Helmet Head Read Online Free PDF Page B

kid’s jaw dropped and his face twisted in shock and disbelief. Salt and Pepper looked up. They did not radiate hostility. Rather a world-weary cynicism.
    “What about him?” Wild Bill said.
    “He was decapitated.”
    Cowlick turned to the skull. “What’s that mean?” he said softly.
    “Means his head was cut off, numb nutz.”
    The bartender mouthed something behind the bar.
    “Bullshit!” the leader exclaimed.
    “Man on a bike,” Fagan said. “Possibly seven feet tall dressed all in black leather. Full face helmet carrying a samurai sword.”
    “BULLSHIT!” Wild Bill declared pounding the table. “BULLSHIT! MACY! WHERE THE FUCK’S MY BURGER?!”
    The graceful girl/woman sashayed out from behind the bar carrying a platter on which rested the burger, condiments and three shot glasses filled with Jack. She set the shot glasses neatly before Wild Bill, Cowlick and the skull and then slammed the burger down in front of Wild Bill hard enough to make it airborne.
    Wild Bill backhanded her with his right hand, the sound of flesh on flesh like a rifle shot. Macy staggered.
    Fagan got off the stool with blood in his eye.
    ***

CHAPTER 8
Helmet Head
    Before Fagan could reach the table the skull popped up and shoved him back hard with pile driver arms. Fagan stumbled and grabbed the barstool for support taking it down with him. Fred hurried out from behind the bar and got in the skull’s face as Fagan regained his feet.
    “Come on, Chainsaw. I thought you guys weren’t gonna cause me any grief.”
    “That was before this pig walked in,” Chainsaw said. “How do we know he didn’t off Larry himself?”
    “You heard the man,” Fred wheedled. Fagan felt sorry for the bartender, forced to grovel before this pack of jackals.
    “He didn’t do it. He’s a cop for Chrissake!”
    “Cops are crooked as your right leg,” Wild Bill said, picking up his burger and chomping a coaster-sized hole.
    “Yeah, ya fuckin’ gimp,” Chainsaw said. “Weren’t for us you’da closed this pit long ago.”
    Fagan could have arrested Wild Bill for assault right there. But one did not provoke a pack of jackals. He could always charge him later.
    Cowlick whipped out a bindle and a balisong and divided some lines on the tabletop. The name “Mad Dog” was stitched over one breast. His blade made a chopping sound against the wood. “You need a bump, Saw.” Mad Dog bent and hoovered a line, sat back and spread his arms bodaciously with a grin of satisfaction, taunting Fagan.
    Fagan swallowed. His throat felt like a diesel exhaust. He couldn’t find any spit. Maybe he was having a panic attack. He was at their mercy. He dare not show the slightest sign of fear or they’d crush him. Without the stool to support him he’d collapse. His knees felt like Jell-O. He brushed the pistol at his hip hoping no one noticed.
    Chainsaw slowly turned, sat at the table and rotated it on its axis until the meth lines were before him. This rotated Wild Bill’s burger two feet to his left and in irritation Wild Bill grabbed the table like a big steering wheel and twisted it back just as Chainsaw’s straw came down.
    Wild Bill picked up his burger and lopped off another quarter. He set it down.
    “You done?” Chainsaw said.
    “For the moment.”
    Chainsaw rotated the line back and snorted. He rotated the hamburger back into place. He got up, scooping the police helmet, strode to the bar and slammed it down on top of Fagan’s tumbler shattering glass everywhere. Quick as a cobra he grabbed Fagan’s leather lapels and jerked him close.
    Fagan drew the gun. Chainsaw shoved him back six inches and slapped the pistol out of Fagan’s hand as if he were a child. He grabbed Fagan by his belt and jacket and threw him savagely to the floor.
    “Larry was a Road Dog, motherfucker,” he growled. “He was a friend of mine.”
    Lightning struck followed almost immediately by the thunderous crack. The lights flickered. Chainsaw jerked forward and