by P. N. Elrod
The guys behind caught up with us and completed the quintet. To make it look right I tried to duck past them for the open street. They were fast and professional and didn’t even muss my clothes, but then I was not using my full strength to fight them. With arms held pinned to my sides and the white scarf over my eyes, I was marched quickly back to the club.
From the length of the walk and the smell at the end of it, we were going in by the alley entrance. I made some stock verbal protests until one of them shoved my own handkerchief into my mouth. This was done only to shake me up. If I’d really started to yell for help, they’d have been a lot rougher. In silence I was dragged up some steps and over a linoleum floor. From the leftover smell of grease, I guessed it was a kitchen. We trod on wooden floor for twenty-eight paces, then I was stumbling up a flight of stairs. Knuckles rapped on wood and I was shoved forward.
The door shut. I stood on carpeting in a room with two sets of lungs; one right behind me, probably the Mountain and the other about eight feet in front. A light switch clicked, and I felt a gentle warmth on my face.
The scarf was yanked down. The warmth came from a flexible desk lamp whose bulb had been angled to shine right in my eyes. The rest of the room was dark, but it didn’t matter; the man trying to hide behind the glare was quite visible to me.
He was medium sized and dark haired, with a pale olive complexion slightly marred by old acne scars on his cheeks. In his young thirties, he had a set of sweet dark eyes that should have been on a woman. He would have been handsome, but his nose was too pinched and he had what looked like a razor cut for a mouth. His stare was intense and I shifted uneasily.
He smiled approval at my reaction.
I checked the room over so as not to look at him. It was a plain working office, but with a nice rug, a couple of paintings of ships, and an expensive desk-and-chair set. On the desk was a phone and blotter, in the corner behind me stood a file cabinet. There was no other place to sit, though some dimples showed in the rug where chairs had been. He was smart enough to know how well such minor intimidations can undermine a person’s confidence. He sat relaxed behind his desk, gave me a good once-over, then raised one finger as a signal to the man behind me. Hands probed, and my wallet, half a pack of cigarettes, and a book of matches were dropped on the desk. He opened the wallet, ignoring the money, and his eyes rested a moment on the little pasteboard card.
“I think you can consider this an emergency,” he began. “Would you like us to put you in contact with your brother?”
Figuratively speaking, I could breathe a little easier. I’d worried he wouldn’t have accepted me as Gerald. I didn’t answer, but squinted at the light as though trying to see past it.
“I heard about you being at Paco’s, he continued. “They said you wanted to trade the list for your brother. I know where he is and I’m willing to deal.”
It was simply stated and the truth, but I didn’t think he was dumb enough to think I was that gullible. He was only feeling me out.
“Are you willing to deal with me?”
“Only if you’re Slick Morelli,” I said.
He didn’t answer except to move his hand slightly. The Mountain came up on one side and buried his knuckles in my stomach. That hurt a little—very little—and I faked the rest, going down on my knees as I had done at Paco’s; no imagination, these guys.
“You can call me Mr. Morelli, Junior,” he told me. “Now say thank you.”
I was pulled to my feet and punched two more times before I got bored with the business and said what he wanted. There was a purpose to it all; get me to give in and obey him once and it would be that much easier for me to give in later about other things. He knew his business. I’d seen it done in other situations. The faces changed, but the technique remained constant. I let the Mountain hold me up and concentrated on breathing. Under the circumstances, they were both bound to notice if I stopped.
“Now, where is the list?”
Again, I said nothing; my memory had it in a place I could not reach. They’d killed me over it before, and they’d certainly try again—a difficult job in my present state, but not impossible. I had some control this time, though, and would stall to try and learn more, hoping my contact with them would trigger a memory.
Morelli opened a drawer in the desk, drew out a long black cigar, and fitted it into a silver holder. The skin on my head began crawling in different directions, my left hand twitched and I fell back a step into the Mountain. He held me firm as Morelli looked up and saw my fear. The reaction had come boiling up without warning, and it was all I could do to stifle the urge to tear away and bolt out the door. He finished lighting the cigar and blew smoke at the ceiling.
“Start talking, Fleming.”
A film was over my eyes. I blinked uncontrollably. My hands jerked up to rub them clear.
(“Start talking, Fleming.”)
