The Crook Factory

by Dan Simmons

  29

  DAMN YOU, Lucas, don’t die on me. Don’t die on me yet.”

  Someone was slapping my face. Hard. The pain of the slaps was nothing compared to the hot pokers searing my chest and right arm and totally insignificant compared to the blowtorch burning away my left rib cage, but it kept me from sliding back into the comfortable darkness of drowning and death. I forced myself the rest of the way back and opened my eyes.

  Delgado smiled and sat back. “Good,” he said. “You can die in a minute. I have a couple of questions I want answered first.” He was sitting on a backless canvas camp chair he had set up in the center of the Pilar’s cockpit. Hemingway’s body still lay on the deck to our left, his face in the pool of blood. The pool was broader now. Delgado was wearing dirty white trousers, deck shoes, and his undershirt. His arms and shoulders were tanned and heavily muscled. He was holding Hemingway’s .22 target pistol and tapping the long barrel against his knee as he watched me raise my head and bring my eyes into focus.

  I lurched toward him, ready to grab him before he could bring the pistol up. My head jerked and my vision dimmed as the pain overwhelmed me. My arms were pinned behind me, and I could feel metal cutting at my wrists. Although my thoughts came slowly, as if moving through a thick sludge, I realized I was sitting on the bench along the starboard side of the cockpit and that Delgado had handcuffed me to the short length of ornamental brass rail below the gunwale there. Water poured from my clothes and squished from my shoes. I watched the water running off me with only a dulled interest, not leavened when I realized that much of the water was red. I was bleeding very heavily. Delgado must have fished me out and slapped me awake almost immediately after shooting me.

  He slapped me again now, using the barrel of the .22 against my temples. I tried to focus my eyes and to pay attention to what he was saying.

  “… are the documents, Lucas? The Abwehr documents? Tell me where they are and I’ll let you go back to sleep. I promise.”

  I tried to speak. I must have hit my face going overboard, because my lips were cut and swollen. Or perhaps Delgado had been slapping me for longer than I thought. I tried again.

  “… in… the… bay,” I said. “Daufeldt… had them.”

  Delgado chuckled and pulled the SS major’s soggy ID and Himmler’s letter out of his trouser pocket. “No, he didn’t, Lucas. And I’m Daufeldt. And one reason I pulled you out is that I needed these tonight. Now I need the Abwehr documents. Where did Hemingway hide them?”

  I shook my head. That made the pain rise in my right arm and left side and brought the dancing black spots back. “In the… bay and… on the… beach. When… Lorraine… hit.”

  Delgado slapped me with his hand. “Concentrate, Lucas. Hemingway had the courier pouch or I never would have killed him. But the papers were from some bullshit manuscript, not the Abwehr documents. Kruger didn’t have the real documents when he made a run for it. Where are they?”

  I used all of my energy to raise my head and look at Delgado. “Who… is Kruger?”

  Delgado’s lips curled. “Sergeant Kruger. My dear, loyal SS radioman from the Southern Cross. You just fished him out of the bay, Lucas. Now, where did Hemingway hide the fucking documents?”

  I shook my head and then let it drop. “Major… Daufeldt. Papers.”

  Delgado grabbed me by the hair and pulled my face up as he leaned closer. “Listen, Lucas. I am Major Daufeldt. We needed a diversion when you arrived. I convinced poor, cowardly Sergeant Kruger to take the Schmeisser and make a run for it in the Lorraine. I assumed you would kill him. The papers are mine. But where are the documents?”

  “Is Hemingway… alive?” I managed.

  Delgado glanced casually over his shoulder. There were flies circling around Hemingway’s bloody head and the pool of blood that now reached to his shoulders. “I don’t know,” said Delgado. “I don’t care. If he is, he won’t be much longer.” He looked back at me and smiled. “He had a boating accident. Hit his head when he drove the Pilar onto a sandbar. I used the gaff, but it could have been any sharp corner on the boat. I’ll wipe the blood and hair off the gaff after I drop him overboard. Then I’ll drive this boat onto a sandbar. After his body spends a few hours in the water, they won’t be able to tell much about his wound.”

