Hot Springs es-1

by Stephen Hunter

  "What the hell is going on, bud?" asked the detective.

  "We may need backup. They have four Negro girls held hostage upstairs. We killed a batch but there's more."

  "Hell, we ain't going in there. Sounds like a goddamned war."

  "You go to Becker!" Frenchy said hotiy. "He'll tell you to come up and support us."

  "I ain't getting no men shot up over nigger whores, bud. You goddamned Jayhawkers started this one, you finish her up. I don't work for no Fred Becker."

  "Where is Becker?"

  "He's up front posing for photographers and I got a feeling he's pretty goddamned upset over this goddamned battle thing y'all got going in Mary Jane's."

  "Yeah, well, fuck you and the mule you rode in on, Zeke," said Frenchy, and then turned and ran with the mags.

  He was halfway there when he heard the sound of tommy guns.

  Earl slithered ever so slowly up the staircase, climbing over the debris of screws and what-not. When he reached the halfway point he could see over the edge into the hallway. Spread out and gazing resolutely at the heaven he'd never enter lay a mean-looking old Grumley boy, his eyes black and blank as diamonds. He lay in his own blood and a litter of hundreds of shells. Another boy lay a few feet away, his hands clenched around his belly, which blossomed blood.

  Earl pointed the Thompson at him.

  "You best show me your hands or I will finish you right here," he said.

  "I am so gutshot I am going nowheres, so you go ahead and finish me, you law town bastard," said the man, who turned out to be but a boy of twenty, though his face was clenched in pure adult hatred.

  "Lay there then and bleed," said Earl. "It don't make no matter to me."

  He slipped up another step, saw that the feed lid on the big German machine gun was still up, meaning it could no longer be fired. He slipped a bit farther forward, grabbed the snakelike curl of ammo belt that lay beneath the gun, and gave it a yank. He held it, then yelled, "Watch out, coming down," and flicked it downward. He signaled with his fingers: three, then he pointed to his handgun.

  Obediently, three raiders―Slim, as senior man, Terry and Carlo, who were next in the stick―yielded their Thompsons to others and slid up the steps until they were just below him.

  "They must be down at the other end in one of them rooms, but they got them gals. If you have to shoot you use your pistols and you aim carefully, you got that? You shoot at Grumleys, not at motion. They may push the gals out first. Shoot their legs, their pelvises and wait for the girls to break free. Then you go for chest or head. Got that?"

  "Earl, they got machine guns!"

  "Y'all do what I tell you or I'll get three more birds and you can go wait in the cars."

  "Yes sir."

  "I'm going acrost the hall. You cover me, you got that?"

  "Yes sir."

  "You make sure you got your goddamn vests on."

  "Yes sir."

  "Okay. On the count of three. Ready. Three!"

  Earl jumped across the hall, almost slipped in Grumley fluid and empty shell casings, but made it. Just as he ducked into a room, a man at the end of the hall stuck his head out with a tommy gun and blasted a lengthy burst at him, but immediately the three raiders returned fire, driving him back.

  "I think I got him," said one.

  "I don't know," said another.

  Earl, meanwhile, looked around the room. Squashed into the corner and holding on dearly to each other, two more Negro gals cried softly.

  "Y'all be quiet now," said Earl. "We're going to get you out, okay?"

  One of them nodded.

  Earl peeked around the corner and saw nothing. He nodded over to Slim and held out two fingers, cranked his thumb back to indicate he was sending the women over.

  Slim nodded.

  "Okay," he said, "y'all get over here and get ready to run. I'm going to fire a little bit. They won't be shooting. You just jump over to the stairs and go on down and somebody will take care of you. Don't you pay no mind to the shooting I'm going to do. You got that?"

  Both nodded.

  Earl stepped out into the hall, and fired half a magazine into the ceiling at the rear of the corridor, watching the bullets tear into the plaster. The two girls dipped across, where they were grabbed by Carlo, who ushered them downstairs.

  Frenchy returned to the hallway adjacent to the stairwell, breathing hard. He could see that the action had moved upstairs. He bent over and retrieved Earl's BAR, took one of the magazines, and implanted it. Then he cranked the bolt back.

  The thing was heavy, and as he had his pockets jammed with other loaded magazines, he felt quite a burden as he rose. He walked around to where other raiders crouched at the foot of the stairs. He could see three others up there.

