The Diehard

by Jon A. Jackson

  He emptied the huge pockets of the overcoat onto the bed. There was a pile of money and a .32 revolver with a chip missing from the grip. He opened the bottle of whiskey and counted the money with pleasure. Ten thousand dollars. It made him feel wonderful. It made up entirely for the terrors and exhaustion of his day's work. In fact, he'd go through it all again, if he had to.

  And Byron! Imagine Byron not wanting to give him his share right away. “It'll be safer for you, Ellie,” he'd said. “The cops pick you up now, with this kind of bread on you, you've had it.”

  “I want it now,” Elroy had insisted. He was glad he had insisted. He counted the money several times and thought of the fun he was going to have in Florida. Leaving tomorrow. He wished he had gone today, but Byron had talked him out of that. “We'll have to get you some clothes.” Byron was too careful.

  Elroy drank the whole bottle before he went to bed. He didn't want any dreams.

  He woke early, conscious of some bad dreams. His head was pounding. He was hot and stuffed up, his lips puffy, his tongue swollen. All he could do was groan and repress the bad dreams. The scratches on his face stung. Immediately he thought of Byron. He called the desk for the time and to see if there were any messages. There weren't and it was just seven. He ordered a newspaper.

  The Free Press was full of the Indian Village murder. Elroy read all the articles twice. There was nothing remotely connecting him and, oddly enough, this made him feel resentful. He was surprised to learn just who Arthur Clippert was. Then he began to worry about Byron.

  Elroy was nervous about Byron this morning. Yesterday Byron had been furious when Elroy had come panting up the alley and piled into the cab, covered with blood, soaking wet. They had driven all around the city with Byron ignoring his dispatcher's calls while Elroy told over and over exactly what had happened. Elroy almost fainted when Byron said he was going to drive by and see if the cops were there yet. He pleaded and pleaded, but it was no use. They passed safely, a block away, and looked down the street where all the cop cars were parked.

  Later, Byron had gone to a pawnshop and gotten the long, heavy overcoat for him and then they had driven to Belle Isle and had lunch at the Casino. Nobody noticed him in the long coat. They argued about the money and finally Byron gave it to him and brought him to the Tuttle. He was to be ready by ten o'clock. Byron would bring new clothes and he would be flying to Florida by eleven.

  Elroy was suddenly afraid. Why didn't Byron want to give him the money yesterday? Why did he have to hide here, waiting for Byron to come and get him? The trouble was, of course, that he was totally dependent on Byron. If something happened to Byron, Elroy would be in bad shape. And Byron had always been a pal to him. He could count on Byron, all right.

  He had to have an Alka-Seltzer, or something, some coffee, maybe. He put on the dry pants, still a little stiff, and went out wearing the overcoat. He took everything with him except for the bloodied jacket.

  There was a drugstore on the corner of Woodward and Sibley that had a lunch counter. He had an Alka-Seltzer and a couple cups of coffee with two donuts. The coffee made him feel much better. He bought a copy of Playboy, one of Penthouse, and a carton of Camels.

  He went down the street to a pawnshop and purchased a zippered bag that said Pan-Am on it. He put the magazines and cigarettes in the bag, then went to a clothing store, where he purchased socks and underwear.

  It was a little after nine as he approached the Tuttle Hotel. A Dixieland cab was parked in front. Elroy hesitated. Then he ducked into the alley. An icy wind blew down the alley and he buttoned up the overcoat, turning up the collar. He could feel the reassuring weight of the .32 in his pocket.

  He walked quickly to Cass Avenue carrying the bag first with one hand, then when that hand got cold, switching to the other. He came out onto Grand Circus Park and angled on up toward Cadillac Boulevard, where the airlines had their downtown offices. BOAC, KLM Dutch, American, Air France. He jostled against the Christmas shoppers and began to feel more secure.

  At Delta Air Lines there was a poster of palm trees and girls in bikinis, waving. He went in.

  “May I help you, sir?” asked a young woman who wore a name tag on her left breast. Ann Tyler. Elroy was unshaven and seedy looking, his hair askew from wind and no combing. Miss Tyler looked skeptical, but she was trained to be polite.

