Come Back for More

by Al Fray

  Thinking back I remembered the bits of glass we’d found and how we’d wondered about that since the dome-light was still intact in Arno’s wrecked truck. That made sense too, now. A tube in the radio control set had probably broken on impact. The picture was getting clearer by the minute, and my lips drew into a tight line as I thought about the short and violent future they planned for me when this trial run was over and we were into the real thing.

  “All right,” Sam snapped. “Time’s close. Ken, get over here with me. Mac, you man the chain hoist on the front door.”

  “Check,” I said, and moved into position.

  “Now take it slow and easy, you two,” Ward was saying. “Only a rehearsal; just a run-through to get our timing per—”

  Four quick shots rang out in the distance, giving lie to the words Sam spoke.

  “Jeez,” Ken said quickly, “what went wrong?” And Ward sprang to the chain.

  “Get this damn door up,” he barked. “Watch it, now, Mac, and don’t lift yours until we’re down with this one.”

  “Got it,” I yelled. There was the squeal of rubber as the car whipped into the alley, then more tire noise as Ed Vehon braked for the sharp turn into the garage. The big door was already descending as Vehon hit the timbers, leaned out to make sure he was centered just right, and then gunned up the ramp and into the van.

  “Get us out of here,” Vehon bellowed from within. “We scored, but some fool in the foyer got brave and we had to shoot our way through. Get going!”

  “Jeez,” Ken gasped, and his thick lips were trembling.

  Brother, I thought. If they descend on us before I have a chance to—I gave a mighty heave on the chain and started the door up in front of the rig and Ken Miller slammed the doors of the van. With perfect timing, Sam relieved me at the front to finish opening our escape hatch as Ken Miller and I sprang into the cab. I fed a little gas into the motor, slipped into low, and nosed out of the garage.

  A gun appeared in Ken’s hand and he glanced nervously back, then covered the cold blue steel with his other hand. In the rearview mirror I could see the garage door coming down once more as we picked up speed.

  “Easy now,” Ken said, and I thought he swallowed once or twice. “Remember that we’re obeying all traffic laws down to the last word. If we run into cops I’ll blast our way through but we don’t want no trouble if we can help it.”

  “Some rehearsal,” I said grimly.

  “Better you thought so, Mac. Easier on the nerves,” he said lightly.

  Nerves! Mine were jumping like the strings of a harp and when I thought of that instrument it didn’t ease things any. I took a big breath. Now was the time. The radio device was between us and while I’d figured that they were going to let me play in their game until we got pretty close to the quarry, I couldn’t be sure. I rolled along carefully for three blocks more, then glanced toward the window on Ken’s side and frowned.

  “I want to get into the right-hand lane,” I said. “Anything behind us?”

  He turned. For one brief second he forgot that the big mirror just outside would give me full view of the right side of the truck and traffic behind me, and he turned his head and bent to look out. My fingers closed over the heavy steel tire iron behind the seat back and then, as realization washed over Ken Miller, he whirled back toward me, his gun coming up. I batted the air valve over, made a pass at the weapon in his fist, and brought the piece of heavy steel spring leaf around with every ounce of muscle I could muster. There was the rumble of the bucking truck as the air set, the sharp explosion and a stab of bright yellow from the gun barrel, and a stinging, burning pain in my left hand; but the hard edge of the tire iron caught Miller just above the ear and made a sickening thud as the cold steel slammed home. He slumped forward, slid awkwardly to the floor of the cab, and was still.

  I had no time. I took one frantic look along the street, saw a segment of brick building between two windows, rammed the shift into reverse, revved up the motor, and let out the clutch. Tires howled in the street as surprised motorists braked to keep from hitting me. I put the wheel over and backed suddenly across the street and jammed the rear end of the van tight against the wall.

  Scooping up the gun Ken had dropped, I shoved it into my shirt and jumped down from the cab. People were running toward me now, surprise and question on their faces, and half a dozen irate citizens were swearing vigorously at the truck that blocked their way, but I paid no heed. I slid the knife out of my pocket and air hissed as the blade bit into the rubber hose leading back to the van. The second pass slashed the hose all the way to a wire strand and what little air remained in the lines blasted out.