  "I got Earl's gun reloaded," he said.

  "Well, he seems kind of busy just now," said Elf.

  "Well, hell, he sent me to get ammo for that gun and so he must need it."

  Eff and the others just looked at him.

  "Look out," he commanded. "I'm taking it up to him."

  Frenchy pushed his way by them and began to edge his way up the steps.

  Earl watched the room at the end of the hallway. He heard a motion, like a squirming or shifting, and the next thing he knew a man laid out with a shotgun and fired. He felt the sting of pellet, but fired too, finishing off the magazine. The bullets whacked chunks of plaster off the wall and the Grumley boy slumped and fell amid a white cascade of shattered masonry.

  Frenchy started when the gunfire suddenly erupted. At that moment also his foot found a puddle of Grumley blood that had coagulated on the fourth step. Before he knew what was happening, he slid downward, struggled for purchase and fell hard. He clenched as he fell and was aware that he squeezed off a five-or six-shot burst of automatic rifle fire. Men ducked and fell to avoid the shots, and the gun pivoted in his descent, still pumping, and sent a load of bullets through the window, blowing it out in the process.

  But then he was down, hard, his ass suddenly hot with pain from the fall.

  "Jesus Christ, Short! What the hell are you doing?"

  "I fell, goddammit. Is anybody hurt?"

  "You are a lucky son of a bitch," someone said. "You didn't clip nobody down here but you're going to have to pay for a new window."

  "Fuck it," said Frenchy. He pushed the mag release button so that the half-empty mag fell out, and replaced it with one from his coat pocket. Then he picked himself up, climbed the rest of the way, and bullied his way between the raiders at the top.

  "Earl," he shouted, "I have the BAR."

  Earl looked at him, shook his head. But then he nodded, and gestured for the boy to come across.

  He stepped into the hallway, and fired, issuing suppressing fire that again chewed into the masonry far at the end of the hall.

  When Frenchy made it safely across, he pulled him back and took the BAR. Frenchy reached for the Thompson, but Earl threw it across the room onto the bed.

  "You leave it be. Stick near me, and when I drop a magazine, you hand me a new one. You got that?"

  "Yes sir," said Frenchy.

  But Earl was already leaning out the hallway.

  "Slim," he said, "y'all be ready over there. I'm going to work my way down the hall. You weave behind me, clear the rooms. I think they's empty. When I get into the room next to the one they're in, I'm going to shoot through the walls. This.30 caliber should kick right through. I'll shoot high but I'll scare the shit out of 'em. They'll a-come running out, and you boys be ready, you got that?"

  "Yes sir," said Slim.

  "You ready, kid?" he asked Frenchy.

  Frenchy gulped.

  * * *

  Earl stepped out, the BAR locked in the assault position, its butt clamped under his arm, its long muzzle pointing down the hail. Like his caddie Frenchy cowered behind, two mags in one hand, one in the other, others stuffed into his suit coat. It seemed almost comic―the man with the vest cowering behind the man without one�
��but nobody laughed.

  As second in the stick, Carlo let Slim dash forward into the first room, duck in and shout "Clear!"

  It was his turn. As Earl moved forward, hunched and urgent, and passed the next doorway, he jumped toward it. Ooof! He stumbled, caught himself, and looked down to discover a Grumley toppled over in a pool of his own blood, his fingers latticed around a belly wound that still pulsated. But Carlo could tell in a second he was dead, and flew on.

  He kicked open the door, scanned quickly over the sights of the.45 which he had locked before him at the end of his two tightened arms. He pivoted, finding the room empty, checked behind the door, then dashed to a closet, finding only frilly women's clothes.

  "Clear!" he yelled.

  "Clear!" came another call, as a third raider worked a room behind Earl's staunch advance.

  Finally, there was only the one room left, the last room on the right. A dead Grumley lay on this floor too, though Carlo wasn't sure when he'd been hit. He couldn't remember many details of the past three or four minutes.

  He crouched in a doorway, on his left knee, his pistol fixed on the last entryway, his wrists braced against the wall. Slim was above him in the same position, only standing, and down the hallway, two or three other raiders had taken up positions in doorways.

  Earl yelled to the surviving Grumleys.

  "We got y'all covered. You come on out and you won't get hurt."