  Elroy hauled out several packets of cash and said, “I want to go to Miami, right away.”

  “First class or tourist, sir?”

  “What's the difference?”

  Miss Tyler explained the difference and pointed out that there were flights leaving Detroit hourly. He could be in Miami within a few hours. Elroy took first class.

  “You'll have to hurry, sir, to catch the ten o'clock flight,” Miss Tyler said. “I'll call the desk at the airport. You'll have to take a cab. Is there any luggage?”

  “Just this little bag,” Elroy said.

  “That's all right, then. And if you don't make the ten o'clock, you can take the eleven.”

  Elroy snatched his ticket and change and bolted out the door. There were dozens of cabs sliding up and down the boulevard and one immediately pulled up before him. Elroy jumped in the open door.

  The cab pulled away quickly. The driver didn't ask where they were going. Elroy looked up at the driver's permit card, issued by the police department. It carried a photograph of the driver.

  Elroy sat frozen in the rear seat. When they stopped for a light, Byron turned slightly and said, “Let's see your ticket, Ellie.” His pitted face was calm and his voice mild. He didn't seem to be angry with Elroy at all.

  He took the ticket from Elroy's frozen fingers. “Delta, hunh? That'll be the main terminal. Miami. Be nice in Miami, Ellie, you'll love it.” The light changed and the cab moved away. It turned down an entrance ramp onto John C. Lodge Expressway. Byron did not return the ticket.

  “Be nice to get away from all this snow and crap,” Byron said. He lit a cigarette and steered swiftly through the expressway traffic. They maneuvered onto westbound Edsel Ford and headed out toward the airport. “Be there in a few minutes, Ellie, but I can't guarantee this ten o'clock flight.”

  Elroy slumped down in the back seat.

  They rolled out of town past the bleak scenery of warehouses, fuel storage tanks, assembly plants. Soon there were bare trees and the median strip grew broader until it almost hid the westbound lane from the eastbound.

  The taxicab shot by an exit ramp where a sign pointed to Metropolitan Airport. Byron cursed. “Goddamn. There goes your ten o'clock flight. Now I have to go all the way to the next exit and come back. Or do I? I guess I can take this service ramp.”

  Elroy sat silently. “Oh well,” Byron said, “there's another flight at eleven. That'll be better, anyway. Give us time for a drink in the bar, eh, Ellie?”

  The car turned onto a quiet road and soon they were driving along a gravel surface that ran along the perimeter of the airfield. There were no cars on the road, no houses. Jet airplanes took off and landed. There was a great deal of paper blowing around. The paper stuck against a low wire fence that bounded the airfield, or tumbled and skidded across the thin snow, catching in scrub brush.

  “Is this the way to the airport?” Elroy forced out, almost in a whisper.

  Byron slowed the car. “I think so,” he said. “There ought to be a way to get around to the other side.” He looked across the field at the distant terminal buildings and hangars. “No, maybe you're right, Ellie. I guess I screwed up.”

  They cruised slowly, looking for a likely place to turn around. When they came to a little dirt track that led off through the scrub brush, Byron turned onto it and drove in off the perimeter road about thirty feet and stopped. Byron got out. He opened the back door and beckoned to Elroy.

  Elroy's face was paler than the dirty snow. He trembled in the heavy overcoat. “No,” he said.

  “C'mon, Ellie,” Byron said. The big pitted face loomed in the doorway. He wore a brown
wool workman's cap with a union badge on it. “We're going to walk.”

  “Walk?” That didn't sound right to Elroy. His mind was flooded with panic and confusion. He was so abjectly fearful that he could not be certain of Byron's intent. He wanted to believe the best, that they were going to walk to the airport. “Something's wrong with the car?” he suggested plaintively.

  “That's right,” Byron said. “Out of gas.” He stood in the snow and weeds next to the door, looking in at Elroy. Elroy sat primly on the seat, not daring to get out.

  “But I'm going,” he said. “I'm going to Miami.”

  “You should have gone then, Ellie. C'mon.” The big man reached in and dragged the smaller man across the seat and out the door. Elroy was so shaky that Byron had to hold him up. He walked him around the car and down the little lane, back through the brush and away from the perimeter road.