  I sat up as straight as I could and tried to move my hands in the cuffs. Delgado had clicked the handcuffs so tight that they had shut off all circulation. I could not feel or move my fingers. Or perhaps it was just the bleeding that had done that… shutting off feeling to my hands. The blood had soaked my shirt, trousers, shoes, and the leather bench. I tried to concentrate—not just on Delgado but on my own body. I remembered three impacts: one on my arm, one on my upper right chest or shoulder, the third—and the worst—in my left side. I looked down. Torn, wet shirt, much blood. It told me little. He had used the .22. That gave me hope. But the pain and bleeding and growing weakness were bad signs. One or more of the little slugs might have hit something important.

  “Are you listening to me, Lucas?”

  I focused my eyes again. “How?” I said.

  “What?”

  “How did you get Hemingway?”

  Delgado sighed. “Is this supposed to be the point in the movie where I tell you everything before you die? Or, better yet, before you escape?”

  I felt the cuffs tearing at my wrists and knew that there would be no escape. If I did get my hands free, I was too hurt and weak to do anything with my hands even if the feeling came back. I considered using my legs to grapple with Delgado, but after moving them just inches, I realized that they had almost no strength. I might be able to get them around his middle and squeeze for a few seconds, but I could not keep him in a scissors grip, and all he had to do was take the .22 and shoot me. I decided that I would conserve what little strength I had and wait for an opportunity. An opportunity to do what, Joe? The voice in my mind sounded weary and cynical. I looked at Delgado and worked to stay conscious.

  “All right,” he said. “How about I tell you how I got Hemingway and then you tell me where he might have put the Abwehr documents.”

  Though he must know that he held all the cards and didn’t need to tell me anything, I nodded. Into my hazy consciousness came the idea that Delgado’s cockiness might be my only hope. Though he’d made the sarcastic observation about this being the part in the movie where he told me everything, I could tell that, true to most of those movie characters, he was longing to do just that. Perhaps Hemingway’s observation that fiction—even movie fiction—was truer than life would hold.

  “We let the Lorraine drift here near the island,” said Delgado, that infuriating half-smile still curling his lips. “Sergeant Kruger was aboard, face down in the cockpit, apparently hurt and unconscious. He was wearing your green shirt then, Lucas.”

  I must have shown some expression, because Delgado chuckled. “Elsa got it for us.”

  “Elsa?”

  Delgado shook his head in the manner of an adult dealing with a very dull child. “Maria. Never mind. Perhaps later you can tell me how you killed her, but that’s not important now. Do you want to hear the rest of your bedtime story?”

  I waited.

  “So while your writer was calling your name and tying up to the Lorraine,” said Delgado, “I swam out from the island and came up behind him with the Schmeisser and had him hand over the .22 and that was that.” He shook his head again. “But the stupid shit put up a fight. Tried to grab the Schmeisser. I could have shot him or killed him barehanded, of course—that was plan one, having it look like you had killed him—but until Lieutenant Maldonado delivered your body to Nuevitas, we had to make it look like it could have been an accident. So while the sergeant grabbed Hemingway, I took the back of the writer’s head off with the gaff. You understand, we thought that he had the Abwehr documents in the cockpit with him, because we saw the courier pouch. But it was just some idiot manuscript about two people fucking in France. So I had Kruger watch your pal
lie there and bleed while I searched through the boat. And then you arrived, Lucas, charging to the rescue. And I thought it was quite heroic of me to send poor Sergeant Kruger out with my Schmeisser while I waited here for you with nothing but Hemingway’s little toy gun. I intended to put three slugs into you just to bring you down so I could get my papers back and find out about the documents, but that last one is probably fatal because you twisted when you were falling. Sorry. End of story. Where are the documents?”

  I shook my head. I thought that the wind had come up and was rustling the palms on the nearby island, but I realized that the noise was just a rushing in my ears. “Tell me… more,” I said, my voice sounding hollow. “I don’t… understand. The documents. Becker. The dead German soldiers. Operation Raven. Why? What’s it all about? I don’t understand.”

