The Americans

by John Jakes

  “Shove him over here where I can shillelagh him!” the blind man shouted as Carter sped down the last half of the block. But the blind man’s companion needed no help. He beat the thief’s wrist with the bung starter. The thief let go of his pistol. The frail man tossed the bung starter away and snatched up the gun.

  The thief weaved on his feet, clutching his wrist and moaning. Suddenly the frail man looked past the thief and saw Carter running with the knife in his hand. Confused by the darkness and the sight of the knife, the frail man yelled, “The other one’s coming back, boss!”

  “Wait. I’m not—”

  Before Carter could finish, the frail man aimed and fired. Carter dived for the sidewalk, hitting hard and skinning his jaw. The bullet thumped wood somewhere above him. To hell with humanitarianism. It had nearly gotten him killed twice in only a couple of minutes. He began to crawl toward the edge of the walk, where he intended to drop into the street and keep crawling until he was safe.

  Even that plan went wrong. The frail man let out a hurt cry. Carter raised his head and saw the man stagger, struck on the skull by the bung starter the thief had managed to pick up.

  The blind man knew something had happened to his companion. He kept poking the air with his stick.

  “Alex? Alex, where are you?”

  The man named Alex didn’t answer. Dazed, he couldn’t defend himself when the thief hit him a second time. His eyes rolled up in his head. He slumped to his knees and toppled sideways off the walk, dropping the pistol.

  The thief seized the gun, then darted in beneath the blind man’s jabbing stick. Astonishingly, the blind man seemed to have no concern for his own safety. He sounded irked.

  “Alex? Answer me, can’t you?”

  Out of the thief’s throat came a curious sound—a chuckle distorted by nervousness. The thief whispered, “Boss?”

  The blind man drew his stick back by his shoulder, ready to jab. He looked alarmed for the first time. “Who’s that?”

  Watching the stick, the thief kicked the blind man’s right leg, then his left one. The blind man fell, sprawling on his back. The thief tore the stick from his hands and hurled it away. He’s going to kill him, Carter thought, still on his belly and creeping toward the edge of the sidewalk.

  The thief paid no attention to him. Evidently he thought Carter had been hit by the bodyguard’s bullet and was no threat. Let him go on believing that till I get out of here. To appease his conscience Carter told himself he’d done all he could.

  He was about ten feet from where the thief stood over the blind man. Slowly, cautiously, he worked his way toward the edge of the walk. He heard the thief say, “Can’t you tell who it is, boss?”

  “Now”—the blind man was short of breath—“now I can. You sound very pleased with yourself, Charlie Schmidt.”

  A hard laugh. “Want to shake hands to make sure it’s me?”

  “I only shake hands to identify a friend, never an enemy. Never a poltroon to whom I gave an honest job with the push, only to have him reward me by stealing from my cash box.”

  “I took only a little.”

  “Don’t whine, Charlie. You always did strike me as a whiner. You took a hell of a lot.”

  “And you fired me for it! That should have made us even.”

  “Not in my book.”

  “No, that’s right. Firing me wasn’t enough. You had to make a stink all over town.” He put his right foot on the man’s shoulder, pointing the pistol down at his eyes. “I can’t get work because of you.”

  “What did you expect when you robbed me, a proclamation honoring your honesty? You got what you deserved. Now let me up, you damned rogue, or—”

  “Or nothing!” Schmidt broke in. He stepped down on the blind man’s shoulder; the man let out a short, pained cry. “I’m going to blow your fucking head all over this walk, boss. Then I’m going to help myself to that bundle of banknotes you always carry. After that I’m going to catch a coasting ship for Los Angeles.”

  Only about six inches separated Carter from the edge of the sidewalk. The faint music of a melodeon drifted down the hill from the Barbary Coast. Holding his breath, he braced his left elbow on the walk, then his left knee. In a moment he’d be down in the street, less visible.

  He started to move—

  A loose board creaked.