  “I'll go to Miami, Byron,” Elroy rasped, “I'll go there and there won't be no trouble, honest.” He suddenly broke down and collapsed against the larger man, sobbing. Byron continued to move him along with his arm around him, almost as if comforting him. “Oh, God,” Elroy sobbed, “Oh, I can't help it. I can't help it. Help me, Byron.”

  “It's all right, Ellie,” the big man said in a gentle voice, carrying the smaller man. “I'll help you. Just a little ways further, here.”

  Elroy fell to the ground on his knees, his hands on the grimy soiled snow. Tears ran down his thin cheeks into the stubble of his beard. “Oh God, Byron, don't do it,” he begged. The tears were cold on his cheeks in the harsh wind.

  Byron stood over him and looked somber. He puffed out his cheeks and breathed heavily. The wind made tears in his eyes.

  “I'll give you the money back,” Elroy said.

  Byron's brow knitted. He was a cold-looking man, but there was an aspect of understanding and reasonableness in his craggy face. He looked sympathetic. He took a moment to consider, looking away from the pleading, whining figure at his feet.

  At last he sighed and said, “All right. Let's have it then.”

  Elroy scrambled to his feet and felt inside the overcoat pockets. He withdrew packets of bills and handed them to Byron.

  Byron leafed through the stack. He looked back at Elroy, thoughtfully. “But if I take this,” he said, “you won't have any money, for when you get to Miami.”

  “I don't need it, Byron,” Elroy said quickly, hopefully. Then he noticed that Byron had a very large pistol in his hand.

  Elroy was calm, suddenly. He felt very distant from himself in a curious way. He thought about the little room where he had spent last night, about the hot tub bath and counting the money. It seemed to him to have been one of the most enjoyable evenings of his life. And now, for some reason, it was difficult for him to keep his mind on the present moment. He shook his head as if to wake himself.

  The difference between being safe in the room at the Tuttle and being out here on this bitter cold plain, where jets roared in the distance, seemed at once incredible and minor. He could just as easily be back at the Tuttle as out here. If only he could think how it was done. Or, he could be over there, across the field in that large glass-and-concrete passenger terminal. Obviously, some insignificant factor, some tiny secret, escaped him and kept him from being safe over there instead of here . . .

  “I have more,” he said.

  Byron looked at him closely. “Where?”

  He knew he should have said that it was back at the Tuttle, but instead, he said, “Right here.” He reached into his coat and drew out the .32.

  Click. Click. Empty.

  BAWHOOM! The blast from Byron's .44 was incredibly loud. It knocked Elroy spinning, back into briars that tore at his thin pants and scratched his legs. The second shot lifted him off the ground and he landed rolling. He no longer had his empty pistol.

  He thought about the room at the Tuttle, about his full carton of Camels, about the unread Playboy. Doggedly, instinctively, he tried to get back on his feet.

  The third shot slammed him onto his back into a shallow ditch. He lay there, trying to clear his vision. He looked up and saw nothing. The sky was a gray overcast so solid and of such a texture that there were no features to it, no seams. It looked like there was nothing there. For a great second he lay on his back, as alive as he had ever been. Then he arched his back, as if to breathe. And then he wasn't there at all.

  Byron looked around him. There were no cars on the perimeter road, nobody in sight over the flat fields, nothing but crows flapping toward a patch of woods. The airliners landed and took off. A brightly colored pickup truck drove toward the GCA shack a mile away. The wind swept debris against the fence.

  Byron began to strip Elroy naked in the snow. Methodically he removed the overcoat, shoes, socks, pants, underwear. He took the remaining money and the jewelry and put them in the pockets of his leather jacket. He went back to the car and got the little Pan-Am bag. He put all of Elroy's things in the bag.

  The little man now lay completely naked, his eyes staring at the gray sky, his mouth open. It began to snow, just a few thin flakes that fell into the open mouth and melted. There were three dark holes in the chest and stomach. Byron knelt beside the body and formed the limp right hand into a fist. He laid the .44 Magnum next to the fingers and pulled the trigger. The fingers flew away. He did the same to the left hand. With his remaining bullet he shot away the lower half of Elroy's face.