  Delgado nodded affably. “I’m sure you don’t understand, Lucas. It’s one of the reasons you were picked. Smart… but not too smart. But I’m afraid that we don’t have any more time for chatting, and if we did, I still wouldn’t tell you shit.” He raised the .22 and aimed it at a point between my eyes. “Where are the Abwehr documents?”

  “Fuck you,” I said. And waited.

  Delgado’s lips curled up a notch. “Tough guy,” he said, and shrugged. “I hate to break it to you, Joey, but I don’t really need the Abwehr papers now. There are more where those came from. The other side has already come through with its initial delivery, and now that the pipeline is open, I’ll shovel more Abwehr information into it later. They trust us now, after Point Roma. We’ll keep them happy.”

  “Keep who happy?” I said stupidly, thinking, Just enough strength left in my legs to use them once… now would be a good time, Joe. But Delgado had slid his canvas chair back a couple of feet and was out of reach.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, Lucas. Out of time. So long, kid.”

  The black circle of the .22 muzzle had claimed almost all of my attention, but I saw the movement out of the corner of my eye as Hemingway got to his knees and then moaned and struggled to get to his feet.

  Delgado lowered the .22 and half turned in his chair. “Oh, shit,” he said tiredly. He stood then and watched patiently as Hemingway got to his feet and swayed there drunkenly on the bloody deck of his beloved Pilar. The writer’s face was as white as the solitary cloud that floated in the sky behind him. As Delgado stood watching him rise, I hoped—for the second time—that the man’s cockiness would override his immediate instinct to kill.

  “Congratulations,” said Delgado, taking a step back from the pale apparition. “You’re one tough son of a bitch. That blow would have killed most men.”

  Hemingway staggered and flexed his hands, obviously trying to bring the little tableau of Delgado and me into focus.

  He’s too far from Delgado, I thought, my heart pounding hard enough now that I was afraid that I would bleed to death that much quicker. My left side felt like it was hemorrhaging much too freely. He’s too far away. And it doesn’t matter because Delgado could kill him with his bare hands on Hemingway’s best day.

  Delgado sighed. “I guess it’s back to plan one. Writer found dead next to the body of the double agent who shot him.” He raised the .22 and aimed it at Hemingway’s broad chest.

  I jacknifed my body back on the cushions, ignoring the raging wave of pain that cut through me, and kicked out as hard as I could, catching Delgado just above the base of his spine. The agent staggered forward and then caught himself from falling, but not before Hemingway grunted and swept his arms around him in a huge bear hug.

  “Fuck that.” Delgado laughed and freed himself by knocking aside Hemingway’s left arm with a flat-handed judo chop to the inside of the bigger man’s bicep. Delgado swept the target pistol up under Hemingway’s jaw.

  The writer grunted again and grabbed Delgado’s right arm with both hands, forcing the muzzle of the pistol out and away. Delgado could have used his free left hand to kidney punch or judo chop Hemingway to his knees, but he instantly realized that the writer was forcing the barrel of the pistol his way, so he chose instead to grab his own right wrist with his free hand, adding leverage to keep the muzzle away. The target pistol stayed upright between them, the barrel pointing skyward in the few inches of free space between the men’s sweating faces.

  I coiled again, fighting away the dizziness, ready to kick out at Delgado if they came closer, but though the two men lurched around the wide cockpit in a terrible and clumsy dance, they did not come close enough.

  Delgado obviously had the much greater skill in hand-to-hand combat, but his hands were occupied, he needed both legs to keep his balance, and Hemingway was using all of his great upper-body mass to keep the agent off balance. Hemingway was fighting for his life. Delgado was simply waiting for his chance to fire. The decisive factor was that Delgado had his finger on the trigger while both of Hemingway’s hands were wrapped around Delgado’s wrist. Wherever the muzzle was pointed, only Delgado would decide when to pull that trigger.

  The two big men staggered in circles, bouncing off the canvas-covered side of the bridge, crashing into the wheel, careening into the port gunwale, then lurching into the center of the cockpit again. Hemingway forced the muzzle toward Delgado’s face but it made no difference; the agent’s finger stayed inside the trigger guard. They lurched again, and now the barrel moved toward Hemingway’s face.

