He hugged the wall, and watched the small man ease through the door with commendable caution, his eyes on the alley door which was still quivering, a small .25 or .32 automatic in his hand pointed at the suspected opening.
Ray swung the pan, and the sound of his motion brought the gun up toward him, but the pan won. The small man was erased quickly, going down so fast that Ray was afraid he might have stopped him permanently. Not that he would worry, but it might complicate things.
He jumped down and picked up the gun. It was a new-looking Colt .32. The man was motionless, except for his harsh, tortured breathing. Ray went back into the bar and said to Agnes, “Come on, honey, let’s get out of here.”
She said, “Are we in a big hurry?” But she picked up her purse and followed him toward the kitchen.
“Sort of,” Ray answered. “A guy just tried to hold me up.”
She glanced down at the blonde man as she stepped over him. “He the one?”
“Yeah, but he’s got some buddies waiting out front.”
For a moment he thought she would back out, but then they were out and in a cab headed for Sixth Avenue. Ray guided her down into the subway and onto a Hudson Tube train. At Newark, he went down to the ticket windows and managed to get a compartment on the westbound Spirit of St. Louis.
They had over an hour to wait, so they spent it buying toilet articles, underwear and lingerie, and an expensive pigskin bag to hold them. “We’ll do our real shopping later,” Ray said. “We need more time, and I don’t want to wander around here too much, anyway.”
Agnes looked at him cheerfully, asked with casual interest, “You’re not on the lam, are you?”
“Hell, no,” he replied indignantly. “Not from the law. Just from my lousy business associates.”
They bought two bottles of scotch and two of bourbon, giggling as they packed them in the bag. “Four quarts of whisky and a pair of socks,” Ray quipped. “Why waste all that room on so many socks?”
The train whirled into the upper platform, a sleek monster growling behind its green dragon’s head. When they were in their compartment Ray sighed comfortably—he wasn’t scared, but it was nice to be in a safe spot.
The electric locomotive dragged them away in a smooth, fast start, and Ray opened the bag. He opened a bottle of bourbon and one of scotch, handed the bourbon to Agnes. “A toast to our future.”
“Check,” she said. “But ring for some ice and glasses before you propose the next one.”
“O.K.”
He stared at the landscape, its jagged edges filling in with dusk, yellow spots of light freckling the broad expanse. It was nice to be in motion. So long Russcorp, damn you all. And good-by to Raymond T. Hitchcock, sky-rocket of the year. Adios, you phonies. He hoped Louis Russ was hit by a car that very night. Yes, and Botsch and Abbott and Burke and Sullivan and Charlotte and . . .
They wouldn’t listen to him. Practically gave him the bum’s rush.
What the hell had he done?
THE END
The Heel Page 18