‘Just in case we wish to depart swiftly,’ he said with a thin smile.
We walked back to the Cadillac, inspected the back seat. Empty. Jack tried the trunk lid. It was locked.
‘Looks okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll go in now. You all set?’
‘Sure.’
He gave me one of his flashy grins, pulled me close, kissed my lips.
‘Win, lose, or draw, babe,’ he said, ‘it’s been fun.’
‘Hasn’t it?’
‘Let’s go.’
We stooped through the cut in the fence. We started toward the hotel. We both had right hands in our raincoat pockets. We must have looked like a pair of assassins.
Donohue paused a moment on the porch. He took a final look around. No one in sight. Nothing stirring.
‘Remember what I told you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Keep an eye on that road. If I make a play, be ready to cover my back. And be ready to run.’
I nodded dumbly. Suddenly I needed to pee.
They were waiting for us in the hallway. The little one, Manuel Garcia, was wearing a clear plastic raincoat over a suit of horrendous green plaid. His pointy shoes were two-toned, yellow and brown. He wore a ruffled purple shirt with a wide tie in a wild carnation print. The knot was as big as my fist. His black hair was slicked back with pomade. He wore diamond rings on both pinkies, and when he grinned, gold sparkled in his front teeth.
Donohue had been right; I could smell his fruity perfume from six feet away.
The taller man, presumably the passport forger, was dressed like an undertaker: black shoes, black socks, a shiny black suit, a not-too-clean white shirt, a black tie hardly wider than a shoelace. He had a long, coffin-shaped face, badly pitted with acne or smallpox. He never looked directly at us. His pale eyes kept darting - left, right, up, down. I thought he was just shifty-eyed, but then I realized he was scared witless. He was carrying a brown paper bag and his hands were trembling so badly the paper kept crackling.
No introductions were offered, none asked.
‘Let’s go in there,’ Donohue said, gesturing toward the open door of the room he had selected.
‘Why not ri’ here?’ Garcia said. His voice was surprisingly deep, almost booming.
‘Too open,’ Jack said and cut short any further argument by leading the way into the dining room.
We trooped after him. I took up a position in the corner, away from the others. I stood at an angle where 1 could see the gate and the access road and also keep an eye on what was going on in the room.
I gripped the pistol in my raincoat pocket tightly, but kept my finger out of the trigger guard. Jack still had his hand in his raincoat pocket. Garcia, in that clear plastic coat, obviously had nothing in his pockets. And he carried his arms slighly out to the sides, palms turned outward, as if to prove his peaceful intentions.
‘You got the necklace?’ he asked, grinning.
‘Sure,’ Jack said. ‘Right here. You got the papers?’
‘Joe, you show him,’ Garcia said.
The three men were standing in a close group. There was no place to sit down, no chairs, no table, no sofa - nothing.
The undertaker fumbled open his paper bag. He pulled out a sheaf of documents. In his nervousness he dropped a card to the littered floor. He swooped quickly to retrieve it and tried to smile apologetically at Garcia. He held out the papers to Donohue.
I looked out at the gate and road. Only the two cars standing there. Nothing moving.
Donohue examined the papers carefully, taking his free hand from his gun pocket. If they were going to make a
move, this would be the time to do it. I watched carefully. But they made no move. Just waited patiently while Jack shuffled slowly through the documents, examining every page of the passports, the Social Security cards, the drivers licenses, the birth certificates.
He stopped suddenly. Raised his head. Glanced quickly toward me.
‘Road clear?’ he said.
I looked again.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Nothing.’
He frowned. ‘Thought I heard something.’
‘Maybe the wind,’ Garcia said, grinning. ‘Maybe the rain.’
‘Maybe,’ Jack said shortly. He went back to examining the papers.
‘You bring the pictures?’ Garcia said. ‘For the passports?’
‘Sure,’ Donohue said, nodding. ‘We got them.’
‘Good,’ Garcia said. ‘Jose, he’s got glue and the stamp. Firstclass work.’
Then I heard it. A dull, sodden thump.
‘Jack,’ I said.
He looked up.
