"Yes, you did. You're full of hot air, Andy, nothing but hot air."
Myers was obviously trying to get control of himself. "Harry, we can't stand around here arguing with each other. There'll be roadblocks up, there'll be police all over the place. Harry, we've got to switch the plates and put the Buick in the barn and blow it up, and we don't have time for all this."
"Do it yourself," Brock said, and turned his back on Myers to walk away across the grass, paralleling the road. "I'm done taking orders from a jerk like you."
"Harry, we need each other!"
"I need you like I need a hole in the head," Brock said, turning around to put his hands on his hips and glare at Myers. It was a strangely womanish gesture, making him look like a fishwife in a street brawl.
Myers went running after him again. "Harry, we can't waste the time!"
Brock made a disgusted pushing-away gesture with both arms, and turned his back again.
Myers caught up with him, and reached out to grab his arm. "Harry, listen to me, we can't-"
Brock spun around and punched Myers in the face. Myers staggered backward, lost his balance, and fell heavily on his rump. He sat there, obviously dazed, and Brock stood over him and said, "You don't touch me, you big-talking jerk. What are you good for, anyway? You just screw everybody up. And I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to leave you right here. Give me my half of the money, I'm taking the Rolls. You can keep the Buick, with the plates. And you can have George, too, and do what you want with him."
Grofield was very interested in that speech. The way they'd been bickering, he'd been afraid the robbery hadn't worked out after all, they hadn't managed to breach the brewery gate with their fire engine. But with Brock demanding his share of the money, the argument had to have some other cause.
Could it just be tension, nervousness, no real reason to fight at all? Grofield had seen people get into deadly arguments over nothing at all just after a difficult job, this could be the same thing.
Down below, Brock had decided to help himself to whatever Myers was carrying on his person. He stood over Myers, bending down to poke his hands into Myers' coat pockets, and all at once Myers moved, a sudden blur of confused motion – Brock yelped, a weird high-pitched sound, and hopped backward on one leg. Blood was spurting from high on his other leg, very near the groin, streaming out through a new ragged slit in his trousers.
"You cut me! You cut me!"
"You son of a bitch, I'll do better than that." Myers got to his feet, a little shaky, waving the knife in his right hand. Where it had blood on it, it was dull, but where raindrops had landed on it it glistened.
Brock hobbled away in a frantic circle, hopping backwards, clutching the top of his thigh with one hand, trying to hold his blood in. "What were you trying to do?" he cried. His voice was still high and strange.
"Stand still, Harry," Myers said, stalking him, "I'll show you what I'm trying to do." And he lunged forward, aiming the knife at Brock's stomach.
Brock flailed at the knife with his hands, in panic and fear, and was very lucky. Both hands were cut, but the knife suddenly flipped away from Myers' grip, and the tide had turned again.
Myers leaped for the fallen knife. Brock, standing on his good leg, swung the hurt one as though trying for a fifty-yard field goal. His shoe caught Myers high on the chest and sent him sailing in a complete somersault through the air. Myers landed on his back, and rolled, and Brock came up with the knife.
Myers ran into the barn. Grofield, trying to see, stuck his head as far out the hayloft opening as he could, but Myers was completely within the barn. And now Brock was going in after him, limping badly, holding his wounded leg with one hand and holding the knife out in front of him with the other.
The next part, Grofield didn't see. He stayed crouched in the hayloft, the Terrier in his hand, watching the ladder he'd come up and listening to the sounds from down below.
There was no sound at all at first, except the slight dragging rustle of Brock's wounded leg as he moved across the barn floor. Then, in a wheedling soft voice, Brock saying, "Where are you, Andy? Come on out, Andy, come get your knife back."
Then there was silence, total silence, for almost a minute. Grofield strained his ears and his eyes. There was nothing from down there. He looked over his shoulder at the opening in the front wall, half-expecting to find them both behind him, but he was still alone up there. He kept on having the feeling, though, that they were up there with him, both of them, just out of his sight.
The scream was preceded by a sudden rush of footsteps, and followed by a confused banging and scuffling. Something clattered, and then Myers sounded off with a jagged frightened half-crazy laugh, crying, "You don't like the pitchfork, huh? You don't like it, huh?"
Silence for a few seconds. Another rush of scuffling and footsteps and panting, but no scream this time. And then silence. And then Myers, terrified, screaming, "No!" Metal clanged against metal, there was running, something metal falling, and then vibration in Grofield's feet, and Grofield started, staring at the ladder. Somebody was coming up.
