by P. N. Elrod
I reached out, took his shoulders, and eased him over.
Not fair.
“Charles?” It was someone else’s cracked and frightened voice, not mine.
He was still alive. Mouth open. Trying to breathe. Looking up at me.
“God, Charles, I’m sorry.”
He struggled, his whole body shuddered from the effort. Struggled. And drew in a ragged, shallow breath. Not enough. It rushed right out again. He labored for another gulp of air.
“I’ll call for help.”
But when I started to move, he flailed a hand, catching my arm. He shook his head, lips forming the word “no.”
“But I’ve—”
“No,” he coughed out. He mouthed the word once more, shaking his head.
“You’ve got to . . . ”
No. His paper white face made a ghastly smile as he fought for air.
“—wait a second.”
He feebly patted his chest, nodding.
And I suddenly understood him. “You . . . you goddamned son of a bitch.”
He relaxed slightly and closed his eyes. The next breath he took was less shallow, and he held on to it longer.
“You goddamned bloody son of a bitch!”
Still wearing that rictus of a smile, he made a sound like a tiny laugh. I wanted to belt him, but he’d been hit hard already. Trembling head to toe, I stood and paced, unable to stay in one spot. I wanted to yell or punch holes in brick walls. Only by using up a ton of self-restraint did I manage not to do both.
“Thought you knew,” he wheezed out a full five minutes later. He made motions that he wanted to stand.
“I forgot,” I said through my teeth. I had to clench them tight to keep them from chattering in the aftermath of the adrenaline. It left a metallic taste in my mouth, and my guts churned with nausea. Helping him up, I felt the thickness of his bulletproof vest through his clothing.
“Could have. Noticed lack. Of blood.”
Of all people in the world, I should have noticed. But the only thing that had stuck in my brain was the sight of my best friend falling, and the thought that it wasn’t fair for him to die. I made a choking sound he took for a response.
“Understandable. Heat of. The moment. All that.”
“You scared the shit out of me,” I finally snarled. The two of us staggering like drunks, I got him over to the car. “You going to be all right?”
“Just. A bit. Winded,” he said, leaning heavily on the fender and puffing. “Knocked it. Out of me.”
I looked him over and didn’t care for what I saw. “Just how hurt are you?”
“Don’t know. Chest heavy. Bruised.”
“I’ll find a hospital.”
He shook his head. “Not that bad. Need rest. Not questions.”
I thought of an alternative for him, a doctor who would not ask about the bullet holes. “Okay, inside the car. We’re getting out of here.”
He nodded, and I got him past the door and in so he could collapse onto the seat. I slammed things shut, went around, and slipped behind the wheel. The big motor was still idling smooth; I worked the clutch and gears and shot away without looking back.
“My pipe’s on the walk,” he said in a faded version of his normal tone.
“For Christ’s sake, you’ll get another.” And live to break it in, thank God.
“I creased the files rather badly.” He indicated where he’d rolled them up and stuffed them in his inside pocket.
“We’ll send them to the cleaners for ironing.”
He made an abortive sound in his throat suspiciously like a laugh, then subsided, holding his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t completely recovered. When he breathed in too deeply it came back out as a cough.
“You break any ribs?”
“Don’t think so.” He was getting some color back, though there was a sheen of sweat on him. “Bruised. Never had the wind knocked so thoroughly from me before. Thought I’d pass out.”
I thought I’d pass out, too. “Did you see who it was?”
He shut his eyes, thinking, then shook his head. “When you shouted I was looking at the car. It was probably meant to be a distraction from the shootist. When he appeared all I saw were the muzzle flashes. Did you—”
“Same thing. Hat and muffler covered him up, but he was big, well built. I think it was McCallen. The car looked like his Ford, but—” All I could remember of it were the headlights dazzling my sight. And after the shooting started my memory blurred. Only the sharp image of Escott dropping remained.