‘I heard something,’ I said. ‘A low thud.’
‘A shutter banging,’ Garcia said, grinning. ‘That’s all.’
Donohue stared at him.
‘This place ain’t got shutters,’ he said.
Manuel Garcia shrugged. ‘A rat maybe. A big bird. A place like this, it’s got all kinds of noises. I think maybe you’re a little anxious - no?’
Donohue didn’t answer. He just stood there, his head cocked, listening. I looked again toward the road. Nothing moved there.
We all stood frozen, silent. Jack was still holding the papers.
Then we all heard it. Unmistakable now. A footfall on soft ground. I imagined I could hear the squish of the sodden earth.
‘You prick!’ Donohue screamed.
He threw the papers at Garcia’s face. But the other man was just as fast. He ducked. When he straightened up, miraculously there was a long knife in his hand. He held it flat, knuckles turned down. The blade glittered wickedly.
Jack started to reach into his pocket for his gun.
Garcia moved forward with little mincing steps. The knife point swung back and forth.
The passport forger gasped and dropped onto the filthy floor.
Garcia lunged.
Jack leaped backward.
‘Run!’ he yelled at me.
I fired through my raincoat pocket.
Garcia was suddenly slammed backward. He didn’t fall. He looked down at himself, not believing.
Jack had his gun out now.
He leaned toward Garcia, his arm out straight. He fired twice.
The man’s face swelled enormously. His mouth opened. His eyes popped. His tongue came lolling out. Then blood gushed from nose and ears. He melted down.
The paperman cowered on the floor. His arms were over his head.
Jack grabbed my arm. We ran.
I saw crouched figures coming across that dreary landscape. From the bay. From a boat on the bay. From the rotting dock.
Donohue yanked me back inside. We turned. Dashed to the other side. Climbed out a broken window. Jumped off the porch. Bolted toward our car.
Then I was alone. I stopped, turned. Jack was standing between me and the hotel. He had both his guns out. He was firing at men darting between pillars on the porch. Men racing to one side to cut us off. Men lying on the wet ground, aiming carefully, firing their weapons methodically.
I saw a familiar figure, short, heavyset, big shoulders, barrel chest. Wearing a black raincoat buttoned to the chin. A black fedora, the brim snapped low.
He came, around the corner of the hotel and walked slowly, purposefully toward us. His hands were in his pockets. He fired no guns. But that deliberate, implacable advance frightened me more than all the shouts, screams, the hard snaps and deep booms of the guns.
I had my pistol out now and emptied it toward that
advancing figure. Still he came. I heard the pistol click and flung it from me. I fumbled in my shoulder bag.
Then Jack turned and came dashing back. I saw the widened eyes, open mouth, the chest heaving.
‘Jan—’ he gasped.
Then something hit him. Punched him forward.
He went down on one knee. He reached slowly around behind him.
I was at his side. Grabbed his arm. Hauled him up. Staggering, stumbling, we made it to the fence. I pushed him through the cut. He f
ell flat on his face. I saw the bloodstain spreading over the back of his raincoat.
Sobbing, I wrenched him to his feet again. He couldn’t stand erect. He was doubled over. I heard gnats singing about us. A buzz. There were whispers in the air. Things spanged off the bodies of both cars.
I pushed Jack into the back of the Cutlass. Just threw him onto the floor. I doubled his legs, jammed them in, slammed the door.
I got behind the wheel, started the engine. I accelerated in a jackrabbit start, spun the wheels, slowed until I had traction. Then I pushed the pedal to the floor, swerving around the parked Cadillac.
I had a hazy impression of more shouts, curses, explosions of guns. Men running toward us.
And, from the corner of my eye, saw that black trundling figure coming on. Not running. Not firing a gun. But just coming on, coming on …
A WALK ON THE BEACH
His first words were: ‘Are you all right?’
I tried to smile, bit my lower lip, blinked rapidly. I put a hand on his forehead. Fevered. I soaked a towel under the tap, wrung it out, draped it softly across his brow.
‘They came by boat,’ he breathed painfully. ‘We should have watched for that.’ It was an old man’s voice: faint, harsh, bubbling with phlegm.
