by Jerry eBooks
“It’s hidden, until I need it.”
CROOK, deep in the shadows, risked a slow half-turn. His gun was in his hand, his arm at his side. Evidently he was debating whether he could whirl and fire before the kid’s bullet got him. Johnny realized suddenly he was in the direct line of fire—not to mention the girl, in the trunk of the car.
He dove for Crook’s legs, remembering the sting of the gloves as Crook belted him across the cheek. They went down to the ground as guns crashed in split-second interval. Crook fired going down, and again as he hit the gravel.
Johnny saw the kid as a weaving blur behind a gun belching red.
He drove his fist into Crook’s face and heard the big man’s jaw snap like a breaking twig. Then Crook brought up his knee and sent him sprawling.
Crook was on his knees now, still in the shadow. The kid suddenly buckled, slid down.
Johnny started for Crook, and froze as the big man’s gun came around. He was drooling blood from his crushed lips, and one of the kid’s bullets had laid a deep crease in his temple. But he was on his feet, the gun steady.
“I’ve got the ninety grand in real coin,” he muttered, “but I want the four hundred grand in phony bills that were planted in your suitcase, too. Into the car!”
Johnny started forward. A noise suddenly came from the trunk compartment, an insistent thumping.
Crook whirled. “What’s that?” he shouted.
It gave Johnny the chance he needed. He dove again, and they went down. Crook’s gun roared like an explosion in his ears, and he felt the hot breath of a bullet slicing by his head. Then his fist hammered into the broken, broad face of Crook, in short, vicious punches that jerked the big man’s head back like a bouncing rubber ball.
He kicked the gun out of Crook’s limp hand and staggered around the car and opened the trunk.
Cherry Stunder tumbled out. Her feet were unbound, and she was tugging at the tie binding her wrists; her hair was tousled, and her cameo face was streaked and dirty. Johnny tore the gag out of her mouth and freed her hands, just as a car bore down the lane. A bright spotlight caught them, holding them in its beam.
Two city cops scrambled out of the car and came rapidly forward. One of them carried a battered bag.
“We found this in a room in a hotel in town,” one of the cops said. “Woman said it belonged to a kid that might be—”
“You’re right,” Johnny spoke up. “But the phony bills inside aren’t mine—they belong to this bozo here.” He pointed to Crook.
“That’s a pretty tall story,” the first cop said, then he saw Crook on the ground, out cold.
A low moan came from the shadows, and they went over and looked at the kid. He looked up, recognized Johnny.
“Better get those dicks over here quick,” he said weakly, “if you want me to pin the rap where it belongs . . .”
Two hours later, Johnny was on a freight train, bound for L.A. As the rattler roared through the night, he kept wondering how the redhead would make out. The kid had spilled the works before his last breath had wheezed out, and Crook’s shattered face kept him from making more than a guttural sound as he was led away. The redhead hadn’t been implicated; if she had any sense, she’d get that boat at San Diego and keep going. She was guilty, too, Johnny rebuked himself, but what the heck—
He always did have a yen for redheads, any month on the calendar.
AS I LIE DEAD
Fletcher Flora
1.
I rolled over in the hot sand and sat up. Down the artificial beach about fifty yards, the old man was coming toward us with a bright towel trailing from one hand. He was wearing swimming trunks, and with every step he took, his big belly bounced like a balloon tied up short on the end of a stick. Dropping the towel on the sand, he turned and waded into the water.
“The old man’s taking a swim,” I said.
Beside me on the beach, Cousin Cindy grunted. She was stretched out flat on her belly with her head cradled on her arms and her long golden legs spread in a narrow V. Her white lastex trunks curved up high over the swell of her body, and the ends of her brassiere lay unattached on the sand. When she shifted position, raising herself a little on her elbows, my reaction was not cousinly. Not cousinly at all.
“Hook me in back,” she said.