  He picked up the overcoat and the airline bag and walked back to the cab. He drove off toward the airport.

  Ten

  The room was white and brightly lit. There were no shadows and the walls were marred by black smears.

  It was a rectangular room with a high ceiling. The only door was short, a door for midgets. It was held shut by a magnet and had a shallow depression for a handhold, allowing it to be pulled open from the inside. There was a slit in the door, through which those on the outside could peer to see if the room was occupied.

  In addition, there was a gallery that looked onto the room from ten feet up. It was screened with heavy wire.

  “Takes longer and longer to get warmed up, these days,” Arthur Clippert yelled. His voice echoed and boomed, distorted by the horrible acoustics of the court and partially drowned by the rubbery barong of balls hitting the wall.

  “What?” said the younger man, loudly.

  Clippert repeated his remark and the young man nodded. It was not clear if he really understood. Clippert continued to cuff and chase an energetically rebounding black ball. He noted with satisfaction the spread of dark sweat on his thin leather gloves. The younger man seemed quite warmed up and even anxious to start. Clippert ignored him. He whipped the little ball around the court with graceful ease and power, setting up rebound shots, leaping for high shots, getting more and more limber. At last he felt ready.

  The air was scented with the odor of the two men already. “Low man on the wall?” Clippert said to his younger opponent. The words blurred, but the other nodded. Clippert braced his right foot against the base of the rear wall, stepped forward and delivered a smooth, sweeping sidearm pitch. The ball struck the front wall just a fraction of an inch above the floor and sizzled back toward them.

  “Damn,” the younger man said. He didn't really try to beat the throw, making a perfunctory toss that bounded off the front wall at least a foot higher than Clippert's had. “You're up,” the young man said.

  Clippert went to the serving lane that was painted in red on the smooth floor. He dropped the ball with his left hand and as it bounced his right hand came through and whipped it against the forward wall. It was a high shot, seemingly lazy, that hit on the left, but it came out with power and glanced off the left wall, hit just short of the rear wall and rebounded with a short quick pitch.

  The young man was ready and relayed the shot forward. Clippert took the shot on the rebound and drove high again, to keep his opponent in the rear court. This time his shot came back high and the young man had to return it high
.

  Clippert waited calmly for the rebound. He was bent low, facing the back wall with one hand stretched out behind him and the other on his knee for balance and to insure that he would be down low enough. He timed his swing perfectly, cupping the ball an inch from the floor and following through with a skimming, powerful sweep.

  The ball never got an inch off the floor and smacked into the forward wall just above the point where it met the floor. It did not rebound so much as simply roll back out. There was no chance for a return.

  “One-oh!” Arthur shouted. He returned to the serving lane, bouncing the ball as he went.

  An hour later they were stripping off their sweaty gear in front of their lockers. “Your problem,” Clippert told the young man, “is you just don't have a killer shot. You have a good left hand, you've got reach and range, good legs"—he glanced down ruefully at his own exhausted forty-year-old legs—"you've got a great sense of where the ball is going to be, good hand-eye coordination, but where's the old kill shot? Hunh, Bob?”

  “Well, you certainly have it, Mr. Clippert,” the young man said. He flushed, uncertainly. “I, uh, no offense, sir,” he stammered.

  Arthur wadded up his damp socks and tossed them into the locker. He banged the door shut and smiled grimly at the young man. “That's all right, Bob. You'd be surprised how these days the most innocent words take on added meaning. It confronts a man at every turn.”

  The two walked toward the showers, naked except for towels over their shoulders. “You seem to be bearing up awfully well,” the young man said. “Everyone at the office thinks so.”

  “Do they?” Clippert seemed pleased. He stood under the roaring hot shower, allowing the stinging rain to soothe away the aches. “Well, you know what they say,” he shouted. “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

  A half-hour later the two men stood fully dressed in the bitter cold wind outside the Club. Their hair was still damp and seemed likely to freeze if they continued to stand there. Clippert winced and turned up his collar.