  I could hear shouts from the trapped men who by now could hardly help knowing that something had gone completely haywire but they were no longer a problem to me. There was only one way out of that van—those rear doors, and to open them even a couple of inches it would be necessary to move the truck away from the wall.

  But that truck wasn’t going anywhere. Not until someone found a new segment of air line and made some repairs. The money and five of the band were on ice for an indefinite period.

  Miller was out of action for a while too and there remained but one loose end to tie off. I sheathed the blade and started to make my way through the crowd that was beginning to gather.

  “What happened, fella?” someone wanted to know, pointing to my left hand. I looked at the blood oozing from the torn flesh between thumb and first finger, then fumbled for a handkerchief, whipped it tightly around the palm, and clamped red-stained fingers over the end. I looked at the man who had spoken. He was pink of face and carried a briefcase but he was big and he seemed reasonably calm.

  “There are five men in that truck,” I told him. “They’re armed. They’re dangerous. Keep everyone away until the police get here and don’t let anybody try to move the truck away or help them out.”

  “You mean—”

  “I mean what I said. Keep people away from the truck or there’ll be blood all over the street.” And then I turned and hurried toward Ward’s Trucking.

  Chapter 18

  The garage itself was less than two blocks from the building in which we’d parked my rig to wait so with any luck I could figure on Sam already being back in the garage to build his alibi. I jogged along, turned into the alley, slowed to a walk while I caught my breath, slipped along the side of the building to the front, and glanced through the big plate glass window. Sam was just sitting down to his desk, one big hand reaching for a wire basket of papers resting near a corner and he didn’t see me until I opened the door and was halfway inside.

  “McCarthy! Good God, what happened?”

  “Plenty,” I said, whipping out the gun I’d taken from Miller. I leveled it right at Sam’s thick chest and moved closer.

  “McCarthy!” he barked again. “What the hell are you trying to—” His voice trailed off as full realization surged through him.

  “Slow down,” I said softly. “I’m in the saddle now and you’re on foot. I want the answers to a few questions.”

  His eyes bulged and his mouth snapped shut, the heavy muscles along his jaw working tautly as he watched me. “The syndicate isn’t going to like this, McCarthy. We gave you—”

  “That’s the first thing we’re going to talk about,” I said, and closed a little more of the distance between us. “The syndicate. But I don’t—”

  He moved fast. Not just fast for a big man; he moved fast period, ducking and clawing a desk drawer out as he went down. The wooden drawer clattered to the floor as Sam disappeared behind the desk. I didn’t need to check the inventory sheet to know what was in that drawer and I gathered myself for the dive over the top, then heard a metallic click that could only have been the slide of an automatic moving into place. Instead of going over the desk I put a shoulder against it and dumped the massive piece of furniture toward Sam, then scooted around the end of it in the hope of getting a shot at his fat hide; but it didn’t wor
k out. Somehow he must have been able to ride her back and stay out from under and he’d kept a firm grip on the desk drawer because there was a flash of yellow oak above me and then the flat edge of the drawer came hurtling down. I tried to line him up, tried to bring the barrel around as I fired, but the drawer hit just before I got the shot off and my slug went way wide and shattered the big plate glass window, the weapon squirting out of my hand from the crashing impact of the heavy drawer.

  A moment of panic set in as my gun skittered across the floor and settled against the wall, and then I charged Sam Ward as his stubby automatic swung in my direction. I heard shouts and a hysterical scream through the broken window as my left hand caught at the business end of Sam’s gun. The bloody handkerchief had fallen away from my fingers now and the slim steel barrel was slippery but I managed to hold on and turn the weapon up and to the side.

  With the gun a stalemate—neither of us being able to force a decision on it—Sam smashed a hard left into my face. I backed off, still holding the barrel of Sam’s automatic, and fumbled in my pocket as another barrage of knuckles caught me broadside. We each still had one hand on the gun and Sam was bringing back his other fist to slam me again when I poked my closed hand up in front of his face and pressed the button.

