“Come on,” she said. “Let’s see if he’ll pick it up.”
We made a peculiar procession heading out across the desert, she in her high heels with the unlikely-looking dog on leash, and I following gingerly in my sporty loafers, carrying the binoculars, cased. I don’t know if we found the same bunny or another—they’re hares, actually—but suddenly there was a thumping sound and one took off ahead of us. Moira knelt down quickly and put her arm around the dog’s neck as she snapped off the lead. She hugged him tightly and released him.
“Go get him, Sheik!” she breathed. “Go get him, big dog!”
The Afghan didn’t pay much attention to this pep talk. He didn’t seem much interested in the vanished jack rabbit, either. He just stood for a moment, kind of looking around vaguely and testing the breeze with his nose—why he’d bother with that, I don’t know, since they’re supposed to be sight-runners without much sense of smell. Maybe nobody’d told him.
Then he started forward deliberately with that gliding gait I’d seen once before. He didn’t really seem to be gathering speed, any more than a train pulling out of the station so gradually, at first, that you don’t realize it’s moving. By the time I realized Sheik actually had something in view and was going after it, he was lost to sight over the nearest ridge.
“This way!” Moira said. “Up on the knob here! We can see it all from there, I hope.”
We labored upwards. The Nevada desert is a prickly place—maybe all of them are—and I kept getting small sharp spikes driven clear through the leather of my shoes. How she was doing in her thin pumps, I didn’t even want to think about. We reached the top, panting, and looked around. There wasn’t an animal visible that I could see.
“Let me have them,” she said, taking the binoculars from me. “There he is!” she said presently, passing them back. “Look way out there. See, along that arroyo—”
The dog was out there, all right. I just hadn’t looked far enough out. I found him with the naked eye, first. He didn’t seem to be moving very fast, just kind of ambling along. Then I put the glasses on him, and drew my breath, sharply. You hear loose talk about how beautiful deer are, running, but actually it’s kind of a bunchy progress, if you know what I mean: great big muscles going off in great big explosions of power. This animal was running faster than any deer ever dreamed of, and he didn’t seem to be expending any energy at all.
She spoke beside me. “He’s not really traveling yet. They’ve been clocked at sixty. Wait till he cuts in the afterburners... There! Now he’s getting down to work. Watch!”
I’d almost forgotten she was there. I remembered my manners and started to pass her the binoculars.
She said, “No, you keep them. I’ve seen it. I’m going to sit down over there and get the prickles out of my feet. Tell me when he makes the kill.”
I had the rabbit in sight now. The big jack was going flat out, running for his life, every muscle straining, and behind him came the lean gray dog, running silently, its long fur rippling with the wind of its own motion, its head well forward, its long hound ears streaming back. There was no strain here, no effort; there was just pale death flowing over the ground. It was over in an instant, just a snap and a toss of the head. I started breathing again and turned away.
Moira looked up as I approached. “Did he get it?”
“Yes,” I said. “He got it. My God!”
She smiled. “I told you I’d show you something.” Her smile faded. “It’s kind of horrible, actually, but it’s what he was bred for, isn’t it? Well, gazelles and things, but we’re a little short of gazelles over here. It’s what he was born for, if he was born for anything. You can’t... you can’t not let him do it, can you? I mean, it’s the only thing he’s really good at.” She put her shoes back on and reached up to be helped to her feet. “Let’s go back to the truck. He’ll be out there a while, now. You can make the coffee while we wait.”
She didn’t want anything to eat. I hauled the mattress out of the truck bed for her to sit on comfortably while I worked with the Coleman stove on the tailgate. We had our coffee and watched the sun rise over the desert.
Moira said suddenly, “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?” I looked at her quickly. She said, “Don’t give me that stupid look, baby. You know what I’m talking about. I saw you out there at the ranch, the way you looked at her. That cold ice princess.”
“She’s not—” I checked myself.