Myers. He was bleeding from two long cuts on the face, his clothing was torn, he looked as though he had other cuts on his body, and he scrambled practically all the way up to the hayloft before he saw Grofield squatting there, pointing the Terrier at him. Then he yelled, not like a man who's been hurt but like a man who's seen a ghost, and he shoved himself backwards out into the air away from the ladder, and plummeted out of sight.
Did that growl come from Harry Brock? A growl of satisfaction and victory. Grofield hunched himself smaller, and didn't move.
Below, Myers was babbling at the top of his voice. "It's Grofield, Harry! It's Grofield up there! We need each other… We've got to help each other… We've got to get Grofield! Harry! Harrreeeeeee!"
The next sounds were chunky, and the silence after them seemed moist. In that silence, Harry Brock said, "Grofield? You really up there, Grofield?"
Come and look, Grofield thought, pointing the Terrier at the ladder.
"Well, let's make sure," Brock said, down below. "Let's be on the safe side."
Grofield waited. The floor beneath him seemed paper thin. His lips were dry. All he could hear was raindrops hitting leaves of grass.
A crash shook the barn. Another one. The top of the ladder, which had been nailed in place, fell away.
"There," Brock said, down below. "You up there, Grofield? You don't have to say anything. You're up there, you can stay there."
Grofield didn't move.
"Now, you son of a bitch," Brock said, "where's the money?" So he was searching what was left of Myers. Grofield thought of creeping forward to the inside edge of the loft and looking down into the barn, but was afraid to move. This floor was noisy. Neither Myers nor Brock had used a gun, but Brock might have one. A sound from up here, and Brock would know exactly where Grofield was. A bullet coming up through the floor between Grofield's legs was not a pleasing thought.
What was happening down below? Small sounds, undecipherable. Grofield waited, and didn't realize what Brock had in mind until he heard the Buick door slam out front. The passenger side door, facing the barn opening, left open by Myers when he'd jumped out of the car.
Now Grofield did move, and fast. He straightened, turned, ran one long pace, and jumped feet first out through the hayloft opening.
It was about six feet to the top of the Buick. Grofield landed, the top buckled under him, his shoes slid on the wet metal, and he fell heavily on his hands and knees, facing the rear of the car.
He couldn't get a purchase. He slid backwards despite himself, and knew his legs were dangling down in front of the windshield. The only thing to do was push hard, and slide his whole body down across the windshield and onto the hood.
Lying on his stomach on the hood, he stared through the windshield at Brock, who stared back pop-eyed. Grofield pulled his arm up in front of his face, fired at Brock through the windshield, and Brock yelpe
d and heaved himself out of the car on the driver's side. Grofield fired at him again as he was getting out and saw the puff on the shoulder of Brock's coat.
But Brock kept moving. He ran away from the car, and Grofield pushed himself off the hood and onto his feet. Turning, he saw Brock go stumbling around the corner of the barn, and made after him.
Brock was on his knees beside the barn, leaning his right shoulder against it, his head bowed. Grofield circled him cautiously, and Brock lifted a very sleepy face. "It was all Myers' fault," he said. He mumbled it, as though he'd been drugged.
Grofield said, "Where's the money?"
"In my pocke'. Co' pocke'."
"A hundred twenty thousand dollars? In your coat pocket?" That, according to Myers, was the size of the payroll at the Northway Brewery.
Surprisingly, Brock began to laugh. The agitation disturbed his balance, and he fell forward onto his face, and was quiet.
Grofield rolled him over, and Brock looked up sleepily. His eyelids were heavy, he was having a tough time keeping them up. Grofield said, "What's funny? Where's the hundred twenty thousand? Didn't the caper go?"
"They pay by check!" Brock started to laugh again, but it seemed to hurt him, and he just smiled. "They went back to checks," he said sleepily, his smile looking lazy and good-natured. "They couldn't do the cash, they went ba…" His eyes closed.
Grofield poked his shoulder. "What did you get?"
"Twenny-seven hunnnn…"
"Twenty-seven hundred dollars?"
Brock was snoring.
Grofield went through his coat pockets, and there it was. Twenty-seven hundred dollars, in large bills. Petty cash, probably, the only cash they keep in the place. Six men, a fire engine, three getaway cars – twenty-seven hundred dollars.
"He didn't make sure," Grofield said. He shook his head, and stood up, and Brock stopped snoring. Grofield looked down at him, and he wasn't breathing at all. Grofield turned away and went back around to the front of the barn to make sure.
There was nothing in the Buick but a dead body in the back seat. That would be Lanahan.
There was nothing in the Rolls parked inside the barn except three suitcases in the trunk, and they contained clothing and toilet articles and things like that.