  Four inches of cold sharp steel slid out of the handle and snapped into place. When I moved the knife another half inch the point came to rest on his face just under his eye and near the nose, the blade angled upward. I didn’t say a word. The feel of sharp steel carried more authority than the gun. Sam’s eyes crossed as he tried to see the knife blade pressing into his flesh, his breath came harder, but the fingers of his right hand slowly relaxed and the automatic was mine. “McCarthy! For the love of God!”

  “I’ll brief you,” I said swiftly. “Five of the boys are in the van and it’s backed tight against a brick wall. They’re in cold storage and they’re well iced. Ken Miller is sprawled on the floor in my truck and he’s in no shape to travel far. With you and me, Sam, it makes all hands accounted for.”

  “McCarthy, don’t—”

  “Anderson. Swede Anderson,” I said.

  Ward’s eyes widened and mouth opened. I had him jammed back against the end of the desk now, his hands pressing flat against the wood, great beads of sweat standing on his forehead as he tried to edge away from the knife. This wasn’t the kind of work I enjoy but there had been enough weakness in River City. Now was the time to be ruthless. I thrust the knife ahead just a little and about a quarter of an inch of the razorlike point slipped through his fat skin.

  “McCar—Anderson!” Sam gasped. Droplets of bright red blood began to seep out and roll down the knife blade; and when the first drop fell off onto Sam’s neck, he cried out once more.

  “For God’s sake, man, stop—”

  “I asked Ken Miller some questions,” I said harshly, “and now I’m going to ask you. Miller is yellow. He didn’t seem at all interested in dying for the cause so I think he talked pretty straight; but for a double check, we’re going to have a word from you. Your answers had better match his—if it turns out you’re not singing in the same key I’ll bury this blade.”

  He closed his eyes then and a shudder racked his thick body. The clamor outside was louder now and someone shouted, “He’s got a knife on that guy,” and I knew time was running out but I had to make sure of one thing. The split on the big money had been inconsistent as hell and I had to know about that. Half to the syndicate and half for the four of us here, Sam had said, but there were also the four men down from the city. Divided that way there wouldn’t be a dime for the top brass, only eight equal parts for the boys who pulled the job and there aren’t any syndicates operating on a nonprofit basis.

  “For this quiz you don’t have to know anything about opera or cooking or sports,” I told him softly, “and we’re not going to work up to sixty-four thousand bucks a little at a time. We’re starting right at the top; you’re betting your life on the first question.”

  I put more pressure on the knife to make him know I meant business and said, “What about the syndicate, Sam?”

  “There’s no syndicate. No syndicate, Anderson. I swear it. I swear!”

  “And?”

  “It was a blind, a cover.” Sam closed his eyes and wet his lips, and then a small shift of the knife brought him back to his song.

  “The man in the street—he’s afraid of organized mobs. He won’t buck ’em. So we talked about the syndicate but there’s not one. There never has been.”

  The wail of a siren grew in the street and I had to shout to make myself heard. “Who made the bomb? Who killed Paul Hunt?”

  “Ken, he—Ed makes ’em and we sent Ken to plant that one in—in your car, Anderson.”

  This wasn’t evidence but it could lead to evidence. These small bits of knowledge would be wedges that could eventually split the gang wide open and set every man up in business for himself in an attempt to save his own skin, so I forged ahead. The siren ground to a stop outside but I tried one more question.

  “What about Doreen Phillips? How did she—”

  “Drop it, McCarthy!”

  I turned slowly to see Captain Domms in the doorway. Two of his men stood on the walk and a pair of short-barreled automatic rifles poked through the shattered window.

  “Let the shiv fall!” Domms barked again.

  “All right,” I said, “but hear me first. This boy is the kingpin in your crime pattern, Domms. There’s a car and five assorted killers in my van and the truck’s jammed against a wall; but if you’ve got over half a gram of common sense, you’ll get someone with a welder’s torch to burn a small hole in the truck and drop a tear-gas bomb inside before you start liberation proceedings. The boys caged in that semi haven’t much to lose by shooting it out if you give them any kind of chance.”