“Not cold?” Moira laughed shortly. “Don’t kid me, baby. I know these lovely, gracious ladies who hoard it like gold and restrict it like a private beach.”
I wasn’t going to discuss Beth’s sexual attitudes with her. I said, “She’s really a pretty fine person, Moira.”
“Sure,” Moira said. “The only trouble is, I loathe fine people.”
“Particularly after they’ve kicked you out on your ear,” I said maliciously.
She started to speak angrily; then she grinned. “Okay, maybe I am a little prejudiced.” She sighed, leaning against me comfortably. “It’s nice out here. I wish we didn’t have to go back, ever. I wonder how many women have said that to how many men.” After a while, she said, “You don’t have to say you love me. I just want to know... you’re going to be nice to me, aren’t you? As nice as. as circumstances permit?”
It was something else I didn’t particularly care to discuss. I said crudely, “You mean, right now?”
She glanced at me, startled. She even flushed a little. Then she laughed. “Well, it wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, baby, but if you want...”
The dog stayed out just long enough, and then, while we were making ourselves more or less fit for civilization again, he came trotting in, grinning from ear to ear, and sat down to have the leash put on him. Moira got a wet rag and washed him off a bit—there was some gore that might have shocked her sensitive city neighbors—and we drove back to Reno.
I took her to the motel so she could pick up the Mercedes. I escorted her across the parking area, with the Afghan trotting alongside. That dog was hell on rabbits, but apparently he had no interest in humans. He didn’t give the slightest warning. As a watchdog, he was a washout. I don’t think he even knew they were around, until they jumped me from the bushes, and even then he seemed to figure it wasn’t any of his damn business. Well, maybe he was right.
11
When they came at you like that, from behind, they never really expect you to be ready for them; and if you act fast and decisively, at precisely the right time, you can generally take care of one of them as you turn. The other— they practically always hunt in pairs, since nobody’d be fool enough to entrust just one with a responsible job— will generally run then, and you can let him go or pick him off as you choose.
I knew they were there, all right. I’ve been getting along on my own five senses, without any watchdogs to help me, for quite a while. The trouble was, they were so clumsy it was obviously the freshman team. Fenn apparently hadn’t thought me worthy of his own attentions, if Fenn had sent them. Maybe he’d just reported to Fredericks that a certain long, lecherous drink of water was making eyes at his daughter, and Fredericks himself had called some unskilled labor off the street to do the job.
I took the chance that the awkward characters behind me hadn’t been sent to do any shooting. They’d just been sent to issue an invitation, I hoped; and I might learn something by going along. I might also get hell kicked out of me—I wasn’t forgetting what had happened to Paul— but on the whole I figured the biggest risk was that one of them might be sap-happy. You see so many TV shows these days in which people get beat over the head without deleterious results that the rising generation of punks tends to overestimate the durability of the human skull.
There was a very unpleasant moment while they closed in. I guess they thought they were moving with silent efficiency. I continued walking beside Moira. We paused by the car. She was saying something, I don’t remember what. Maybe I didn’t even hear it.
My scalp had tightened up hard enough to pull my ears out of register, waiting for the blow to fall.
Then one of them had a gun jammed into my kidneys, and the other had danced around to threaten me with a long switch-blade knife. It was so childish I wanted to cry for them. Some day they’d do it to a man who didn’t want to be taken, and they’d never be the same again.
“Don’t move, Buster!” the knifeman said in a menacing voice. “Keep him covered, Tony!”
Tony kept me covered, while Switchblade folded his surgical implement, put it away, and searched me so efficiently that he didn’t even spot the little Solingen knife in my pants pocket. Well, he was young. He’d learn, if he lived long enough, which didn’t seem likely, or even desirable.
“Look out!” the man behind me warned him, and Switchblade turned just in time to catch a thrown white purse squarely across the face. He rubbed his nose and took a step forward angrily. The kid was ready for him, with her fists up, ready to take him on, and any three friends he might care to name. She’d apparently been something of a tomboy in her day. It must have been something to see. The one behind me said quickly, “Watch it, Ricky. If you lay a hand on her, The Man will have your hide!”