Finally, Myers. Brock had apparently decided to make him leak to death, and had used both the knife and the pitchfork for the job. It was impossible to search the clothing without getting bloody fingers. Grofield grimaced with distaste as he went through the pockets, and his revulsion was such that he almost missed the money belt entirely. But he found it, and untied it, and pulled it off Myers' body.
It had four compartments. Two of those, on the left side, had been punctured, and were soggy with blood. Grofield didn't open them at all. He opened the other two, on the right side, and there was the money.
His own money. It still had the Food King wrappers on it. The remains of Grofield's piece of the supermarket job. He sat down on the floor and counted it, and there was four thousand, one hundred eighty dollars there. Out of thirteen thousand, three hundred twenty-five that Myers had taken away from him.
"It's something, anyway," Grofield said aloud, and stuffed the money into his pockets. Going across the road and up toward the Chevy, he added twenty-seven hundred and forty-one hundred eighty in his head, and came up with six thousand, eight hundred, and eighty dollars.
"We can open anyway," he said. He walked around the corner of the burned-out building, and a charred piece of two-by-four came around in a fast arc, hissing it was moving so fast, and hit him square in the face.
7
Grofield sat up and touched his nose and his hand came away bloody. He could barely see, the way his eyes were puffed shut, and the whole front of his face was stinging. Also, he had a violent headache.
He looked down at himself, and he was sitting on the ground beside a burned-out house in a light rain. And his pockets had all been turned out; he'd been rolled. He said, "Hey."
Movement attracted his attention. He turned his head, slowly and carefully, and there was a man standing beside a car. Grofield's car, the Chevy. And the man was – son of a bitch, it was Perry Morton!
Morton had been just about to get into the car, but now he stood there looking at Grofield and said, "You awake already? I figured you were good for a couple hours."
"How long-" His throat felt raspy; he cleared it, and started again. "How long was I out?"
"Maybe five minutes. Just long enough for me to get your money and your gun and your car keys." Morton was feeling pleased with himself, and why not?
Grofield cleared his throat again. "Don't leave me here, Perry," he said. "This area's going to fill up with cops. I gave you a break, you give me one."
Morton considered. But he was feeling so smug and pleased with himself, he had to be magnanimous. He said, "If you can make it to the car, I'll take you along."
"Thanks, Perry," Grofield said.
It took him two tries to get to his feet, and then he was dizzy as hell. He staggered over to the passenger side of the Chevy and climbed in beside Morton, who had just started the engine.
Morton looked at him and grinned. "Just remember I've got the gun now," he said. "I'll expect you to be as smart with me as I was with you."
"I'll remember," Grofield said.
Morton started the car, and headed them away from there. "I'm going farther up into Canada, and then I'll head west."
"Fine with me." There was a make-up mirror on the sun visor on the passenger side; Grofield put the visor down now and studied his face in it. His nose didn't seem to be broken, but he had several little cuts on both the nose and cheeks. Also he was going to have two lovely black eyes, but they'd be gone before the season started.
"Lemons never lie," Grofield said, and sighed.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
They drove in silence a while, and then Morton, smiling, said, "Well, you're the bigtime pro and I'm just the new boy, but I guess I'm a fast learner, huh?"
"You sure are," Grofield said. He'd licked a handkerchief and was wiping the blood off his face. It was just as well to have a chauffeur for the rest of today, until they were a good distance from the robbery area. There was no hurry about taking the reins back. The Colt Trooper under the dashboard would keep.
Morton turned the radio on, and began to whistle along with the music.
Grofield put his handkerchief away and said, "Wake me when the news comes on, will you?"
Morton glanced at him in surprise. "You're going to sleep?"
"I've had a hard day," Grofield said.
"Well, you can sure rest now," Morton said, and gave a broad smile.
"Yes, I can," Grofield said, and closed his eyes. The Chevy drove across Canada into the sunset.
THE END
About Richard Stark:
"Richard Stark" is the celebrated alter ego of MWA Grandmaster, multiple Edgar Award winner, and Academy Award nominee Donald E. Westlake
Author of the best-selling "Parker" series, including the novel that was the basis for the movies Point Blank starring Lee Marvin and Payback starring Mel Gibson
This file was created with BookDesigner program
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20/08/2007
LRS to LRF parser v.0.9; Mikhail Sharonov, 2006; msh-tools.com/ebook/
Table of Contents
PART ONE
2
3
4
5
6
PART TWO
2
3
4
5
6
7
PART THREE
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
PART FOUR
2
3
4
5
6
> 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Lemons Never Lie Page 15