Desperate Measures

Home > Literature > Desperate Measures > Page 14
Desperate Measures Page 14

by David Morrell


  chain from his pocket and held up the tool knife. "About this." The

  bartender watched Pittman remove the lock-pick tools from the end of the

  knife.

  The bartender relaxed. "You've got one of those, too?"

  He answered and pulled out a set of keys, showing his own knife. "Sean

  only gave these to guys he likes. Yeah, Sean stays here. In a room

  upstairs. At night, he subs for me."

  "But is he around?"

  "Ought to be waking up around now. He sure was drunk last night."

  A half dozen people came into the restaurant.

  "Looks like we're getting busy" The bartender poured. tomato juice into

  a glass, added Tabasco sauce, and dropped in a raw egg. "Stairs dmugh

  the door in back. Second floor. The room at the end of the hall He'll

  be needing this.

  In a musty upstairs hallway that smelled of cabbage, Pittman knocked on

  the door. When he didn't get an answer, he knocked again. This time,

  he heard a groan. His third knock caused a louder groan. He tried the

  door. It wasn't locked. Pushing it open, he found a sparse room with

  its shades closed, its lights off, and Sean O'Reilly sprawled on the

  floor.

  "The light, the light," Sean groaned.

  Pittman thought that the dim light from the hallway must be hurting

  Sean's eyes. He quickly shut the door. In darkness, he listened to

  Sean keep moaning, "The light, the light."

  "There isn't any," Pittman said.

  "I've gone blind. Can't see anything. The light, the light. "You mean

  you want me to turn the lights on?"

  "Blind. Gone blind."

  Pittman groped along the wall, found a light switch, and flicked it. The

  unshielded yellow light that dangled from the ceiling gleamed and made

  Sean start thrashing while he pawed at his face.

  He wailed, "Blind. You're trying to make me blind."

  Oh, for God's sake, Pittman thought. He knelt and pulled one of Sean's

  hands away from his face, exposing his left eye, which was very

  bloodshot. "Here. Drink this."

  "What?"

  "Something the bartender sent up."

  Sean clutched the glass and took several swallows, then suddenly made a

  gagging sound. "What is it? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, there's no vodka

  in this."

  "Sit up. Drink more of this." After a struggle, Pittman managed to

  make Sean empty the glass.

  Sean squirmed so that his back was against the side of the bed and

  scowled. His short stature still reminded Pittman of a jockey. He was

  as thin as ever. But alcohol had aged him, putting gray in his hair and

  ravaging his face. "Who are you?"

  "A friend."

  "Can't remember."

  "That's because you need something to eat."

  "Couldn't keep it down."

  Pittman picked up the phone. "Order something, anyhow.

  The corned-beef sandwich and dill pickle that the bartender carried up

  were delicious. Pittman tried to savor them, but his hunger couldn't be

  controlled. He hadn't eaten anything since the orange juice and Danish

  this morning. Taking huge bites, he gulped the food down. His empty

  plate depressed him. From the bed, Sean looked horrified at Pittman's

  appetite. "I think I'm going to throw up."

  When Sean came back, Pittman had finished the sandwich that the

  bartender had carried up for Sean.

  Sean sat on the bed, scowled at Pittman, and shook his head. "I still

  don't remember."

  "You gave me a crash course on how to break into houses. "Doesn't ring

  a bell."

  "You said I was a natural."

  "Still doesn't ring a ... Wait a minute. Weren't you a reporter?"

  Pittman nodded. "I gave you . Pittman held up the tool knife. "Sure,

  that's who you are."

  "But I've graduated," Pittman said. "What do you mean?"

  Pittman reached inside his gym bag, took out a newspaper that he'd

  bought on the way to the restaurant, and tossed it over to Sean. "The

  story under that colorful headline. 'Suicidal Obit Writer on Killing

  Rampage.' There's an 'alleged' in there someplace, but it doesn't feel

  sincere."

  With a frown, Sean read the article. From time to time, he paused,

  looked at Pittman, deepened the furrows in his brow, and went back to

  reading the story.

  Finally he set down the newspaper. "It makes you sound very busy."

  "Yeah, all that killing. It's almost more work than one man can

  handle."

  "Do I need to be afraid of you?"

  "Let's put it this way. Have I done anything to hurt you so far?"

  "Then you didn't do what the paper says?"

  Pittman shook his head.

  "Why did you come here?"

  "Because of all the criminals I've met, you're the only one I trust."

  "What do you want?"

  The phone rang.