Moira said breathlessly, “Get him, Sheik! Get him, big boy! Get them both! Tear their lousy throats out!” Switchblade Ricky took a quick step backwards, watching the dog. It opened its mouth lazily, showing the biggest, whitest teeth in the world; and the punk took another step back and reached into his pocket for the knife. The dog finished yawning and looked up at its mistress in a puzzled way: any fool could see there weren’t any rabbits here.
Ricky laughed, but he’d been scared, he’d shown it, and he had to regain status. He stepped forward, bravely now, and kicked the dog hard. It cried out like a hurt child and slunk away to the end of the leash and cowered there with its long monkey tail between its legs, looking back over its shoulder with big, outraged, heartbroken eyes.
Moira gave a little cry, and knelt on the dusty pavement, and hugged the beast to her. “Oh, Sheik!” she moaned. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...!” She looked up, kneeling there. “I’ll kill you for that!” she breathed.
Tony, behind me, whose face I hadn’t seen, said, “For Christ’s sake, let’s cut out the comedy... Miss Fredericks, get in your car and go home.” He cleared his throat and said a word that probably hadn’t crossed his lips in years, if ever; they don’t seem to teach it to modern youth much. “Please.”
She glanced at me, standing there a helpless prisoner with the threatening gun in my back. “What are you going to do to him?”
Tony said, “It’s got nothing to do with you, Miss. Big. I mean, Mr. Fredericks just said to bring him in. I’m just following orders, Miss.”
“Well, we’ll see about your lousy orders—”
I said, “It’s all right, kid. Go on home.”
She turned on me. “Don’t you tell me what to do! What’s the matter with you, letting these two lousy delinquents...?” She stopped quickly, and looked at me sharply. She wasn’t someone you had to draw blueprints for, labeled in red luminous ink. After a moment, she rose to her feet and said, “All right, but I’m coming along.”
Switchblade Ricky said, “The hell you—”
“Save it,” Tony said. “Miss Fredericks says she’s coming, she’s coming. How are you going to stop her, when she knows where we’re going? Let The Man worry about it.” He spoke to Moira. “Suit yourself, Miss Fredericks. But we can’t give you a lift; it would be kind of crowded in one car with four of us and that big dog... Come on, you!” he said, nudging me with his firearm.
We drove into town in a big Chrysler of some kind, with Ricky at the wheel and Tony in the back seat beside me, taking his duty as guard very seriously. I don’t think I could have disarmed him more than half a dozen times during the trip. For a punk his age, with a prisoner of my age and experience, that was a pretty good performance. He was an underfed-looking specimen with too-long hair and too-loud clothes. The only thing you could say for him was that he was an improvement on Ricky, which wasn’t really a high recommendation for anybody.
Moira’s little Mercedes followed us closely all the way. Ricky stopped in a parking lot, and Moira pulled up alongside. Getting out, under Tony’s gun, I discovered we were in the lot where I had parked the truck some hours earlier. Well, that figured, vaguely. Moira said goodbye to Sheik, and we all proceeded into the same hotel, although by a different door.
A private elevator bore us smoothly upwards, there was no telling how far. The door opened and let us out into an ordinary hotel corridor, like any other hotel corridor, except that there were a couple of men lounging on a leather sofa in a nearby alcove. One of them rose and came up.
“He’s in the office, waiting,” this man said. “What kept you?”
“We’ve been staked out at the motel, where her car was. They didn’t get back until ten minutes ago,” Tony said.
The man jerked his head towards Moira. “Who said anything about bringing her?”
“She did.”
“Just a minute.” The man went away and came back. He spoke to me. “This way. You, too, Miss Fredericks.” When the two youths who’d brought us started to follow, he gave them a look of surprise. “Who invited you? Stay here.”