  The thief spun around, saw him. “I thought you were done for. Well, I can take care of that. A little payment for putting my partner away. Stand up.”

  Carter remained awkwardly propped on one elbow and one knee. A part of his mind urged him to leap up and lunge with the knife he was still holding. He might be able to surprise the man. Force him into a wild shot, then reach him before he could shoot again. But memories kept flickering in his head: Ortega, his knife, his ripped throat—

  Get up and go at him!

  He refused to listen to the voice. He remembered the Red Cod, and what the weapon in his hand had almost cost him tonight. And besides, he was too far from the thief. A wild charge stood no chance of succeeding. There had to be another way out of this. Another weapon with which to disarm and overcome the man.

  He knew of one. Would it work? Did he dare gamble?

  “You son of a bitch, I said stand up.”

  “All right. But I have your friend’s knife. Don’t shoot when I throw it away.”

  The blind man reacted to what he’d heard with surprise and disgust. “Whoever you are, boyo, you must be daft. If you have a knife, don’t toss it away or he’s sure to kill you, too.”

  Carter paid no attention. Sweat ran into his eyes. He slowly raised his right hand, flicked it outward—

  The knife sailed into the street, thumped on a paving block. The sickening fish stench receded.

  In a strained voice, he said, “It’s gone. Can you see?”

  “I see. On your feet.”

  Carter clambered up.

  “Hands in the air!”

  Carter obeyed. He heard a groan, a faint stirring out in the foggy street. The thief glanced that way, apparently saw nothing alarming, and returned his attention to Carter.

  The thief was about Carter’s age. A colorless man with a moon face and stooped shoulders. Carter eyed the pistol pointed at him. He guessed he had only a few seconds to prevent the blind man’s murder—and his own.

  ii

  With all the urgency and conviction he could muster, Carter said, “You’d better run for it, Schmidt.”

  It took the thief a moment to realize what he’d heard; his first reaction was a laugh of disbelief. “You’re giving me orders when I’ve got this?”

  He waggled the gun. Carter broke out in a sweat again. Trying to ignore the small, round muzzle, he struggled to maintain a blustering tone.

  “Listen to me, you damned idiot.” The man was stunned to be addressed that way. “Why do you think I took a chance and interfered with your little adventure? I’m being paid to patrol this district along with four other detectives.”

  The thief laughed, but less confidently. “Bullshit. No San Francisco coppers patrol this part of town after dark. If they did, they sure wouldn’t be as sorry looking as you.”

  “Think we’re going to carry signboards? Our job’s to blend in and watch for tinhorns like you.” The lies came more easily all at once.

  “We’ve been working these streets since a week ago Monday night. The saloon owners on the Coast and the merchants along here whose places keep getting broken into took up a special collection. They pay us for the extra duty.” He turned toward the blind man. “Isn’t that the God’s truth, boss?”

  Whoever the man was, he had brains. He picked up the intent of the ruse instantly. “The gospel, Officer. You’d better heed him, Charlie Schmidt.”

  Schmidt blinked, clearly confused. Carter’s hands were still raised. He hoped their trembling didn’t show. The longer he kept Schmidt from firing, the greater his chances. But he couldn’t afford to pause too long and give the man time to think.

>   “How long has it been since that pistol went off? Two minutes? Three? I guarantee at least one of the others in the special patrol heard the shot. One or more of them will be coming along soon to check on—”

  “Shut your mouth!” the thief yelled, his voice so ragged Carter knew he’d successfully planted a seed of fear. The man might never swallow the far-fetched story but he was wondering about it. If he wondered long enough, he might lose his nerve—and his will to do murder.

  When he spoke again, he sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. “I don’t believe a damn word of what you’re telling me, mister.”

  Carter shrugged. “Your privilege.” He was positive he heard a footfall in the street. But he didn’t dare look. “You’ll find out soon enough whether I’m lying. You’ll find out when we string a noose around your neck.”

  The thief looked shaken; even in the near-darkness, Carter could see that. The man was an amateur. Carter’s hopes soared. He bore in hard.

