out and slapped the girl off the chair. He turned toward me.
        "What are you doing with my wife? Getting her drunk?"
        Sharon lay on the floor, propped up on one elbow. The complete terror in her eyes as she looked at the man reminded me of an expression in the eyes of another girl, which I'd seen a long time ago and which I'll never forget.
        He took a sudden step toward me, and this time he staggered slightly. I realized that I would not have a chance to get out of the chair, and with his bulk and size I didn't believe it would do me much good if I did.
        I didn't even think. When my foot went out, it was instinctive. I didn't plan it; I only knew that I had to reach him before he reached me.
        The foot, the straight kick, caught him in the groin, and he hesitated for a fraction of a second. As he doubled over, I didn't wait. I came out of the chair like a bullet, my head bent low, and I caught him in that massive belly. The air went out of him like a punctured balloon.
        There was a gun in my suitcase, but I knew I wouldn't