by Ralph Dennis
I took each of them by an arm and turned them. “Walk to the railing with me. We’re laughing. We’re having fun.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
I laughed and he laughed and the girl added a shrill giggle. When it died out I leaned on the railing and looked across the tracks. I didn’t see Turnage and Winters or Hump. That meant they’d gone into the Kitchen by the door Hump had found. “See the boarded-up front of the Soul Food Kitchen? Now, thirty or forty feet to the left, there’s an indentation. That’s where the door is.”
“I see it. Yes, sir.”
“And for god’s sake,” I said, “stay here until the police show up.”
“We will,” he said. His girl nodded.
“Do this and I’ll treat you to the best dinner in Underground.” I patted him on the shoulder and went down the stairs. I crossed the tracks at a fast jog. At the walkway, stepping up, I looked back at the young couple. They were still at the railing. I just hoped they wouldn’t decide I was a practical joker who was setting them up on a snipe hunt.
I found the door without any trouble. There wasn’t a knob or a handle and I might have had some difficulty except for the fact that it was ajar, cracked an inch or so. I eased it open another inch and put my eye to the opening. Nothing. Pitch dark. I didn’t hear anything either and that bothered me. It could mean they were waiting for me. Not likely, I told myself. Hump wouldn’t tell them so there wasn’t any way for them to know I’d be coming after them.
It was a good argument. A very good argument. But it didn’t make me want to step into the darkness beyond the door. What made me go, trying to find the balls for it somewhere, was that I was worried about Hump and I wanted to help Maryann. The rest of them could go to hell in a laundry cart.
I took a deep breath to ease my breathing after the jogging and let it out in short hisses. I swung the door open just wide enough for me to slide in sideways. I stepped through and pulled the door almost closed behind me, all in one motion. As soon as I released the door I stepped to the side and waited. I stood with my back to the wall, waiting for my eyes to get used to the darkness. I could make out just the big shapes at first. It seemed to be a storeroom of some kind. As time passed I realized that I was in what had been at one time part of the restaurant. The big shapes were tables with chairs stacked on top. Ahead and to my right I could see a thin pencil line of light. Probably a doorway. Light leaking from within. I pushed away from the wall and headed for the doorway. I took it one step at a time. I could see the tables and the stacked chairs but I didn’t know what might be on the aisle floors. That way, it took quite a bit of time to reach the pencil line of light. Even before I reached it I began to hear the almost inaudible rumble of voices. The lows from Turnage or Winters and the highs from Peggy Holt.
I reached the doorway. It was wider than I’d thought. A swinging double door. The narrow line of light was coming from the center, where the doors met. I put my eye to the opening. I could only see a narrow slice of the room beyond. I saw part of a black man and beyond him one of the cops with a .38 lined up.
“And if I don’t?” Peggy asked.
“I’m going to kill that big black bastard over there. Just so you’ll see what dying’s like.”
“Then?” Peggy said.
“The little black there and then on down the line until just you and the kid are left.”
I put up a hand and felt the top of the door. It was, as I thought, glassed. Someone had very carefully covered the glass half with newsprint. It was a workmanlike job, no cracks or spaces. I got out my pen knife and cut a small triangle in the newsprint. With that done I could see into the room. It was a large boxy space. To the rear of the room there were a couple of what looked like army surplus double bunks. Closer to me, almost centered in the room, they’d pushed a couple of the tables together. I could see the remains of a late supper they’d been eating when Turnage and Winters had surprised them.
To my right, just within the sightlines, I could see Peggy Holt. She was seated at the end of the table. Next to her, looking sleepy and puzzled, was Maryann. She was on Peggy’s right, facing the door. One black was on the near side of the table, his back to me. He didn’t have his hat on but I guessed that he was the young black who’d delivered the letter to the Journal-Constitution building. Beyond him, standing up with one hand on the top of a double bunk bed, was the big cop. He had the .38 and he was playing it around the room.