The Mountain’s grip kept me on my feet or I’d be on my knees again.
(The cigar stink filled the little room. Its burning end pivoted from my eyes and pointed down to my left hand. The pain shot up the arm, into the brain, and came clawing out through my clenched teeth. I tried to tear away from it and the binding ropes. . . .)
The Mountain shook me out of it. My jellied legs found the floor and I stood under my own power, staring at Morelli with hot rage. I wanted badly to let it out, knowing what it would do to his mind; good revenge for my past pain, but it would accomplish nothing. My eyes tracked another cloud of smoke. His leisurely manner reminded me that he had all the time in the world, I only had until sunrise.
“What did you do to Jack Fleming?” I asked. “How did you get him?”
“I ask the questions, Junior.” This was punctuated by another punch.
“Did you have Paco shoot him?”
I was on the floor now and felt the distant blow of a shoe in the back of one leg. I made an appropriate noise in response. The Mountain bent down to pick me up. For the first time he spoke, whispering in my ear.
“Tell him what he wants, kid. He won’t let me let up.”
So he was supposed to be my friend, he had some pity for me. Maybe if I cooperated he’d pull his punches. Bullshit.
“Where is the list?” Morelli pretended he hadn’t heard his boy speak.
I was made to stand. Favoring my kicked leg, or appearing to, I shook my head. The Mountain hit again and that’s when I overdid my act. It was by accident, or by sheer clumsiness, that my body pitched too far and too fast off balance and my head connected hard with the edge of the desk.
The thing was made out of very solid mahogany.
Lights flashed behind my eyes, there were waves of dizziness, and if I went under they’d think I was dead. They’d sink me in the lake again and this time I might not come up. My eyelids fluttered, I felt myself falling, but it was just the Mountain turning me over.
Breathe, keep breathing.
He was watching me closely. I looked back, concentrating on pumping my chest up and down and fighting the pain in my head.
Breathe, breathe until the worst of the shock passes.
“I thought he was gone for a second, but he seems okay, now,” said the Mountain.
“Then wake him up.” Morelli sounded infinitely put out. “And, Gordy, you be more careful with him this time.”
He splashed a glass of water I didn’t want in my face and I spit it from my nose and mouth like poison. The door opened and a chair was dragged in. They put it under me. Perhaps Gordy the Mountain was getting tired of holding me up.
“Tell him what he wants, kid,” he urged.
My head was bowed, I gently checked the sore spot. There was no blood, but it hurt. It hurt far more than Paco’s gunshots. I remembered the time and let the sleeve ride up my wrist for a glimpse at my watch. Not good, but better than I expected.
Morelli was still behind his desk, puffing on the cigar. The office was hot despite the air-cooling system, filled with smoke and the stink of sweat. N
ow I was glad they’d thrown the water; it would give the illusion that I, too, was sweating.
“I’ll clue you, Fleming. You talk now, or you are dead meat. We will work you over and you will die. Talk and you will live.”
For how long? I wondered.
“Where is the list?”
Same old song. I stalled and let Gordy earn his keep. He was not too creative, but he had a lot of endurance and muscle. He needed it since I kept falling from the chair as part of my act. It was a long and brutal quarter hour before I finally broke. I’d seen it done before in movies, in real life. I gave them the full treatment: sobbing, pleading, anything I could think of, and it was exactly what Morelli wanted to see. He was feeling good now; he’d ground a man down, opened his guts, and not left his chair.
I slid to the floor and made friends with the carpet, curling up to nurse bruises I didn’t feel. It kept my face hidden and my voice muffled. Both were always dead giveaways whenever I tried lying. Between moans and groans I spun them a line of how Jack had passed the list on to his baby brother, but kept the details to the bare minimum; too many and they wouldn’t believe it.
“Very good,” said Morelli. “But where is it now?”
“I took a room at Jack’s hotel and waited for him. I figured you’d already been there and wouldn’t come back again, and there was a chance Jack would for his stuff.”
“Smart, Junior. Keep talking.”
“It’s at the hotel, hidden in the basement. I’ll have to show you where. You’ll never find it otherwise.”
They had a lot of trouble swallowing that one, and it took a large chunk of the time I had left to convince them they had to take me along.
