Forty-Nine
When I spun away from Ralphie the Lizard, a human fireplug blocked my way. Errol. He wore an eye patch over his left eye,
and had a nasty burn on his cheek and ear from his run-in with a hot pan. Bandages wrapped one of his hands. He leered at
me with his right eye. “Looks like someone else likes you about as much as I do,” Errol said. “But I’m glad I’ll get to finish
the job.”
I did a panicked one-eighty, let out a Xena war cry, and feinted right. But before I could sprint toward the safety of the
crowd, Errol’s arms gripped me from behind like a massive clamp.
“Let me go!” I screamed, kicking impotently at the air.
“You stole my grenades and blew up our snowmobiles. I’m taking it out of your hide,” Errol said, licking my ear. “Can’t have
you running your mouth about us either.”
“Gross!” I screamed, and then, “Fire!”
No one came to my rescue as Errol carried me, kicking and screeching and bleeding from the gash on my neck, to a parked sedan.
When he tried to shove me into the passenger side backseat, I fought like a cocker spaniel on trucker speed.
“Let go of me, you redneck piece of shit!” I managed, before Errol yanked me back and spun me around, snarling, his face so
close I could see the tobacco stains on his teeth. He gave me a hard shove. The back of my head hit the edge of the doorframe
as I fell into the backseat. Errol shoved my legs in, put his hands on the top of the door, and slammed it shut.
THWACK!
The sickening sound reached me through the car door as something sank deep into Errol’s torso.
A bolt had entered the left side of his rib cage.
He tilted forward, face to the window, then slid slowly downward, nose pugged by the pane until he dropped out of sight.
I scrambled to climb out the other side of the car and stepped onto the pavement, gasping.
Across Eighth Street, a silver-haired goddess lowered her crossbow. Emmylou! My savior!
But before I could run, Ralphie appeared from the rear of the car. He grabbed my arm, wrenching it behind my back, and I felt
the cold round barrel of a gun pressing into my spine.
“I’m done fucking around,” he said.
He used me like a shield as he backpedaled to the trunk. Errol’s legs stuck out from behind the back tire where he’d crumpled
on the pavement. Across the street, Emmylou struggled to cock and reload her crossbow, a procedure that—she’d told me countless
times—was a lot harder than it looked on The Walking Dead.
The trunk yawned, a black hole from which I’d never emerge alive. “Shut up and get in or I’ll shoot you in the spine,” Ralphie
said.
I folded myself into the small space like an origami chicken, too terrified to make a sound.
This was it.
I was going to die.
My children orphaned.
I’d failed them.
Ralphie slid the gun into his waistband and raised his arms to slam the trunk shut, his figure blocking out the blue sky and
the sun.
My last thought before darkness enveloped me was that I hoped Emmylou would raise the twins.
But the trunk didn’t close. Instead, an air horn appeared alongside Ralphie’s right ear.
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHPP!
At the sound of the blast, Ralphie screamed like a final girl.
The air horn clattered to the pavement and an arm wrapped tight around his neck, Layna’s face appearing over his shoulder.
He spun to shake her off, but she clung tighter, his neck trapped in the notch of her elbow, her Adidas-clad feet lifting with the centrifugal force of a carnival swing ride.
As I pushed myself upright, Layna went flying. But before Ralphie could reach for his gun, a seven-foot-tall red blur streaked
past. Ida Hoe’s flouncy skirt flapped like a sail as she took a flying leap, sacking Ralphie in an NFL-worthy tackle.
“Be careful, Shade! He has a gun!” I shouted.
Ralphie’s head and most of his torso had disappeared beneath cascading skirt ruffles. It was a lewd but effective wrestling
hold. Ralphie kicked impotently, his screams muffled below layers of tulle.
“Get him! Crush that bastard,” Zhang Xiu yelled as ATF agents with guns drawn surrounded Ida Hoe and Ralphie.
“Don’t you dare shoot that drag queen!” I screamed.
Nate pinned one of Ralphie’s wrists while Agent Lanagan grabbed the other. With Ralphie secured, Ida Hoe popped back up, agile
on six-inch heels. Nate rolled Ralphie onto his stomach, pulled his gun from his waistband, and handcuffed his arms behind
his back as Agent Lanagan read him his Miranda rights. Two other agents monitored Errol, who was bleeding like an angry hemorrhoid,
but very much alive. Another helped Layna to her feet.
Emmylou had vanished.
Only when Nate ran toward me and put both hands on my shoulders, leaning in to inspect the bleeding gash on my neck, did I
realize I was still sitting in the trunk of Ralphie’s car. I’d never seen Nate so rattled before. “You’re bleeding, are you
okay?” he asked. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said, surprised to see the cascade of blood down my front. Still, when Nate offered me his hand, I climbed
out. My stomach still hurt from where I’d been punched, but it no longer felt like my spleen had burst. “I think . . . I think
I might actually be fine. Or mostly fine?”
“Okay, okay. Let’s get you to the paramedics first. We need to get you checked out.”
But I was still shocky and marveling. “Ida Hoe,” I said. “That was—”
“Incredible,” Nate said, sounding more like himself. “Not gonna lie. I wish I’d been the one to take that guy down. But I’ve
never had a drag queen sack one of our Most Wanted offenders before. Never the same day twice at this job.”
Joyful chaos erupted as Ida Hoe, Gucci, Zhang Xiu, and Layna rallied around me, jostling and cheering and shrieking about
the blood and asking if I was all right.
“You saved me,” I said.
“Pole Virgins, through thick or thin,” Zhang Xiu said, slapping her ass on the word thick.
“Pole virgins for life,” Gucci added.
“Shade, you’ve got some tackle,” Layna said.
“I liked being a college linebacker,” he said. “But I love being a drag queen.”