The rest of the room. There was another black on my left, seated at the other end of the table facing Peggy. I’d never seen him before. He was older, gray peppering his hair. Beyond him Hump was standing with his hands clasped behind his neck. The small cop was next to him. He was holding a .45 automatic that looked too big for him.
“We want the whole thing,” the small cop said.
“Half,” Peggy said. “That was, the original deal.”
“That was before you talked Randy into getting foxy with us.”
“It’s not fair,” Peggy said.
“Sorry about that,” the slim cop said. The big cop laughed, dry and cutting.
Take him up on it, I was saying to myself. Get him out here in this dark room.
“Half,” Peggy said.
“You must think we’re kidding. Is that what you think?”
“I don’t think you’re going to shoot anybody,” Peggy said.
“You’ve been living here long enough to know that trains still passed through here, right? We checked and one’ll be passing through in nine or ten minutes. It’s a long, long train.”
Peggy looked down the table at the older black. He nodded. That meant the information about the trains was accurate enough.
“When the train passes I start killing. Make up your mind.”
“All right,” Peggy said. “Bobby, you take him to the one and a half pound cache.”
The black with his back to me nodded.
“All of it,” the big cop said, “or no deal.”
“Half or no deal,” Peggy said.
The two cops looked at each other and I saw them agree to go along with it. It didn’t mean that they’d given up on the other pound and a half. That wasn’t likely. They’d take half now and then see if they couldn’t work something with the rest of it later.
“Okay,” the small cop said. “Half’s better than nothing.”
“Isn’t it though?” Peggy said.
“Freddie,” the small cop said, “you go with him and come right back when you’ve got it.”
“Sure,” the big cop said. “Glad to.” He pushed away from the bunk bed and rounded the table. He put a hand on the young black’s shoulder. “Let’s get at it.”
It was time. It was going to break one way or the other and I hoped that Hump hadn’t let himself go to sleep. I thought I could handle the big cop. Surprise would help in that. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go up against the .45 the small cop had. Hump was going to have to chip in on that problem. Heads up, dammit.
I got out my .38 P.P. and flattened myself against the wall. No matter which way the door opened, in or out, I didn’t want them to get a glimpse of me. Less chance of that if the doors opened outward, toward me.
Luck was with me. The young black pushed at the door and it swung out, covering me. The black passed me and I could smell the sweat on him. Right behind him, gun out, the big cop stepped through the doorway and let the door close behind him. His eyes were on the black in front of him and as soon as he’d taken one step past me I moved in behind him and put my .38 in his spine. He froze.
“Easy,” I whispered. “Drop the gun hand to your side slowly.”
He was doing that and I was reaching up to take it from his hand when the young black, Bobby, suddenly realized what was happening. At first I think he just turned to see where the big cop was and then he saw the two of us. One look was enough. He swung around and made a run for the outside door. One arm struck a stacked chair and it fell to the floor with a loud clatter. I looked up and the bi
g cop took my hesitation in taking the gun from him and used it against me. He swung the gun back up, away from me, and kicked back at my shins.
In the lighted room the other cop was yelling. “Freddie, what’s going on out there?”
“Somebody’s out …”
I drew back my left and hit the big cop in the kidney as hard as I could. That turned the rest of what he was saying into something like a scream. He was crumpling forward. I reached in one more time and tried to hit him with the gun butt. He slipped that and even as he was falling he was trying to bring the gun around toward me.
I said, “Shit,” and fired down at his legs. I think I hit him in a leg or a foot and the gun he’d been turning toward me flew out of his hand and bounced across the room.
The door banged open behind me and light cut a wide rectangle across the room, ending just under my feet. I turned and I was bringing up the .38 as fast as I could but I knew I was going to be late. The cop had the .45 up and out and I wasn’t lined up yet. I braced myself. Wherever he hit me it was going to be like getting kicked by a mule.