We walked down the corridor to an unmarked door. Our escort opened it and stepped back for Moira to enter. Then he shoved me in after her and closed the door behind us, remaining outside. There were two men awaiting us in the room. One I’d already seen elsewhere in this hotel. Martell was standing just to the left of the door.
One glance was enough to show that I’d made an error in judgment. He’d let Fredericks send a couple of juveniles to bring me in, all right, but it wasn’t because he didn’t know who I was or why I was there. His voice was very soft, reaching only to me and maybe the girl beside me. It was a smooth, cultured voice with a slight accent: not the voice of a gangster named Fenn.
“Greetings, Eric,” he murmured. “Any friend of Paul’s is welcome.”
Well, anyway, I knew now why Paul had tried too hard to reach me before he died. He’d wanted to warn me that, under duress, he’d talked. He’d told all about me— and Martell was just the man to do something about the information, or get Fredericks to do it for him.
12
Martell stepped back, to a point from which he could cover us safely, and it was time for me to forget him, for the moment, and turn my attention to the other man, sitting behind the desk.
He was a big man, a dark man, a man who’d have to shave twice a day and use plenty of talcum powder between times. He was an ugly man, with too-small features in a face that had spread out around them, particularly below the chin. He had a pug nose that I’d seen before, in a much refined and more attractive edition, but the mouth and eyes weren’t familiar—she must have got those from her mother’s side of the family, lucky girl.
“Hello, Dad,” Moira said.
The funny thing was, my first feeling was a kind of embarrassment I hadn’t felt in years, not since I was young enough to be taking girls to dances, after one of which we’d gotten bogged down on a dirt road where we’d had no business being—none that we cared to talk about, anyway—and it wasn’t until close to four in the morning that I got my date home, muddy and disheveled, to find her parents awake and waiting.
This man was Big Sal Fredericks: he was a racketeer and worse, but he was also a father, and his daughter was standing beside me, after a night in my company, with her wonderful red-gold hair, as usual, tumbling down around her ears, with her expensive kid pumps ruined by rocks and thorns, with her smart piqué dress wrinkled and far from clean. Even her youthful resilience had its limits, and she’d passed them during the night. At least her costume had.
She looked very young like that, like a dressed-up baby at the end of a tough birthday party, and I was ashamed of myself. I wouldn’t have wanted another man to bring my daughter home like that—par
ticularly not a man so much older than she was. There was a moment in which I really wanted to apologize, quite sincerely. But Sally Fredericks put me at ease at once.
He got up and looked at us. He walked around the desk and approached his daughter and looked her up and down. Then he struck her hard across the face with his open hand.
“You slut!” he said.
He turned to me. He used his fist on me. It was quite a punch, slow but with lots of power. I managed to roll with it or he might have broken my jaw. I went down. It seemed like a good idea to let him think he’d really hurt me, and as a matter of fact, he had. He still wasn’t satisfied. He came over and kicked me hard in the side. Then he went back around the desk and sat down, rubbing his knuckles proudly.
After catching my breath, I looked at Martell, who jerked his head to let me know it was all right to get up. In a way, it was nice to be dealing with at least one professional. With amateurs, you’ve got to watch every minute that they don’t do by mistake what they could never do on purpose. I know of at least one good operative, behaving himself perfectly, who was killed by a jittery farm boy with no more sense than to rest his finger on the trigger of a shotgun.
But with Martell around, you knew you’d never be killed accidentally—for what it was worth. I thought I could see a kind of malicious amusement in his eyes. He didn’t mind a bit watching Fredericks work me over, knowing that, to stay in character, I had to take it meekly. I got up and looked at the kid standing there with her hand to her cheek and hatred in her eyes, as she glared at her father, behind the desk.
“Who’s this creep?” Fredericks demanded. “Another of those barflies you keep picking up? Haven’t I told you—”
“You’ve told me,” she said. She took her hand down, revealing a reddened area along the cheekbone that might go away, but might also color up into a real bruise. Her voice was level and cold and adult. “I’m supposed to stay home all day and watch TV.”
The Removers Page 7