“The car was not unlike his,” he said. “The gun I’m not sure about. McCallen fired once in the office. I counted six shots in the street.”
“You counted them?”
“Strange how the mind will fix on the most absurd things in a crisis. I was thinking if he would only just run out of bullets without hitting anything vital—and counted them. Six. Not just five. McCallen’s revolver was a six-chamber model, and he’d already used a bullet.”
“So he reloaded. Or had another gun.”
“But a motive?”
“He’s crazy.”
“Even mad people have their reasons. Why kill me before finding out what he wants to know?”
“That’s something we can answer tonight.”
He didn’t ask what I meant, not after he realized where I was driving. A short detour first, then I’d find him some medical help—if he’d accept it.
“This should be most interesting,” he said sometime later when I parked the Nash in front of Jason McCallen’s modest residence.
His car was on the street and lights showed behind the house’s drawn shades. “Looks like he’s home,” I said, setting the brake.
“Which is a most foolish spot to hide himself if he’s guilty.”
“Not unless he’s packing to leave. I’ll change his mind.”
“I’m coming as well.”
I nearly argued with him, worried that he was too fragile yet, then thought of how I’d feel if it’d been me. I got out and went around to the passenger side to help him. He was moving as little as possible and slowly, for which I could not blame him, and briefly took my arm for balance until he was clear of the running board. Then he settled his clothes into place, pausing as he fingered the holes made by the bullets. They were larger than a .22 would have made. One was on the right, the other just left of center over his heart. Either of them would have been fatal.
He looked at me with a tight smile, a corpse’s smile. “Could have been quite nasty, don’t you think?”
I pushed a return of that icy-black sickness away. “I’m glad it wasn’t worse. Come on, let’s get this bastard.”
He followed, waiting on the sidewalk as I ghosted up the steps to try peering through the windows. I returned a moment later.
“Can’t tell if he’s there or not. I’ll go in first and unlock the door. Give it a few minutes, then you come in. I want to see his face when he finds out you’re alive.”
“As do I.”
I disappeared fully and slipped between the cracks around the door, re-forming just inside. The living room looked the same as the last time, but with a few more newspapers added to the pile around the chair by the radio. A man’s topcoat was flung on another chair. Listening hard, I heard an irregular clinking noise from the kitchen. McCallen must have worked up quite an appetite. After fixing the door for Escott, I went transparent and silently drifted down the hall.
As I guessed, McCallen was about to feed his face. He’d made a sandwich and was in the process of pulling a bottle of beer from the icebox. His cat meowed plaintively, circling his legs.
“All right, y’greedy little bugger, here’s another bit, but that’s the last one.” He pulled some small item out for the cat, who devoured it with a purr I could hear even in my present state.
I made myself solid and stood framed in the doorway. McCallen was partially turned from me. An easy enough mark.
He straightened, saw me,
and gave a satisfyingly startled jump, but recovered lightning fast. He set his feet, hunching his shoulders forward, and very deliberately set down the bottle of beer. There was murder glowing in his eyes as he glared at me.
“Now I’ve got you,” he rumbled. “You’ll be leaving here in a box by the time I’m done with you, laddie.”
His reaction was all wrong. He was surprised, but it was not the surprise of a guilty man.
“Where’s the gun?” I asked.
“I won’t need a gun for the likes of you.”
He bulled forward. I stayed put. He threw one very quick right. I went transparent for exactly how long it took his fist to travel through me, went solid, and caught him a smart punch in the gut. I pulled it, not wanting to damage him too much. He doubled over with an oof and staggered back, clutching his midsection. He crashed against the table, and went down. As he sat on the floor trying to get his lungs to work, Escott walked in.
Most of his color was back, concentrated in two spots high on his cheeks. His gray eyes had a hollow, haunted cast to them. He’d just looked his own death in the face; it would leave marks. “Mr. McCallen,” he said after a few moments, sounding quite normal.