After that, maybe I could get a shot in. Maybe not.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“You.” He was squeezing the butt, taking that safety off, ready to put one right between my eyes. I was still trying to get my .38 up but at the same time I was figuring the angle. It was going to make my nose look funny, if I had any nose left.
Hump flew through the doorway and hit him about neck high. He got off a round but it went wide, into the far wall, and then Hump separated him from the .45. It fell to the floor. Then, grunting, Hump nudged him with a shoulder and the small cop spun across the aisle and rammed into a table and a group of chairs. He bounced back and that was one more mistake. Hump stepped toward him and hit him with about a six inch punch. The cop went down and twitched at Hump’s feet.
I’d taken my eyes off the big cop. My back was to him. Now, he’d moved behind me and swung a huge hand at me. It wasn’t well aimed for his purposes. It hit me in the ribs on my left side and I went down. I could hear him running away, limping or dragging one foot. I looked up and Hump had picked up the .45 from the floor. He was fumbling with it and then the door opened and closed behind him.
“Let him go,” I said. “Art’s probably outside.”
Hump leaned over me and helped me to my feet. “Watch the group in there.”
I staggered toward the outside door and kicked it open. I stepped outside into what looked like dress-inspection day down at the department. Six uniformed cops were lined up on the tracks facing the door. I lowered my gun and walked out slowly.
To my left the young black, Bobby, was spread-eagled against the wall, a riot gun on him while he was taking a frisk. The big cop, the one I’d pinked, was being rammed against the wall by two of the biggest cops I’d ever seen. He was trying to tell him he had a hurt foot but they just weren’t listening.
Out front, gun at the pistol range stance, Art stood shaking his head at me. I walked over to Art and handed him my .38. The few paces over to him the riot guns traced me. They relaxed only when Art took my gun.
“I want it back,” I said.
“We’ll see.” He pocketed it. “You all right?”
“Fine,” I said. I looked across the tracks and saw the young couple there, leaning over the rail. They’d been joined by about fifty tourists. I grinned at them and waved. The girl waved back. “I’m fine,” I said again for no reason at all. “But you better tell your men to get their asses off this track. There’s a train due in a minute or two.”
I leaned against the wall and watched them brought out. They’d backed a paddy wagon down the walkway and they were loading them in roughly, with no ceremony at all. The last one out was Peggy Holt.
In the grim light down there she wasn’t any Helen of Troy. She needed a bath and the blonde wig wasn’t on quite straight. I could see a few dark hairs had worked their way out from under.
“You win some and you lose some,” she said to me as she passed.
“It was time you lost,” I said.
“Fuck you, Hardman.”
“Not you, sugar, not the best day you ever had.”
I stepped away from her and went looking for Maryann. I found her sitting on one of Hump’s broad shoulders. She looked down at me solemnly. “Where’s Marcy?”
“Waiting for you,” I said, “and your friend, Hump, is going to take you to her.”
“Where’ll you be?” Hump asked.
I dug out the car keys. “Making that visit with Art.”
He shook his head at me. “You don’t need that grief.”
“Tonight or a year from now, it’ll still be there.”
I turned and walked out with them. I stayed on the narrow walk and watched them cross the tracks and go up the steps to Underground Atlanta. Art walked over to me.
“The young couple,” I said.
“The ones by the steps?”
“Yeah, I owe them the best dinner in Underground.”
“They left.” He reached in his topcoat pocket and brought out a scrap of paper. “I got his address.”
I took the scrap of paper and put it in my pocket without reading it. “I hurt all over.”
“You need a drink.” He took my elbow and turned me toward the walkway up to the street “We might get offered one.”
“Who else?” I asked.
“Who else, what?”
“Who else plays with Bear and Ben King?”
“Nobody,” he said.
“Nobody?”
“They play two-handed.”
