Claudio Andolini shoved him aside. ’Cimi fell with a thud. Two of the framed pictures on Balazar’s wall crashed down. The one showing Da Boss presenting the Sportsman of the Year trophy to a grinning kid at a Police Athletic League banquet landed on ’Cimi’s head. Shattered glass fell on his shoulders.
“oh jeez” he whispered in a fainting little voice, and blood began to bubble from his lips.
Claudio was followed by Tricks and one of the men who had been waiting in the storage room. Claudio had an automatic in each hand; the guy from the storage room had a Remington shotgun sawed off so short that it looked like a derringer with a case of the mumps; Tricks Postino was carrying what he called The Wonderful Rambo Machine—this was an M-16 rapid-fire assault weapon.
“Where’s my brother, you fucking needle-freak?” Claudio screamed. “What’d you do to Jack?” He could not have been terribly interested in an answer, because he began to fire with both weapons while he was still yelling. I’m dead, Eddie thought, and then Roland fired again. Claudio Andolini was propelled backwards in a cloud of his own blood. The automatics flew from his hands and slid across Balazar’s desk. They thumped to the carpet amid a flutter of playing cards. Most of Claudio’s guts hit the wall a second before Claudio caught up with them.
“Get him!” Balazar was shrieking. “Get the spook! The kid ain’t dangerous! He’s nothing but a bare-ass junkie! Get the spook! Blow him away!”
He pulled the trigger on the .357 twice. The Magnum was almost as loud as Roland’s revolver. It did not make neat holes in the wall against which Roland crouched; the slugs smashed gaping wounds in the fake wood to either side of Roland’s head. White light from the bathroom shone through the holes in ragged rays.
Roland pulled the trigger of his revolver.
Only a dry click.
Misfire.
“Eddie!” the gunslinger yelled, and Eddie raised his own gun and pulled the trigger.
The crash was so loud that for a moment he thought the gun had blown up in his hand, as Jack’s had done. The recoil did not drive him back through the wall, but it did snap his arm up in a savage arc that jerked all the tendons under his arm.
He saw part of Balazar’s shoulder disintegrate into red spray, heard Balazar screech like a wounded cat, and yelled, “The junkie ain’t dangerous, was that what you said? Was that it, you numb fuck? You want to mess with me and my brother? I’ll show you who’s dangerous! I’ll sh—”
There was a boom like a grenade as the guy from the storage room fired the sawed-off. Eddie rolled as the blast tore a hundred tiny holes in the walls and bathroom door. His naked skin was seared by shot in several places, and Eddie understood that if the guy had been closer, where the thing’s pattern was tight, he would have been vaporized.
Hell, I’m dead anyway, he thought, watching as the guy from the storage room worked the Remington’s jack, pumping in fresh cartridges, then laying it over his forearm. He was grinning. His teeth were very yellow—Eddie didn’t think they had been acquainted with a toothbrush in quite some time.
Christ, I’m going to get killed by some fuckhead with yellow teeth and I don’t even know his name, Eddie thought dimly. At least I put one in Balazar. At least I did that much. He wondered if Roland had another shot. He couldn’t remember.
“I got him!” Tricks Postino yelled cheerfully. “Gimme a clear field, Dario!” And before the man named Dario could give him a clear field or anything else, Tricks opened up with The Wonderful Rambo Machine. The heavy thunder of machine-gun fire filled Balazar’s office. The first result of this barrage was to save Eddie Dean’s life. Dario had drawn a bead on him with the sawed-off, but before he could pull its double triggers, Tricks cut him in half.
“Stop it, you idiot!” Balazar screamed.
But Tricks either didn’t hear, couldn’t stop, or wouldn’t stop. Lips pulled back from his teeth so that his spit-shining teeth were bared in a huge shark’s grin, he raked the room from one end to the other, blowing two of the wall panels to dust, turning framed photographs into clouds of flying glass fragments, hammering the bathroom door off its hinges. The frosted glass of Balazar’s shower stall exploded. The March of Dimes trophy Balazar had gotten the year before bonged like a bell as a slug drove through it.