I reached over and brought the loose ends of her brassiere together below her shoulder blades, letting my fingers wander off lightly down the buttons of her spine. She sat up, folding the golden legs Indian style and shaking sand from the ends of her golden hair. She was gold all over in the various shades that gold can take. Even her brown eyes, behind dark glass in white harlequin frames, were flecked with gold.
Out in the lake, Grandfather was swimming toward the raft that was a small brown square on the blue surface of the water. He was swimming breast stroke, as many old men swim, and the water bulged out ahead of him in smooth, sweeping undulations.
“The old man’s strong as a bull,” I said.
Cindy didn’t answer. She just handed me a bottle with a white label and a white cap and some brown lotion inside. I unscrewed the cap and poured some of the lotion on her shoulders and back, rubbing it in gently with my fingers until it had disappeared and her skin was like golden satin to my touch.
Looking over her shoulder, past the soft sheen of her hair and out across the glittering blue lake, I saw that Grandfather had reached the raft. He was sitting on the far side, his back to us, legs dangling in the water. He’d made it out there in good time. For an old man, damn good time. He was strong, in spite of his fat belly. It didn’t look like he was ever going to die.
“It’s hot,” Cindy said, her voice slow and sleepy like the purring of a kitten, “but it’s not as hot as it gets in Acapulco. You ever been in Acapulco, Tony? It’s beautiful there. The harbor is almost land-locked, with mountains all around, and the ships come right up against the shore.”
I didn’t say anything. My hands moved across her shoulders and down along the soft swells of flat muscle that padded the blades. The perfumes of her hair and the lotion were a strange, exotic blend in my nostrils. Out on the raft, Grandfather still sat with his legs in the water.
“I was there for two weeks once,” Cindy said. “In Acapulco, I mean. I went with a man from Los Angeles who wanted me to wear red flowers in my hair. He was very romantic, but he was also very fat, and the palms of his hands were always damp. It would be better in Acapulco with you, Tony. Much better.”
My hands reversed direction, moving up again into her hair, cupping it between palms as water is cupped. The raft, out on the lake, rose and dipped on a slight swell. Grandfather rode it easily, still resting.
“He just sits,” I said bitterly. “He’ll be sitting forever.”
Her head fell back slowly until it was resting on my shoulder, and her golden hair was hanging down my back, and I could look down along the slim arch of her throat into the small valley of shadow under the white band she wore. Behind dark glass, her lids lowered, and she looked dreamily through slits into the brash blue of the sky.
“Acapulco, Tony. You and me and Acapulco. It’s hot and beautiful there by the harbor in a ring of mountains, but it wouldn’t be good unless you and I were hot and beautiful, too. It wouldn’t be good if we were too old, Tony.”
“He’s strong as a bull,” I said. “He’ll live forever.”
A shiver rippled her flesh, and the tip of her pink tongue slipped out and around her oiled lips.
“It’s a nice day, Tony. A hot, dreamy day with a blue sky and white clouds drifting. If I were old and ugly, I’d like to die on a day like this.”
She remained quiet a minute longer, lying against me with her hair splashing down my back, and then she slipped away, rising in the hot sand.
“I want a drink,” she said. “A long, long drink with lots of ice and a sprig of mint. You coming, Tony?”
I stood up too, and we stood looking at each other across the sand of the artificial beach tha
t had cost Grandfather a small fortune.
“I’ll be up in a little,” I said. “I think I’ll swim out to the raft and back.”
Her breasts rose high against the restraint of the white band and descended slowly on a long whisper of air. She wet her lips again. “I’ll have your drink waiting,” she said.
I watched her walk away up the beach, her legs moving from the hips with fluid ease, even in the soft sand, and after she was gone, I went down to the water and waded out into it to my waist. The water was cool on my hot skin and seemed to make everything clear and simple in my mind. Swimming with a powerful crawl, I was nearing the raft in almost no time. A few feet from it, treading water, I stopped and looked at Grandfather’s motionless back. I wasn’t worried about his hearing me. He’d been partially deaf for years and usually wore a little button attached to a battery. After a few seconds, I sank in the water and swam under the raft.