McCallen squinted up at him and sneered. “So the two of you have come to gang up on me? Brave of you.”
Escott frowned mightily, glancing once at me. “Jack, we have the wrong man.”
“I think you’re right.” McCallen was pissed as hell but not shocked. “Well, if he didn’t shoot you, who did?”
“I’m not averse to discussing that subject, but elsewhere, if you please.”
McCallen looked back and forth between us. “What are you two gits on about? I never shot you—only your damned wall.”
“Indeed, and were I not distracted by a greater problem, I’d have you arrested for it.”
“Why, you—” He started to gather himself, but I made a swipe with one foot, knocking his legs from under him. He sat down again with a thud.
“Hey! What the hell is this?” Paterno appeared behind us, shoved his way past, and went to McCallen. “You all right?”
“Where the hell were you?” McCallen shrugged off Paterno’s offered help.
“Taking a leak. What’s going on here?”
“It’s two against two now, that’s what.” He started to get up.
But Paterno grabbed him and told him to wait a minute, then looked at my partner. “You—you’re Escott, aren’t you? The agency?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Hey, I’m sorry about the stuff earlier, but I think you should leave. Jason’s got a grudge on, and you don’t need to be here.”
“I quite agree, but not before my curiosity is satisfied about the contents of that envelope.”
“The envelope?”
“The one my friend retrieved for Miss Sommerfeld. I know you’re familiar with it.”
“Some other time—”
“Now,” Escott said firmly.
I took a half step closer and tried to look intimidating. McCallen took it as a challenge and made another move to stand. This time I caught his eye and told him to sit still and be quiet. His jaw sagged as though he was mildly startled, and he abruptly sank back to the floor.
Paterno stared down in puzzlement at his amazingly cooperative friend, then at me. I switched and gave him a brightly encouraging smile.
“The envelope?” Escott prompted.
“Uh—yeah.”
“It would seem to be the source of all conflict.”
Paterno snorted. “You can say that again. Listen, haven’t you got some kind of confidentiality pledge in your line, like a doctor?”
“Not precisely, but I can keep a secret.”
“We just don’t want any of this getting back to Mary’s family.” He waited for some kind of promise, but Escott only raised an eyebrow. Paterno wearily gave in with a short sigh. “It’s nothing illegal, but they could throw another monkey wrench into the works.”
“What works?”
“What Mary and Jason have—or had—when they were working together. Since they hit the last scene in the third act it’s been nothing but fight, fight, fight.”
It was Escott’s turn to do puzzlement. “Third act? As in a play?”
“That’s it. A play.”
“A play?” Escott looked like he just found half a worm wriggling in an apple he’d bitten.
“A play,” Paterno confirmed. “They’ve been working on it for the last year.”
“Miss Sommerfeld and Mr. McCallen are writing a play?”
“Were writing it.”
“Until her family stepped in?”
“Nah, before that. The third act, like I said.” He looked doubtfully at McCallen, who was sitting still just as he’d been told. “See, they were working on it just fine, and she’s got connections in the theater and managed to get a copy of the first draft to Helen Hayes, who went nuts over it, so then this producer gets really hot to see it, ’cause with her in on it, he figures they’ve got the greatest thing to hit the boards since Hamlet.”
Escott nodded slowly. “Hamlet? Indeed?”
“The trouble is Jason and Mary got this problem with the third act. He wants a happy ending, she don’t. They both got good reasons for either one, but neither of ’em gives an inch to the other, then it was fight, fight, fight all the time. Her family didn’t know about any of this until Mary starts going to the plant to talk with Jason a little too often, then meeting him at the bar to work some more. The folks don’t know about the play, but they figure their little precious is getting too friendly with the wrong kind of guy, so they send her to Europe, which really delays things.”
“And when she returned . . . ?”
“She finds Jason’s been tinkering with the play without her being there to argue with him about the changes. She gets mad and sneaks it away from him, then he sneaks it from her, then she hires you to get it back.”