  Then I opened my fingers, let the knife fall to the office floor, and stumbled backward away from Sam Ward.

  They weren’t easy, those next three days. After they patched my hand I was taken to police headquarters for one long session after another—questioning and requestioning. Ward, of course, denied everything he’d told me when I had the knife at his face; but with the facts in hand, Captain Domms played one against the other. Ken Miller broke first. Swathed in a head bandage that looked like a sultan’s turban, he bleated for mercy and sang like a canary, and when the ring began to crack it fell apart. By Saturday noon Domms had most of it down on paper, and then he looked across the desk at me.

  “That takes care of all but one,” Domms said. I nodded and he got up to pace the floor. “You’re a hell of a way from Simon pure, Anderson. That truck stall when Doberman was gunned down—you’re an accessory to murder, son. Next,” Domms went on, and held up two fat fingers, “guilty of withholding information. Ward practically admitted the first bank job and you said nothing. And this one? You knew for days that it was coming up but you kept still and let it roll. And I haven’t even mentioned that mess we had the day Fradkin and a couple of men down from the city died in a tangle with your rig.”

  “Now wait a second,” I said, getting up to match his steps. “That was justifiable homicide. Self-defense, and the grand jury found—”

  “So what about the others?”

  “You’ve got it all down. Signed and sworn, and if I have to stand trial I guess—”

  “It isn’t going to court, son,” Domms said, a tired smile crossing his face. He shoved the papers aside. “In the first place neither the D.A. nor I are interested in a prosecution on this case. And in the second place the jury wouldn’t be likely to convict, after hearing all the facts. They’d probably stand up and cheer. So what are we going to have, an Irish truck driver or a Swede bank teller?”

  “Take some and leave some,” I said, matching his grin. “If I can swing the deal it will be a Swede in a truck cab.”

  “Good. This McCarthy—he gave me a pretty rough time now and then.”

  I didn’t say I was sorry bu
t also I didn’t add that there were a number of times in the last four years that he hadn’t been a joy to me either. Another thing I didn’t tell him was that a lot of McCarthy that had rubbed off on Swede Anderson wasn’t going to wash away very fast. I suppose in his own way Domms tried hard. I know that the “tried hard” phrase is a kiss of death when it comes to evaluating someone’s work, but that was the way I felt about Domms and I couldn’t help it. I was suddenly afraid he’d begin to trowel on the lard about how I’d helped him tie this thing up and I didn’t want that; so I called a quick see-you-later-and-let-me-know-if-I-can-do-anything-else, then went down the hall and onto the street.

  There were three stops I wanted to make, and the first was Marty Bruno. The papers had pretty well covered all the details, of course, so when I walked up I saw his lips part in a smile as he turned toward me. “Hi, Swede.”

  “Smokes,” I said. Then as I unwrapped the cellophane strip, “Just for the hell of it I’d like to know. Did you spot me for a phony Irishman?”

  “No,” Marty said, but it was too quick and too pat.

  “Come on, give.” I laughed. “You aren’t going to hurt my feelings.”

  “Well.” Marty grinned, and leaned his elbows on the glass counter. “About the third time you stopped by I noticed the hair.”

  “You what?”

  “Sure. The wife is a redhead, Mac, only she has to sort of ‘bring out the lights’ as the ads say, and henna smells like—well, not quite like sage and not like—well, hell, it smells like henna. And right away I asked myself why an honest son of the ould sod would have to use a dye and there it was.”

  “I’ll be damned.” I laughed.

  “As soon as I stopped listening to that ‘How’ya, Marty,’ I knew you were Swede Anderson but it didn’t account for the dent you were putting in River City. About all I could come up with was this—I got two boys of my own and I don’t want to see them grow up in a town as tough as this one was getting to be. I didn’t know what you were trying to do but the way it looked, any change would be for the better. I didn’t feel the urge to do any blabbing.”