I shook my head at that. Two handed, like old maids. It was damned sad and lonely and maybe it was just because I was tired and hurting, but I felt a knife cut of pain. I think I got a feeling of what the death and now the shame of Randy meant to Ben. It was another door that had turned into a wall and now there weren’t, except for Bear, anymore doors left.
“I told him it was silly and foolish,” Bear said. “He’s too damned hard-headed for his own good.”
Bear was talking in a whisper and he wouldn’t look at me. He was angry enough with me to take me out in the parking lot and work me over. The way I felt he wouldn’t even break a sweat doing it.
Ben was in the bathroom. He’d been there when we’d arrived and he hadn’t come out yet. Bear had let us in and he’d kept us standing. Though there was half a bottle of Jack Daniels in the center of the poker table, he hadn’t offered us a drink.
It was a small apartment, an efficiency. We were in the tiny living room that was almost crowded out by the poker table. Straight ahead I could see the kitchen-dining room. To the right was the bedroom and beyond that the bathroom.
“It’s not altogether my idea …” I began.
“Leave then,” Bear said.
The john flushed, the pipes creaking and Bear threw up his hands and walked away. The door opened beyond the bedroom. He must have been walking on the rug. I didn’t hear the tap-tap or the slide of his shoes at first. He looked about the same as he had when we’d seen him earlier. But now he seemed so worn down that he couldn’t make it from the bedroom doorway to the poker table. Ben didn’t argue this time when Bear met him and gave him a shoulder and helped him into his chair.
“Art, Jim,” he said when he got his breath, “how about a drink and a hand of poker?”
“One hand,” Art said. “Jim’s banged up and I’ve got to get back to shop and wrap this one up. Or start wrapping it up. It might take days.”
“Daniels all right?”
“Rocks,” I said and Art nodded.
Ben motioned me into a chair directly across from him. Art took the chair on my right. He gathered up the cards and ran them through a good hard shuffle and passed them to Ben. Ben held the cards and waited until Bear returned from the kitchen with two old fashioned glasses with ice in them. He handed me the glasses and the bottle and I poured for Art and me.
“Jacks or better,” Ben said.
“What
game?” Art asked.
“The only one. Five card draw.”
“Fine with me,” I said.
“Nickel, dime, quarter.”
I got out a couple of ones. Bear made me change from a cigar box. Art fumbled and brought out a five. Bear gave him three ones and the rest in change.
“Ante,” Ben said. He threw in a quarter.
“Pot’s right,” Bear said.
Ben dealt the cards. He couldn’t make it all the way across the table. Bear followed each card, pushing it toward the right player. When all the cards were out I picked up mine. I’d made a good start. I had three deuces, a four and a queen.
“So it’s over?” Ben said. He hadn’t looked at his cards yet.
“Almost,” Art said. “As soon as we get the dope back.”
“You talk to Turnage and Winters yet?”
“A little.” Art spread his cards and looked down at them. “It looks like Hardman had it figured right. The three of them were in it together from the start. Peggy Holt must have convinced him to double-cross the other two.”
I noticed that Art hadn’t used Randy’s name. Not once.
“It’s by me,” Bear said, turning to me.
I threw in a dime. “Open.”
Art followed and added his dime. Ben took his time over his cards, as if trying to decide if they were worth the trouble of playing them. Finally, with a disgusted shake of his head, he tossed in two nickels.
“The thing,” Ben said, “is to play nickel, dime, quarter just like you’d play for dollars.” He smiled at Bear. “Bear hasn’t learned that yet.”
“Three cards,” Bear said.
I got my two cards and left them face down on the table, watching Art and Ben. Art drew three and Ben drew two. That was interesting, if you could believe Ben’s statement about playing it like it was for real cash.
“Why’d he do it?” Ben asked.
“Money,” Art said, “and the girl …”
“No,” Ben said, “I want to know what Jim thinks.”
“It’ll be a guess,” I said.
Ben nodded, the thick folds of flesh shaking.