  Sean picked it up. "Hello?" He listened intensely, then straightened

  in alarm. "The police are coming up? Jesus, they must have found out

  about the washing machines."

  Pittman didn't understand what Sean was about.

  Sean scrambled toward the window, jerked the curtains apart, yanked the

  window up, and scurried out onto a fire escape.

  Pittman heard heavy footsteps on the other side of the door. He lunged

  to lock it.

  Fists pounded on it. He grabbed his gym bag and darted toward the open

  window. Banging his shoulder as he squirmed out onto the fire escape,

  he cursed and stared below toward where he assumed Sean would be

  scurrying down the metal stairs. Instead, what he saw were two

  policemen who stared up, shouted, and pointed.

  Footsteps clattered above him. Twisting, craning his neck, he saw Sean

  rapidly climbing stairs toward the roof. Pittman got to his feet and

  charged up after him.

  "Stop!" he heard a policeman yell from the alley below.

  Pittman kept racing upward.

  "Stop!" the policeman yelled.

  Pittman climbed harder.

  ,,STOP!"

  They'll shoot, Pittman thought. But he didn't obey. He reached the

  top, leapt over a guardrail, and scanned the rooftop for Sean. There!

  The roofs of all the buildings on this block were connected, and Sean

  was sprinting past ventilation pipes and skylights toward a door on a

  roof near-the end of the block, his short legs moving in a blur. "Wait,

  Sean!"

  Pittman raced after him. Behind him, he heard shoes scraping on the

  fire escape.

  Sean reached the door, tugged at it, and cursed when he discovered it

  was locked.

  He was banging his shoulder against it, cursing again, when Pittman

  caught up to him. "Damn it, I left my keys in my room. I don't have my

  knife."

  "Here." Breathing heavily, Pittman pulled out the knife Sean had given

  him several years earlier.

  With a smile, then a desperate look beyond Pittman toward two policemen

  who had just climbed onto the roof, Sean yanked the lock-pick tools from

  the knife, twisted and poked, freed the lock with astonishing speed, and

  jerked the door open.

  As a policeman yelled, Sean and Pittman darted through the doorway. At

  once, in the dim light of a stairwell, Sean locked the door behind them.

>   "The washing machines. They know about the washing machines," Sean

  blurted to himself. "Who the hell told them about the washing

  machines?" Fists pounded on the door. Sean raced down the stairs.

  Pittman followed. "Who told them about the washing machines?", Sean

  kept muttering. Or are they after me? Pittman wondered.

  "Don't look behind you. Just keep walking toward the corner. They

  rounded it. "So far so good," Sean said. He hailed a taxi.

  "Don't let the driver think you're in a rush," he told Pittman.

  They got in.

  "Lower Broadway," Sean told the driver, then started humming.

  "Here's your knife back."

  "Thanks. I'm sorry I couldn't help pay for the taxi."

  "Hey, I'm not in jail. That's payment enough."

  They were in a loft on lower Broadway. The loft, which seemed to have

  once been a warehouse, had almost no furnishings, and those were grouped

  closely together in the middle of what felt like a cavern. Although

  sparse, the furnishings were expensive-an Italian-made leather sofa, a

  large Oriental rug, a brass coffee table and matching paint. Otherwise,

  in the shadows beyond the pale light from the lamp, there were crates

  stacked upon crates in every direction.

  Sean slumped on the sofa and sipped from a Budweiser that he'd taken

  from a refrigerator next to some of the crates. "What is this place?"

  Pittman asked. , "A little hideaway of mine. You still haven't told me

  what you want. "Help."

  "How?"

  "I've never been on the run before."

  "You're telling me you want advice?"

  "Last night I slept in a park. It's been two days since I

  I've been scrounging food. I can see how criminals run get caught. They

  finally just get worn down."

  Then I take it you were smart enough not to try to get in touch with

  your family and friends."

  "My only excuse for a family is my ex-wife, and I wouldn't ask her for

  anything," Pittman said. "As for my friends, well, I have to assume the

  police will be watching them in case I show up."

  So you came to me."

  'I kept asking myself who I knew to get help from but who the police

  wouldn't know about. Then it occurred to me-all the people I

  interviewed over the years. Some of them have the kind of expertise I

  need, and the police would never think I'd go to them."

  Sean nodded in approval of Pittman's reasoning. "But I don't know what

  advice I can give you. There's a bathroom and a shower in back. You

  can spend the night here. For sure, I am. Other than that .

  "There has to be something you can tell me."

  "If they catch you, you've already got a brilliant defense.

  "Oh? What's that?"

  "Insanity," Sean said.

  "What?"