  “Every man on the special patrol is empowered to act under what’s known as a municipal writ. That’s a writ signed by a municipal judge and kept in a vault at police headquarters. Those of us on the patrol don’t carry any papers, but that writ gives us the right to raise a posse comitatus—a posse of citizens which can legally pass sentence and carry it out right in the street. Under the supervision of any man in the patrol, the posse can hang an offender caught committing a crime.”

  “I”—the man swallowed—“I worked for the boss six months. I never heard of anything called a municipal writ.”

  “Am I responsible for that? You’d better cut and run. Do that and we’ll give you a sporting chance. You’ve hurt people but you haven’t killed anybody. But if I’m found dead, all that money you stole won’t do you a damn bit of good. Four other San Francisco detectives will catch you and hang you. And they’ll do it before the sun comes up.”

  “You’re lying,” Schmidt whispered. “There’s no way a man can be lynched without a trial and—”

  He stopped, hearing the same sound Carter and the blind man heard—the wonderful, unmistakable sound Carter had been hoping and praying for: men coming down the hill from the Barbary Coast.

  How many had banded together to investigate the gunshot, he couldn’t tell. It sounded like at least a half dozen. The thief began to breathe in short, hard gasps.

  “They’re coming for you, Schmidt. I told you they would. Go while you still have time. Go!”

  The command, almost shouted, made the thief back up as if he’d been punched. He blinked again, lowered the pistol and swung around to peer at the moving silhouettes visible against the lights further up the hill. The men were coming rapidly. Carter was euphoric. He’d staved off a killing by using only his ability to think quickly, speak quickly, sow doubt and thereby—

  The blind man’s companion came lunging up from the street so fast Carter barely saw what took place. In his hand was the knife Carter had discarded. He rammed it into the thief’s back halfway between shoulder blades and buttocks. Then he seized the thief’s arm and flung him to one side.

  The thief screamed. His trigger finger jerked, but the bullet he fired thunked harmlessly into the sidewalk.

  The thief fell, dead before he rolled into the street. Raging, Carter turned on his killer. “You murdered him. Why? He was ready to run. I had him ready to run!”

  iii

  Boots hammered on paving blocks as the men came closer, shouting questions. The blind man’s companion sounded surly as he said, “We’re grateful. But nobody turns on the boss that way. Nobody.”

  He picked up the thief s gun and shoved it into his belt. Then he extended his hand to the blind man, who was sitting up now. “Let me help you, boss.”

  Carter stared at the knife jutting from the dead thief s back. He’d thrown the knife away and bet everything on his own ability to spin out words that would make the man hesitate. He’d been successful, and then this damn fool bodyguard had ruined everything!

  Elongated shadows of eight or ten men appeared on the wall of a warehouse on the other side of the street. The fog had thinned somewhat during the last few minutes. The huge shadow of a pointing hand was clear on the wall as someone yelled, “That must be one of them. Catch him!”

  Down at the corner, the Britisher darted away into the cross street. Two men raced in pursuit. The others came on, their shadows looming. The bodyguard helped the blind man to his feet.

  “You all right, boss?”

  Carter didn’t catch the answer. What did it matter? All the effort had been for nothing. Despairing and angry, he leaned against the front of a store, his forehead resting on his forearm. He heard the new arrivals clamoring around the blind man. They seemed to know him well.

  A new thought struck him. On top of everything else, he was an accomplice to murder. He clenched his fist and hit the siding on the front of the store. From somewhere—the night streets or the recesses of his own imagination—there came again the terrible odor of rotting fish.

  CHAPTER IX

  THE BLIND BOSS

  i

  IN THE CROWD SURROUNDING the blind man, Carter suddenly spied two new arrivals, both in uniform. A badge threw off a flash of reflected light.

  He swore softly. Why had he waited to run? Why had he involved himself at all? His reasons—the hope of a reward, and the prodding of a conscience he hated to acknowledge—now seemed completely absurd. There was a corpse in the street.

