by Ed Lacy
“The money!” Bob gasped. It sounded like his jaw was busted. “Ya're... in!”
“In what? You dumb clown, I don't want no money. I'm going to work you over, beat your brains out, leave you crippled for life... if you live.” I wasn't hearing my own words. I was thinking beating a punk no longer seemed important or necessary to me.
The fire was dying and I said, “I'm going to leave you so you'll never hurt another ...”
Bob really was good—a snap of the wrist I might never have noticed if I didn't know about the gun, and one of these runty European automatics was in his right hand. Maybe it was the weird light from the fire, but the gun seemed to spark like a toy cap pistol. All I felt was two sharp quick stabs in my gut.
Smith actually hissed as he said, “Bastid copper! Dumb bastid copper!” as I came toward him. Two more of those toy sparks and I knew I was hit in the gut again. Now the pain came, deep and burning.
I was almost on top of him when he let me have the last two. It didn't seem possible but I only felt one stab—the jerk missed with the other shot.
The dizziness and pain were mounting fast, but I could still handle my gun... although I knew I was swaying like the shadows from the last of the fire, and smoke seemed to fog my eyes as I said, “All right, that's me—a copper!” and let him have the .45 from my coat pocket.
Part of his head bounced against the wall as the boom of the .45 covered me with thunder—thunder that had nothing to do with me starting to fall backward.
Outside of Bridgehampton out on Long Island there's a wonderful lonely beach called Sagaponack, an Indian name. It's miles of clean sand and high dunes and sometimes thundering waves. It's the finest beach I know for surf casting, and we'd usually get the idea around nine or ten at night, hop into somebody's heap and be out there by midnight, fish till morning. The pounding waves send up a salt spray that fills the air, and when the sun starts to come up, this haze turns a faint pink, shot through with a hundred rainbows. Sometimes, when I was out there alone, it all seemed out of this world, really out.
When I opened my eyes I saw this pink fog moving gently around me and when I could drink I thought, If there is such a thing as Heaven or Hell I'm sunk, played my cards wrong all down the line. Or am I back on the beach? And how did I get here?
I didn't try to move, just stared at the pink air. Then I got it figured—I was still in the alley seeing daylight through the blood on my face. But I should be a corpse... no man lives through the night with five slugs in his belly, a busted head and a ...
The pink faded to a mild yellow and then after a long time became a clean hard white. I kept working my eyes and damn if I wasn't in a hospital room!
There couldn't be any doubt. Although I couldn't seem to move my eyes much, I saw the white metal stingy table and chair you find only in a hospital. I tried moving, but even turning my head was such a big deal I gave it up. Something red and white flashed before my eyes. I got the frightened face of a red-headed nurse into focus, heard her call “Dr. Moorepark! Dr. Moorepark—he's regained consciousness!”
The redhead disappeared and there wasn't a single sound after that as I stared at the white table. I'd sure slopped up things. Then I heard voices, felt something on my skin and finally a pinprick that seemed a mile away. I could almost feel real strength, hot and firm, rushing through me. A joke who looked like a movie doctor—the quiet puss with the brushed gray hair and terribly tired eyes—shoved his big head into view, asked, “Mr. Bond, can you hear me?” The voice was deep and sure.
He was so near I could hear the sloshing sound his moving lips made. “Sure, I can hear you. Why ain't I dead? What went wrong?”
The face came even nearer, the lips seemed on top of my eyes. I could see all his fillings. “Mr. Bond, can you hear me?”
“Said I could. Get out of my face.”
The thin wet lips moved again. “We have very little time Mr. Bond, and you're not making any sound. If you hear me, will you please blink your eyes.”
What was wrong with my mouth? I could hear my own voice—this joker must be deaf. I blinked.
“Mr. Bond, we've given you a... You will sleep shortly so I must be frank with you. You were—and are—badly hurt. It's only a surgical miracle you are alive at all. I am telling you this because you are strong and have a good chance of living—if you fight for it.” The lips moved faster as the voice took on a selling tone. “I know you want to live because you are the biggest name in the news these last few days, a national hero! You have a big future before you, a ...”
I shut my eyes. There was more talk I didn't listen to, something about Flo waiting for me.... Then a new voice said, “Marty, please look at me.”
I opened my eyes to see Art Dupre, the rugged earnest face before me. He had that bursting-with-good-news look in his eyes as he said, “Marty, you old iron man! I happened to be... Marty, when they brought you in all shot open, I had a sample made—you haven't got cancer!”
Art took a breath, almost shouted in my face, “Marty, do you understand, your tumor is not malignant! Truth is it's not even a tumor but a kind of pocket in the intestines in which food gets caught and decays and... Hell, Marty, you get it, you were all wrong about cancer! All you have to do is work with us and in a few weeks you'll be up and around, good as new. Marty old man, you have to ...”
I closed my eyes, the lids were starting to weigh a ton.
“Marty, tell me you've heard me, that you know you haven't cancer?”
I blinked as fast as I could, saw Art's lean puss run over with relief. Then I kept my eyes closed and after a while I was back in the pink haze, the voice lost in the distance.
For a split second I wanted to work out signals with my eyes, tell Art. But it was too tiring and complicated and it didn't matter. Net even cancer or being free of cancer mattered.
How could I ever explain to Art—or why should I?— that I had seen Marty Bond a little too clearly these last few days, that I didn't want to live. Marty the bully-boy should never have been born, never have...
The pink mist became a deeper red. The sun must be coming out stronger, but the air and the sand were damp and cold. Something jerked at the rod real sharp, then another big jerk. I dropped my beach blanket as I stood up, grabbed the rod. I sure had a fighter hooked, I could barely hold the rod. I said, “Watch me reel this baby in. Got something big, maybe a baby tuna or a hell of a blue. Will you look at the battle the slimy fool is giving me—damn near snapping the rod.”
“His pulse is getting weaker. Mr. Bond! Mr. Bond!”
The rod was straining so I couldn't turn to see who was talking. The fish never slacked up. Instead it seemed to grow stronger, hitting the line again and again with a steady pull. It was a hell of a fish. My arms began to ache, the rod was slipping out of my hands. It was a regular damn whale. I don't know how the line held, but the jerking was too much for me to haul in, or even hold on to.
The rod began to shake and I made one last effort to hold it—
Then I let go.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 784643dd-51b5-4331-bbd0-9d32d6309313
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 1.8.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.10 software
Document authors :
Ed Lacy
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