  "Fuck you, lawman," yelled a Grumley from inside."You come in this room, we're gonna start blasting these here nigger gals and we'll all go to hell for breakfast."

  "Don't hurt them gals. They ain't done nothing to you."

  "No man tells a Grumley what to do, you bastard. Who the hell you think you are! This is our town, it ain't yours. You get out of here or by God there'll be blood in rivers spilt. No Grumley goes down easy, you hear me?"

  But Earl wasn't listening. Instead he'd slipped into the room next door, oriented his automatic rifle to the common wall with the room where the last Grumley boys crouched with their hostages. He stitched a burst across the wall, about seven feet high. The old wood and plasterboard vaporized under the buzzsaw of.30 caliber bullets. The magazine was done in two seconds. Dust floated heavily in the air.

  "Another," he yelled, and Frenchy placed the mag in his hand. He jammed it in and fired it off in another single roaring blast.

  Dust blew and floated everywhere, like fog.

  Screams came from inside the room.

  Suddenly the door blew open and a Negro gal sprawled out, thrown out by two Grumleys to draw fire. But she didn't, for the raiders stayed unexcited and reasonable, and in fact after falling to her knees, she got up and ran down the hallway, screaming "Don't shoot me, oh please, sirs, don't shoot me."

  Earl fired another magazine, and it was enough.

  They all broke from the room, Grumleys in rage and fleeing prostitutes in panic, figures in the foggy dust only readable by body postures.

  In the fog, only gun flashes leapt out. Carlo fired at what had to be a man and brought him down as two or three of the gals ran clear. Above him, Slim found a target and fired, and his man fell backward, his finger jacking the trigger of a Thompson, which whittled a nasty gash in the ceiling. Two more black girls fled by, and a last Grumley came out of the room with a shotgun and three raiders shot him simultaneously and he fell down atop still a third.

  Dust heaved. From somewhere women howled. Gunsmoke filled the air.

  Earl clicked in a new magazine and slid to the side of the last door, then stepped in.

  A last Grumley huddled in the corner, behind the large yellow mass of a woman in a dressing gown who screamed and blubbered but could not escape his iron grip. He had a big revolver jammed into her throat.

  "I'll kill this sow!" he screamed. "Throw down your guns or by God I'll kill this―"

  But as he spoke, Earl flicked the BAR selector switch to semi-auto, brought the rifle to his shoulder like a marksman and shot him where what little of his head could be seen, just above the left ear, not a killing shot, but the rifle bullet had such velocity it spun him around to the wall. The big woman pulled away and fell to the floor and began to crawl, and before the Grumley could get his gun back into play, Slim and Carlo hammered him several times.

  It was finally quiet at Mary Jane's.

  "Jesus Christ," said Slim.

  "Man," said Carlo. "I never saw nothing like that."

  "Everybody okay?" asked Earl.

  "Mr. Earl, you're bleeding."

  "I picked up some pellet somewhere in there. It ain't a goddamn thing. The boys all right? Frenchy, you okay?"

  "Yes sir," Frenchy said heavily.

  They quickly checked to discover no casualties.

  They moved back into the hallway and looked at what they had wrought. Dead Grumleys lay along the hallway, which itself was a corridor of ruin, as so many shots had torn through wood and plasterboard, and the air remained heavy with gunsmoke and floating dust and grit. Empty cartridges in the hundreds littered the floor. The blood had pooled here and there.

  "There, boys," Earl said, "y'all take a good look. That is the world you have entered. Now I want you to form a detail and pick up all the weapons. If them Hot Springs detectives get ahold of the Thompsons, they'll just go back to the bad boys and we'll have to take 'em all over again. If that goddamn machine gun is too heavy to carry, Slim, you find someone who knows about such things and strip the toggle bolt. If nothing else, I want that bolt sunk deep in Lake Catherine, so we don't have to worry about it no more. If you can't find no one, you come to me."

  "What if the cops―"

  "The cops ain't gonna stand agin you tonight. Nobody's going to stand agin you tonight."

  As the men spread out to retrieve the fallen guns, another raider came down the hall to Earl.

  "Mr. Parker's downstairs, Earl. He wants to see you."

  "Yeah, yeah," said Earl. "I'll get there in a moment. I don't hear no ambulances. It's clear now. Tell 'em to get some ambulances in here in case any of these gals are shot up. I think we saved most of 'em."