  Before Delgado could fire, Hemingway tucked his head low on his right shoulder, out of the line of fire, grunted, and charged forward again. The barrel pointed straight up. Both men crashed into the ladder leading to the flying bridge. Delgado moved with lightning speed to change his grip, grabbing the pistol with his left hand to gain greater leverage, forcing the muzzle down toward Hemingway’s face again.

  The writer butted Delgado in the face and moved his own hands, risking a bullet in the face for the split second it took to change his grip. Now they were lurching together again, shoes squeaking and sliding on the bloody deck, but Hemingway’s right hand was clasped over the cylinder of the target pistol now, his forefinger awkwardly jammed under the curve of the trigger guard above Delgado’s trigger finger.

  Delgado kneed Hemingway in the balls. The writer grunted but hung on, still straining, even while Delgado used the second to move his left hand higher on the barrel, forcing it down until the muzzle was directly under Hemingway’s chin. The writer’s eyes strained to look down. He could not move the barrel away. Gasping, the half-smile curling higher, Delgado jammed the muzzle into the soft flesh under Hemingway’s jaw, thumbed the hammer back, and pulled the trigger.

  Hemingway was already sliding his hand the endless two inches along the top of the pistol even before Delgado squeezed the trigger. Now the hammer fell, mashing the last joint of Hemingway’s little finger as the writer kept his flesh and fingernail between the hammer and the firing pin.

  Delgado ripped flesh off Hemingway’s finger as the agent tugged the pistol back and away, freeing it, the two of them spinning and almost toppling together, then righting themselves and crashing into the ladder again. They were six feet away. I could not reach them with another kick. I felt my strength flowing out of me with the blood that soaked the cushions and then my legs went limp.

  Delgado had freed the hammer for another shot, but he had inadvertently pulled the barrel toward himself while doing so. Now Hemingway’s left hand flew to that barrel, leveraging it over. Dalgado freed his own hand, sitting it higher on the barrel, but the writer’s fingers were already locked around it, giving no room. I was reminded of boys choosing up sides for a baseball game by moving their clenched fists higher and higher on the bat until there was no more space for fingers.

  I could no longer see the barrel of the .22, only Delgado’s straining hand locked over Hemingway’s, their right hands lower, Delgado with his finger on the trigger and Hemingway with his finger jammed in over Delgado’s.

  Hemingway showed all of his teeth. Cords stood out on his bloodied neck. The muzzle moved in un
der Delgado’s chin and was jammed mercilessly upward into the soft flesh there.

  Delgado arched his head back faster than I would have thought possible, but the wooden rung of the ladder to the flying bridge caught him on the back of the skull and kept him from moving it farther. Hemingway forced the muzzle up again, deep into the flesh under Delgado’s jaw.

  Delgado screamed then—silently—not in fear, but like a paratrooper readying himself to leap out of the door of a transport plane into wind and darkness. Both men continued to strain full force.

  Hemingway squeezed Delgado’s finger down on the trigger.

  Black dots had been dancing in my vision for some time, and now they merged and closed around me for a minute. When I could see again, Hemingway had dropped the pistol and was the only one standing, swaying over Delgado’s body where it was slumped against the ladder. With the nasty cut on Hemingway’s scalp, it looked as if it was the writer who had been shot in the head, not Delgado. There was no exit wound on the top of Delgado’s skull. Judging from the copious bleeding from Delgado’s eyes, ears, and nose, as well as the mess under his jaw, it looked as if the .22 slug had gone up and in through the soft palate and ricocheted around in the confines of the skull.

  Hemingway was looking down at the body and then looked at me with an expression I shall never forget. It was not triumph, nor regret, nor shock alone, nor bloodlust—I could only describe that look as the disinterested gaze of a terribly intelligent observer. Hemingway was recording this: not only what he saw but the smells, the soft lurchings of the Pilar, the gentle afternoon breeze, the sudden cry of gulls from the direction of the inlet, and even his own pain and reactions. Especially his own reactions.

  Then Hemingway’s gaze focused on me and he stepped closer. The dancing black specks merged again, and I felt myself sliding, as if my bloody wrists had slipped out of the handcuffs and I was free… free to slide down into that painless darkness, free to float away from all this, free to rest at long last.