  A curious thought stuck him then. He seemed the only person worried about the corpse in the street. The man responsible for it certainly wasn’t. He’d seated himself on the edge of the sidewalk, lanky knees drawn up in front of his chest, and was carefully fingering his temples and forehead.

  The blind man didn’t act worried either. Smiling, he thanked those who handed him his broad-brimmed hat and stick. He grew positively ebullient when someone said policemen were on the scene.

  “Splendid. Who’s on duty tonight? Don’t speak, Officer. Shake hands with me first.”

  The older policeman did so. The blind man nodded. “Sean Phelan.”

  The gray-haired patrolman grinned. “Right, boss.” The crowd murmured; a couple of men clapped. The blind man asked, “How does your sister like that teaching job, Phelan?”

  “She likes it just fine. Thanks to you, she’s able to salt a little into the Bank of California every payday. My Lord, it’s uncanny, the way you recognize people by a handshake.”

  “Only my friends, Phelan, only my friends—as I told poor Charlie Schmidt. I understand he’s no longer among the living.”

  The second policeman, quite a bit younger, rose from a quick examination of the corpse. “That’s right, boss. Somebody planted a knife in his back.”

  Carter swallowed the sour fluid burning his throat. He backed up half a step, hoping to slip out of the crowd, turn and walk away unnoticed. It might be possible. The blind man was the center of attention as he explained.

  “There were two of them, Charlie and some Limey. I suppose they planned to split the loot. I hired Charlie as a candidate for my push, you see. But I soon found him untrustworthy and discharged him. Robbing and killing me would have been his way of getting even.”

  Phelan’s expression was sympathetic. “Can you tell exactly what happened?”

  “Certainly. My companion and bodyguard, Mr. Alex Gram”—the blind man raised his cane and, without an instant’s hesitation, pointed it straight at the frail man; someone let out a soft whistle of astonishment—“accompanied me to the Coast, where I took care of a small errand. We were on our way back down to Bush Street when Charlie and his accomplice ambushed us. Then another fellow came along—where is he, by the way?”

  Heads turned. Eyes fixed on Carter’s face as he swore again. An aisle opened. He’d backed almost the whole way out of the crowd, but now he was caught. And when he saw the stern look on the face of the older policeman, he thought, The blind man’s someone important. He’ll probably pin it on m
e to save his pal. And the coppers will play along.

  The young policeman moved in beside Phelan. One hand rested on iron handcuffs hanging from his belt. “Step up here!” he ordered. When he motioned, the cuffs rattled.

  A last impulse to run seized Carter. But it quickly faded. With so many people available to help the police, he had no chance. No chance at all.

  The two policemen were scowling at him. The crowd stared. Run, stay—what difference did it make? They had him either way.

  ii

  “Didn’t you hear my partner?” Phelan said. “Up here, if you please.”

  Carter shuffled forward, completely exhausted. The fever was raging through him again. His face was sticky with sweat and his ears rang. He wasn’t sure how long he could stay on his feet.

  The older officer pointed the billy at Carter’s chest. “What’s your name?”

  Should he lie? Invent something?

  Glowering, Phelan raised the club. “Lad, I’ll ask you but once more. What’s your name?”

  “Kent. Carter Kent.”

  The blind man took charge then. “Well, Mr. Kent, my friend Mr. Gram told me you did a game job of coming to our assistance. That will not be forgotten. No, indeed—not forgotten for one moment.”

  He reached for Carter’s right hand and found it with only a little fumbling. He held it a moment, as if memorizing its contours. Then he shook it, as if he was working a pump handle. At last he let go. His sightless eyes had been fixed on Carter’s face the whole time. Carter was too surprised to say a word.

  The blind man again addressed the older officer. “Mr. Kent’s hand feels feverish. I want to offer him the hospitality of my saloon—”

  The suggestion sounded wonderful to Carter, though he knew he should be careful; far away, on the coast of Texas, another man had once offered him shelter, and a job—and he’d nearly lost his life.