SANDMAN SLIM

"Our friends understand the security issues at stake."

"Radar and death rays. Where do I sign up? It doesn't seem fair that you get all the fun toys."

"Cry me a river. Anyway, with all your fun and games, my superior asked me to bring you in for a talk."

"Seems like my week to meet bosses." The cuffs hold my wrists together, which makes my arms rest on my sore chest. I shift around in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. I glance out the window and see that we're crossing La Cienega. "I notice we're not going to the courthouse."

"What makes you think you deserve a day in court?"

"You're a cop…"

"U.S. marshal."

"Fine. A cop who can read. Isn't there something in the law or the Constitution about everyone getting a day in court?"

"That only applies to the living, son."

"I'm sitting right here."

"Technically, no. Not in any legal sense. Legally, you're a nonperson. You've been a long-gone daddy out of this realm of existence for eleven years and change. A missing person can be declared dead after seven, which means that you've been legally dead almost four years."

"You're not serious."

"Look at the bright side. If you were alive, you'd still be the prime suspect in your girlfriend's murder. If you were alive, the IRS would want to know why you haven't been filing taxes. Ask me whether I'm more afraid of Hell or the IRS, I'll go with the IRS every time."

"So, you know who I am and where I've been."

"I know every inch of your sorry waste of a life. My boss might want to talk to you, but to me, you're a parasite. A waste of space and air. It makes a person wish the earth really was flat. Then we could take all the people like you, load you in a garbage scow, and push you over the edge and out of everybody's hair."

"If you know where I've been, then you know why I'm back. Let me go and let me do what I came here for. I'll get rid of some very bad people for you."

"How? By blowing up Rodeo Drive?"

"That was a mistake."

"Was it? Thanks for clearing that up. The truth is, I don't give a damn about some Hollywood lawyers' wives and their shoe stores. What I care about is you. What you represent and the kind of trouble you bring with you. You're a walking calamity."

Now I feel it. His heart rate is picking up and there's the slightest whiff of perspiration coming off him. One of the G-men in the front of the van has turned to watch our conversation. He and Wells smile at each other, sharing some private joke.

When Wells speaks again, he does it with the kind of phony casualness that lets everyone in the room know that you're about to tell the bad joke they've all been waiting for. Wells says, "So, what the hell kind of a name is Sandman Slim anyway? You think you're some kind of superhero?"

I turn and look at him, "You lost me there, Tex. I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

"Don't be modest, we've all heard of you. 'Sandman Slim. The monster who kills monsters.' I have to admit, it's kind of catchy. Did you come up with that or did some Hellion ad firm shit that out for you?"

"Listen, cop. I've never heard that stupid name before. Stop calling me it. And tell me where we're going or I'm getting out."

Wells and the marshal in the front laugh. "I wouldn't try. I'm dead serious when I tell you that I could put a bullet in your head right now and go have a sandwich."

"What kind?"

"What kind of what?"

"What kind of sandwich? What's a murder sandwich taste like? Does it come with extra cheese or chili fries? What tastes better after murder, Coke or Pepsi?"

"You are working my very last nerve, cocksucker."

"I'm going home." I reach across Wells for the door, shoving him back into the seat with my shoulder. The marshal goes for his gun.

When you're facing down multiple attackers, you always want to make the first move. It lets them know that you're ready to fight and that you're crazy enough to get the party started. One rule of thumb in fighting is that crazy can often overcome skill and numbers, because, while a trained fighter might actually enjoy going up against another trained fighter, no one really wants to wrestle with crazy. Crazy doesn't know when it's winning. And crazy doesn't know when to stop. If you can't pull off crazy, if, for instance, you're handcuffed in a small van with six armed assailants, stupid is a decent substitute for crazy.

Wells still has his hand inside his jacket when I slam my elbow into his throat. He freezes, trying to remember how to breathe. Before the boys in the front of the van get any ideas, I swing an elbow up over his head and bring the arm down on the other side, getting the cuffs around his throat. Then I fall back across the seat, pulling Wells on top of me. The G-men in the front of the van have all drawn their guns out by now, but I'm not sweating. If they want to shoot me, they're going to have to blow a lot of holes in the big man first.

"Stand down," shouts Wells. Then, quieter, to me, "That got you far, didn't it, shit-for-brains?"