The first time I reached for his ankle, my fingers barely brushed it, and it jerked away. Reaching again, I got my fingers locked around the ankle and lunged down with all the force I could manage in the buoyant water. He came in with a splash, and even under the water I could see his veined eyes bulging with terror as my hands closed around the sagging flesh of his throat.
He was strong. Stronger, even, than I’d thought. His hands clawed at mine, tearing at my grip, and I scissored my legs, kicking up to a higher level so that I could press my weight down upon him from above. My fingers kept digging into his throat, but he put up a hellish threshing, and when I broke water for air, it was all I could do to hold him below the surface. It was a long time before he was quiet and I could let him slip away into the green depths.
There was a fire under my ribs. My arms and legs were throbbing, heavy with the poisonous sediment of fatigue. I wanted to crawl onto the raft and collapse, but I didn’t. I lay floating on my back for a minute, breathing deeply and evenly until the fire went out in my lungs, and then I rolled in the water and crawled slowly to shore.
On the white sand where he had dropped it, Grandfather’s towel was a bright splash of color. Leaving it lying there, I crossed the beach and went up through a sparse stand of timber to the eight room house we called the lodge.
Cindy was waiting for me on the sun porch. She had removed the dark glasses but was still wearing the two scraps of white lastex. In one hand was a tall glass with ice cubes floating in amber liquid and a green sprig of mint plastered to the glass above the amber. Her eyes were lighted hotly by their golden flecks. Between us, along a vibrant intangible thread of dark understanding, passed the unspoken question and the unspoken answer.
“Tell me more about Acapulco,” I said.
She set the glass with great deliberateness on a glass-topped table and moved over to me. Still with that careful deliberateness, she passed her arms under mine and locked her hands behind my back. There was surprising strength in her. I could feel the hard, hot pressure of her body clear through to my spine. Her lips moved softly against my naked shoulder.
“Was it bad, Tony? Was it very bad?”
“No. Not bad.”
“Will anyone guess?”
“I had to choke him pretty hard. There may be bruises. But it won’t matter, even if they do get suspicious. It’s proof that hurts. All we have to remember is that we were here together all afternoon.”
“What do we do now?”
“We have a drink. We wait until dusk. Then we call the sheriff and tell him we’re worried about Grandfather. We tell him the old man went swimming and hasn’t returned.”
“Why the sheriff?”
“I don’t know. It seems like the sheriff should be the one to call.”
“The will, Tony. Are you sure about the will?”
“Yes, I’m sure. It’s all ours, honey. Every stick, stone, stock and penny, share and share alike.”
It was only then that she began to tremble. I could feel her silken flesh shivering against mine all the way up and down. Her lips made a little wet spot on my shoulder. Under my fingers, the fastening of her white brassiere was a recalcitrant obstacle, thwarting the relief of my primitive drive. Finally it parted, the white scrap hanging for a moment between us and then slipping away. My hands traced the beautiful concave lines of her sides and moved with restrained, savage urgency.
Her voice was a thin, fierce whisper.
“Tony,” she said. “Tony, Tony, Tony . . .”
2.
Out on the lake, they were blasting for Grandfather. All day, at intervals, we’d heard the distant, muffled detonations, and every time the hollow sound rolled up through the sparse timber to reverberate through the rooms of the lodge, I could see the bloated body of the old man wavering in terrible suspension in the dark water.
On the sun porch, Cindy stood with her back to me, staring out across the cleared area of the yard to the standing timber. She was wearing a slim black sheath of a dress without shoulders. Beautiful in anything or nothing, in black she was most beautiful of all. She was smoking a cigarette, and when she lifted it to her lips, the smoke rose in a thin, transparent cloud to mingle with the golden haze the light made in her hair.
“It’s been a long time,” she said. “Almost an hour.”
“What’s been almost an hour?”
“Since the last explosion. They’ve been coming at half-hour intervals.”
“Maybe they’ve raised him.”
“Maybe.”