  "All that business about your being suicidal. I assume that's another

  exaggeration. Pittman didn't respond. "You mean it's true?" Sean

  asked in surprise. Pittman stared at his Coke can. "Your son died,"

  Sean said, "and you fell apart."

  "That's right."

  "My sister died when I was twenty-five. She was a year younger than me.

  Car accident," Sean said. "And?"

  "I nearly drank myself to death. God, I loved her."

  "Then you understand," Pittman said.

  "Yes. But it's a little different now, isn't it?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "When you're tired and hungry and scared."

  "I feel like I'm being selfish. My son was wonderful. And here I'm

  thinking about myself."

  "I don't presume to tell you how to grieve. But I will tell you

  this-you can't go wrong if you do what your son would have wanted you to

  do. And right now, he'd have been telling you to look out for your

  ass."

  The shower was primitive, just a nozzle over a plastic stall with a

  drain in the concrete floor. There wasn't any soap shampoo, or a towel.

  Pittman was pleased that he'd had the foresight to put a toilet kit in

  his gym bag. He found two steel chairs that he put near the shower's

  entrance, draping his sport coat over one, his slacks over the other.

  There wasn't any door to the shower, and after he came out to dry off

  with his dirty shirt, he discovered that, as he had hoped, the steatn

  from the shower had taken some of the wrinkles out of his jacket and

  pants. He put on fresh underwear and socks, decided to save his

  remaining clean clothes by putting on black cotton sweat suit, and

  returned to Sean among the crates.

  Sean had opened a cabinet, revealing a television, and was watching CNN.

  "They sure like you."

  Yeah, pretty soon I'll have my own series."

  'Well," Sean said, opening another beer. "From the newspaper and now

  this, I have a pretty good idea of their side. What's yours?" He put

  his feet on the coffee table. For the second time that day, Pittman

  explained.

  Sean listened intently, on occasion asked a question, and tapped his

  fingers together when Pittman finished. "Congratulations.

  "I've been a thief since I was twelve. I've spent half my life in

  prison. I've had to go underground times because of a misunderstanding

  with the mob. I've been married to four women, two of them

  simultaneously. But I have never ever had the distinction of being in

  as much trouble as you are. And all this happened since two nights

  ago?"

  .'Yes."

  "Worthy of the Guinness Book of World Records."

  "At least you're amused. I can see I made a mistake coming to YOU."

  "Not so fast. Who sent the gunman to your apartment?"

  "I have no idea."

  "Why would someone want to make it seem that you killed Millgate?"

  "I have no

  "Damn it, don't you think you'd better start having some ideas? As near

  as I can tell, from the moment you killed that man in your apartment-"

  "Accidentally. "

  "I'm sure that makes a difference to him.... Ever since then, you've

  been running."

  "What else was I supposed to do?"

  "You wasted time going to that computer expert. Why was it a waste of

  time? Because your only purpose was to find a way to get in touch with

  me. Why? Because you want advice on how to keep running. Sorry."

  "In the first place, you don't need that kind of advice. You've been

  doing damned well on your own. In the second place, if all you do is

  keep running, the only thing you'll accomplish is to get tired. Then

  you'll make a mistake, and they'll grab you.

  'But there's no alternative."

  'Isn't there? Reverse direction. Hunt instead of being hunnted. God

  knows, you've got plenty of targets."

  "Hunt? That's easy enough for you to say."' "Well, I didn't expect you

  to leap for joy at my advice. From what you've told me, it seems to me

  that you've been running away since your son died. Running from

  everything.

  The suggestion that Pittman was a coward made his face become hot with

  anger. He wanted to get his hands on Sean and punch the shit out of

  him.

  "Touched a nerve, did I?"

  Pittman inhaled, straining to calm himself.

  "guess you don't like the advice I'm giving you," Sean said. "But it's

&nbs
p; the only advice I've got. I'm an expert. I've been running from things

  all my life. Do what I say, not what I do."

  Pittman stared, then parted his lips in a bitter smile.

  "What's funny?" Sean asked.

  "All this talk about running. For twenty years, I ran every day. All

  that time. Where was I going?"

  ,.To the finish line, pal. And if you're still thinking about killing

  yourself, if I were you I'd want to go out a winner, not a loser. You

  can destroy yourself-that's your business. But don't let the bastards

  do it for you."

  Pittman felt his face get hot again. But this time it wasn't because he

  was angry at Sean. Instead, his fury was directed elsewhere. "Bastards.

  Yes."

  For a moment, he didn't move or speak, didn't breathe. His powerful

 

‹ Prev