I nodded. He was right; we had been outguessed.
‘Was Garcia in on it?’ I asked.
‘Sure.’ Speaking was an effort for him; I could hear it. ‘His price was probably the necklace. Or more. Did vou see him?’
I knew whom he meant.
‘I tried to kill him,’ I said. ‘I emptied my pistol at the bastard. But he just kept coming toward us.’
‘You did fine. Just fine. Real class. What happened after I caught it? Tell me everything.’
He closed his eyes. I hoped he was sleeping. But I kept talking.
‘I found Federal Highway,’ I said. ‘But I made a mistake; I turned south instead of north.’
Then I knew he was awake and listening. And understanding. But his eyes were still closed.
‘Road blocked?’
‘No. I thought it would be, but it wasn’t.’
‘They were so sure,’ he said. ‘So sure. Followed?’
‘No, Jack, we weren’t. I kept looking back to make certain. Garcia probably had the Cadillac keys. Anyway, I took a turnoff and went east to A1A. Then I came directly home.’ ‘Home,’ he repeated faintly. ‘Was I out?’
‘Half-and-half. I thought that I’d get you here and look in the back seat and you’d be - you know.’
Something like a cruel smile moved his mouth.
‘Not me. I’m too mean to die. How’d you get me in?’
‘You leaned on me,’ I told him. ‘Arm around my neck. We passed a couple coming in and I yelled at you about drinking too much. They smiled at me sympathetically. No one else saw us.’
‘Blood?’
‘Not as much as I thought. Very little in the car.’
That was a lie. There had been a flood.
‘How does it look?’
‘Okay. It looks fine. Just a small hole, kind of puffed up. I got a towel around you and tied it tight. Then I went out and found a drugstore that was still open. I bought pads and bandages and tape. Antiseptics. Things like that. I’ve got you all bandaged up now. I gave you some brandy and aspirin.’
‘A small hole? Where?’
‘Under your ribs. A few inches left of the spine. Above your waist.’
‘Did it come out?’ he asked in a low voice.
I was silent.
‘Did it come out?’ he repeated.
‘No. The bullet’s still in there. We’ve got to get you to a doctor, Jack. To a hospital.’
‘No. No doctor. No hospital. No need for that. I feel grand.’
He didn’t look grand. He was lying in bed, naked, covered with a sheet and a light blanket. Because frequently he would get the shakes. In spite of the fever his whole body would tremble, stricken with a sudden chill.
‘Jack,’ I said. ‘Let’s give it up. I’ll call the cops. We’ll get you to a hospital.’
He opened his eyes. He stared at me.
‘After what we’ve gone through? Give it up now? Don’t say that, Jan. I can take this. This isn’t so bad. I feel better already.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not lying,’ he said patiently. ‘I really feel better.
Hardly any pain at all. Listen, one pill is nothing. It could heal by itself. It doesn’t have to come out.’
I didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes again.
‘Promise me,’ he said faintly.
‘What, Jack?’
‘You won’t call the cops or a doctor unless I say okay. Promise?’
‘I promise.’
He fell asleep smiling. I washed out the bloody towel and tried to rinse the stains from his shirt, jacket, and raincoat. There was blood on his pants, undershorts, socks. There was blood in his shoes. I didn’t want to think of that puddle caking on the back floor of the Oldsmobile.
I poured myself a brandy and sat in a chair alongside the bed. I watched him breathe: slow, almost lazy breathing. I told myself it was normal: no coughing, no gasping. Maybe the wound would heal by itself.
I know now that during that night and the day that followed, I wasn’t thinking. I couldn’t think. The outside fog Was inside me now. A thought would drift into my mind - doctor, hospital, police, escape - and then it would just fade into smoke and cobwebs. I couldn’t concentrate. I could not pin down a single rational idea. All I could do was float in the swirl, numbed, moving like a zombie.
I did what had to be done. I made food for myself and ate it. I made food for Jack and fed him. I bathed him and myself. I mixed drinks. I made certain the door was locked and the blinds drawn. I mean, I functioned. But all the time I wasn’t aware, either of myself or what I was doing. Those twenty-four hours were a mindless blank.