Escott looked at me. You could almost see the other half of that worm dangling from his open mouth. I shrugged and said consolingly, “At least it’s not a divorce case.”
He looked back at Paterno. “And just where do you fit in the plot of this little vignette?”
“I’m their agent. And I’ve got a producer and these big-money investors all lined up. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get one of these birds interested in an original work by two unknowns? It’s next to impossible! This may be their only chance. The investors option the play, whatever the ending, and produce it with Helen Hayes starring in it, but they won’t wait forever. All we gotta do is get Mary to sign the contract, only she’s not where we can find her, thanks to you two. And Jason.”
“Maybe . . . ” I said, clearing my throat. They both looked at me; Jason was still playing zombie. “Maybe you could have both endings. Play each one on alternating nights. People would pay to see it twice over, then.”
Paterno put on a beatific expression. “My God, but that’s one we never thought of. It could make theatrical history! You hear that, Jason? Now, that’s something that could work. Jason?”
Escott shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s late, and I suddenly feel very tired.”
The beleaguered agent swung his attention back to his last hope of success. “So, would you please tell us where she is? A phone number, a post-office box—anything?”
“Is she aware of this pending contract?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why is she not interested in signing if the ending doesn’t matter to the producer? That dispute could surely be worked out afterward.”
“Because this big lug on the floor got her mad the way he handled things, so off she went. Besides, she’s a rich kid. She has no idea what it’s like to be hungry, so she’s got no need to be in a hurry about anything. But me and Jason do, so I’m begging you, give us a hand here. She don’t even have to see Jason; I can do all the go-between stuff like I’m supposed to do.”
“Very wel
l. I shall contact her tomorrow and see what I can arrange. Have you a number where you may be reached?”
“Here’s my card, and thanks! Thanks a million! You hear that, Jason? We got some light at the end of the tunnel. Jason . . . Jason?” Paterno gave his friend a shake, jarring McCallen out of his trance.
“I heard,” he muttered sluggishly. “I want to talk with her.”
“Only after the contract’s signed. You let me do my job and we’ll all be rich and famous.”
Escott cleared his throat. “Miss Sommerfeld’s recent experience with Mr. McCallen has been such as to give her the strong impression that she was in fear for her life. His behavior toward her—”
“He was only giving as good as he got. But he won’t do any more of it, I promise. Right, Jason?”
McCallen growled.
Escott regarded them one at a time, his gaze finally resting on Paterno, the negotiator. “My contacting Miss Sommerfeld is on condition that Mr. McCallen give his word of honor that he cease and desist all harassment of her.”
“Say yes, Jason, and sound like you mean it,” pleaded Paterno.
A louder growl from McCallen that trailed off into muttering. “Very well. I’ll leave the proud baggage alone if that’s what she wants. She can have her toad of a prince for all I care.” His cat, which had been hiding under the icebox, emerged and delicately walked over to butt its head against his leg. He petted it roughly, which it seemed to like. “As God is my witness, the more I deal with women, the more I like my cat.”
“COMMUNISTS,” I grumbled, hauling the steering wheel around.
Escott hugged his chest and braced with his feet as I took a corner too sharply. He hissed in pain, but it wasn’t my driving that hurt him, it was his own laughter. He’d started to dissolve into it as soon as we left McCallen’s, and he couldn’t seem to stop.
Paterno had let us know the odd-looking crew that hung out in the back room at Moe’s was little more than a bunch of would-be writers. The “speeches” the waiter had overheard were passages from whatever novel, story, or play was being read aloud so the other members could critique it. The critiques often got vocal enough to be mistaken for arguing.
McCallen, because he was the oldest, had the most forceful personality, and had even published a few short stories, was their unofficial leader. He also held a steady job and could often stand them a round of beer. The rest were either students at the university or still living with their parents while they worked to make their fortune as writers.