She moved a little, lifting the cigarette to her lips again, and the sunlight slipped up her arm and over her shoulder. I went up behind her and trailed my hands down the black sheath to where it flared tautly over firm hips and then back up to her shoulders. I pulled her back against me hard, breathing her hair.
“Nervous, Cindy?”
“No. You?”
“A little. It’s the waiting, I guess.”
She turned to face me, her arms coming up fiercely around my neck.
“Sorry, Tony? Will you ever be sorry?”
I looked down into the hot, gold-flecked eyes, and I said, “No, I’ll never be sorry,” and her cigarette dropped with a small sound to the asphalt tile behind me. Out on the front veranda, there was a loud knocking at the door.
I went in through the living room and on out through the hall to the front door, and there on the veranda stood Aaron Owens, the sheriff of the county. He was a short, fat little man with round cheeks and a bowed mouth, and it crossed my mind that maybe he’d been elected sheriff because the voters thought he was cute. Looking in at me through the screen, he mopped his face with a bright bandana and blew out a wet sigh.
“Hello, Mr. Wren. It’s a hot walk up from the lake.”
I opened the screen door and told him to come in. “My cousin’s on the sun porch. She’ll mix you a drink.”
We went back to the sun porch, and Cindy put bourbon and soda and ice in a glass and handed it to him. He took the drink eagerly.
“We’ve been listening to the blasting,” Cindy said. “We haven’t heard any now for an hour.”
He looked at her over the rim of his glass, his face and voice taking on a studied solemnity.
“We’ve brought him up. Poor old guy. I came to tell you.”
Cindy turned quickly away, looking again out across the yard to the timber, and the little sheriff’s eyes made a lingering, appreciative tour of the black sheath.
“He’ll be taken right into town,” he said. “Twenty-four hours in the water, you know. Didn’t do him any good. We thought you’d prefer it that way.”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”
He lifted his glass again, draining the bourbon and soda off the cubes. He let one of the cubes slip down the glass into his mouth, then spit it back into the glass.
“The coroner’ll look him over. Just routine. An old man like that shouldn’t swim alone in deep water. Maybe a cramp. Maybe a heart attack. Never can tell with an old man.”
“Grandfather was always active,” I said.
He looked wistfully at his empty glass for a minute and then set it down on the glass-topped table.
“Sure. Some old men never want to give up. Ought to know better. Well, time to be running along. Lucky to get him up so soon. Can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“Thanks very much,” I said.
I took him back to the front door and watched him cross the veranda and go down across the cleared area into the timber. Turning away, I went back to Cindy.
She was facing me when I came in, black and gold against the bright glass. Her lips were parted, and her breasts rose and fell with a slow, measured cadence.
“Everything’s all right, Tony. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Sure. They can’t touch us, honey.”
“He was an old man. We didn’t take much of his life away.”
“Don’t think about that. Don’t think about it at all.”
“I won’t, Tony. I’ll just think about the time when we can go away. I’ll think of you and me and more money than we can spend in a dozen lifetimes. You and me and the long, hot days under a sky that’s bluer than any blue you’ve ever seen. Oh, Tony . . .”
I went over and held her tightly until she whimpered with pain and her eyes were blind with the pleasure of suffering.
“It won’t be long, honey. Not long. After the will’s probated. After everything’s settled.”
She snarled her fingers in my hair and pulled my face down to her hungry lips, and it must have been a century later when I became aware of the shrill intrusion of the telephone in the hall behind me.
I went out to answer it, and when I spoke into the transmitter my mind was still swimming in a kind of steaming mist. The voice that answered mine was clear and incisive but very soft. I had to strain to understand.
“Mr. Wren? My name is Evan Lane. I have a lodge across the lake. I see the sheriff’s men have quit blasting. Does that mean they’ve found the old man?”
“Yes,” I said. “They found him.”
“Permit me to extend my sympathy.” The country line hummed for a long moment in my ear, and it seemed to me that I could hear, far off at the other end, the soft ghost of a laugh. “Also my congratulations,” the voice said.