I think now it was nature’s way of protecting me. I think that somnambulism was a mechanism to preserve my sanity. I didn’t weep. No hysterics. I just felt divorced from what was happening. I was a stranger in a foreign world. I breathed, ate, slept, and never once did I ask, why? I was Jannie Shean, the mechanical woman. Wind her up and away she goes.
That night, Thursday, I slept sitting up in an armchair. Jack woke me once, and I brought him more brandy and water and put another wet cloth across his forehead. He muttered something I couldn’t understand, then slept again. I thought his sleeping was a good sign. I thought everything was a good sign.
There was sunshine in the morning - another good sign. Not much brightness, but the clouds were breaking up and there were patches of blue. I locked Jack in and ran out to buy some food, orange juice, the Miami papers. There was nothing in the papers about the shootout at the deserted hotel on Dumfoundling Bay. And nothing on the TV news broadcast. I figured Antonio Rossi had cleaned up neatly behind him.
Jack woke about 10:00, and I fed him some hot beef broth with bits of bread soaked in it. He got a few spoonsful down, then turned his head away.
He didn’t look at all good. His face was waxen, sheened, white as the pillow. His features seemed to be shrinking, tightening. He was getting a hawk profile. I had to roll him over to change the dressing on the wound. The bleeding had stopped; the bullet hole was closing. It was a blue pucker. But his body was a shock: pale, flaccid, bones jutting. And there was a smell. Not just sweat and blood and soiled sheets. But something else. Something sweetish, curdled, and piercing.
He drowsed, fitfully, all that Friday. He had an enormous thirst, drank water, milk, coffee, brandy, orange juice. Four times I had to help him into the bathroom. He wouldn’t let me stay with him in there. I wanted to; it didn’t bother me. But he insisted on closing the door. Then I would assist him back to bed, half-carrying him, his arm around my shoulders.
Once he forgot to flush the toilet, and I saw he had been passing blood. Around 5:00 P.M., he awoke again and said, ‘Give me a cigarette.’
‘Jack,’ I said, ‘are you sure you should—’
He looked at me. I lighted a cigarette and put it between his lips. He caught my hand and kissed my fingers.
‘My mom,’ he said. ‘She run off. I never did know her.’
‘Don’t try to talk, Jack. Just finish your cigarette and get some more sleep.’
it wasn’t all bad,’ he said. ‘Most of it was, but not all of it.’
His hand fell limply. The lighted cigarette dropped to the
floor. I picked it up, snuffed it out. When I looked at him again, his eyes were closed. But the blanket across his chest was rising and falling steadily.
‘The mud crick,’ he said. ‘I told you?’
‘Yes, Jack. You told me.’
‘Dick,’ he said. ‘Dick Fleming. What a brain on that kid. Style. Real class.’
‘Yes, Jack.’
‘Where did Ernie go?’
‘Who?’
‘Ernie. He was here just a minute ago.’
‘He’ll be back.’
‘The track in the morning. When they were working the horses. The sun coming up. Dew on the grass. That was something.’
I was silent.
‘I cried,’ he said, ‘when I was a kid. But that don’t do no good. That fucking Rossi.’
‘Yes.’
‘Dick and I talked about you. He liked you dressed like a hooker. I liked you best when you were you, Jannie.’
‘Thank you,’ I said faintly.
‘Have you seen A1 lately?’
‘No, I haven’t seen Al.’
‘Peters is in town for the season,’ he said. ‘And the Carter boys. They’re all coming in. Shumsky was out on the Coast. Hit it big in Vegas - he says. But you know Shumsky.’
‘Shh,’ I said. ‘Try to sleep.’
‘I wonder where she went? I thought I’d bump in to her someday, but I never did. You want another drink, Alice?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘thanks. I’ve had enough.’
‘We’ll have to put that hound down. Too bad, but he’s hurting. I’m running a load to Athens tonight, Pop. We’ll do it when I get back.’
‘Okay, Jack.’
‘A sweet caper. The best - am I right?’
‘You’re right, Jack.’
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