  They could hear a woman wailing loudly downstairs.

  "Mr. Earl, you should know: there's a problem."

  "What would that be, son?"

  "Some women got shot."

  "We lost one, by my count. Them Grumley boys shot her."

  "No sir. Not here. Down the block at the Pythian Hotel. Two Negro gals sitting in the parlor. Somehow a burst came through the window and kilt 'em both. The Negro peoples are down there all het up, and the cops may have a riot. Mr. Becker is goddamned upset and there's all these reporters here."

  Chapter 24

  The facts were tragic. Mrs. Alva Thomas, forty-seven, of New Albany, Georgia, and Miss Lavern Sevier Carmichael, twenty-three, of New Iberia, Louisiana, had been sitting in the lobby of the Pythian Hotel and Baths when the gunfire down the street had erupted. While most sensible people got down on their stomachs at the sound, the two ladies, in deep religious concentration, declined to do so. God's attention was elsewhere. Each was hit but once. The.30-caliber-model-of-1906 bullets had flown a long way and not lost but a mite of their power when they struck the two women fatally.

  The Reverend Tyrone Blandings, of the leading Negro church in Hot Springs, requested a meeting with Mr. Becker. There he was formally apologized to, and told the county would pay for the shipping and funeral expenses of the two bodies, but that the enforcement of the law must be absolute and sometimes in these confrontations between the sinners and the sinless, unaccountable accidents happened. It was God's will. He must have a plan.

  Meanwhile, Mayor O'Donovan empaneled a group of elder Hot Springs citizens to investigate the out-of-control Jayhawkers who turned the city into a war zone. If it had been within the purview of his powers, he informed the newspapers, he would have called a grand jury and issued indictments, but unfortunately it was only the prosecuting attorney who had the legal power to convene such an assembly.

  Th
e outstanding warrants on seven of the nine Murfreesboro Grumleys were never acknowledged in the Hot Springs newspapers, though the bigger little Rock papers made certain this evidence reached the public up front.

  The dead were listed, all of them Grumleys or Grumley cousins: Nathan Grumley, forty-two; Wayne Grumley, Jr. twenty-one; Jasper "Jape" Grumley, twenty-three; Bowman Peck, twenty-seven; Alvin Grumley, twenty-eight; Jeter Dodge, thirty-two; Duane Grumley, thirty-two; Buddy "Junior" Mims, thirty-three; Dewey Grumley, thirty-seven; Felton Parr, thirty-nine; and one unidentified body, burned beyond all recognition, presumably that of R. K. Pindell, age unknown, gone missing. Of the eleven, Nathan was clearly the most violent, as he had spent twelve years in the penitentiary on a case of second-degree murder and was suspected of a variety of other crimes, including rape, child molestation and dozens of counts of armed robbery as well as being widely suspected of killing a clown. He was also a known contract killer for Jefferson Davis Grumley, known as the "Boss of Pike County," and brother to Elmer "Pap" Grumley, once known as the "Boss of Garland County," though now thought to be retired.

  But each of the other Grumleys or Grumley cousins had at least one and some as many as five outstanding warrants lodged against their names, for crimes that went anywhere from breaking and entering to suspicion of murder. So those Murfreesboro Grumleys, most people acknowledged, were not innocents.

  The next evening, Mr. Becker gave a speech before the Better Business Bureau of Hot Springs in the Banquet Room of the Arlington Hotel. Giving speeches was a gift of his, as he had that rare ability to project concern and empathy and at the same time heroic will. He bit his lip when he discussed his dilemma in sending his men in against so dangerous a foe as gamblers and wanted men armed with machine guns, but then in the end decided it was worth it, for the law had to be served no matter the cost. The law was what separates us from the apes, after all. And unlike some men, he felt the weight of the deaths of Negroes as heavily as he felt the deaths of white folks; he was sorry that such a thing had occurred, but he assured his listeners it was unavoidable, as part of his commitment to reform. The gambling and corruption that had marked Hot Springs for a century had to be stopped and he would stop it, no matter what it cost him. Most of the men in the room believed that he himself had led the raid, as he frequently referred to "his boys" and the risks they had taken for Hot Springs and for America. He knew the way ahead was tough but he knew it was the right way.