My eyes were covered again, but this time they spared me the handkerchief. We went downstairs and waited in the kitchen. A car rolled up and stopped, its engine idling quietly. They opened the door, guided me down the concrete steps, and I was shoved into the backseat. I slumped low as if in bad shape—actually I was worried about the ever-present rearview mirror.
Gordy was on my right and another man was on my left. They each had a hand tightly gripping my wrists, taking no chances on my making a sudden move. Morelli sat in the front with the driver, occasionally giving a direction.
We crossed water once, twice, there were several turns, and we waited in silence for traffic signals. The car finally slowed and parked, the motor still running. The right-hand door opened and Gordy dragged me out. He pulled the scarf down and the first thing I saw was a gun ready in his hand. Next to him was the casino guard, who had a hand inside his coat like a latter-day Napoleon. His body blocked my view of Morelli in the passenger seat. Dead meat or not, he was careful not to let me see his face. It was fine with me, I was sick of it, anyway.
“Go and get it,” he said.
The hotel was a block away on the same side of the street. Maybe the night clerk would remember me, but I wasn’t planning to test him. I’d only gotten them back to this neighborhood because it made the story I told more plausible. I wanted them nowhere near my present hotel.
As before, they marched along, gripping my arms. I was in luck, for a change. They’d have to pass the entrance of an alley that ran between the hotel and the next building. There was a risk they might catch on to my unusual strength, perhaps they’d put it down to desperation. It wasn’t getting any earlier; pretty soon I would be desperate.
We breasted the alley and I shook free, connecting a mild backhand hit in the gunman’s stomach and pushing Gordy into some garbage cans. He recovered fast, and was up and after me before I’d gotten halfway down the alley. His friend was catching up as I came to the wood fence blocking the far end. I went over it with an agility that surprised me, landed like a cat, and pounded away, gaining a good lead.
The fence protected a street lined with residential flats, each with steps and railings and deep doorways. There were plenty of places to hide if necessary. I went to the right, wanting to gain more distance before vanishing. That was one trick they didn’t need to witness. I was looking for a suitable place to duck when one of them did the unexpected. It must have been the gunman, Morelli had forgotten to tell him I was needed alive.
What felt like a sledgehammer blow caught me between the shoulder blades. The pain made me forget my aching head for the moment. I was in mid-stride when my body was lifted and thrown off balance by the impact. I tried to keep my legs under me, but the shock to the system was too much, and they buckled and failed. I rolled hard onto the sidewalk, carried on by impetus until I hitched up against the wheel of a parked car. The two men trotted up and turned me over.
I’m too much of a joker not to take advantage of such a situation. Besides, it was a way of getting them off my back. I gave it my best, pulling my hands up to cover what should have been the exit wound and hoping it was too dark for them to see the lack of blood. As they approached, I gasped, twitched convulsively, and slowly let my last breath shudder out in a horrible rattle. I stared at them with glassy eyes. They stared back, then Gordy bent down to feel for a pulse in my throat. He straightened and looked at his buddy, shaking his head.
“You’re up shit creek,” he pronounced.
I was right about it being the gunman and saw why I hadn’t heard the shot; a bulky silencer was fixed to his weapon. It was enough to damp the sound down so the local residents continued to sleep.
A half minute later the car rolled up and Morelli erupted out before it stopped. He glanced once at his men, then glared down at me. I was sorry for not drawing my death scene out long enough to give him a cryptic message to worry about. He whirled on his men. Gordy pointed at the other guy, who had gone all white. Morelli went all purple, the neck tendons coming up as though to break through the skin. His body shook with rage and his breath came in short gulps. He’d gotten one last chance to find his precious list, and this guy had stupidly taken it from him. He snatched the gun away and, using it as a club, laid into him. When he finished, there was another body decorating the sidewalk. He gave the bloody gun to Gordy and stalked back to the car. Gordy picked up his buddy and followed a minute later.
“What about him?” he asked. They were out of my line of sight, but I could imagine his throwing-away gesture in my direction.
“Leave him. He’s got no wallet, they’ll think he was mugged. Leave him.”
The car doors slammed and they drove away.
I lay on the sidewalk and counted my blessings. When I stood up and felt my aching head I was in the mood to consider everything else. I was out of the Nightcrawler more or less in one piece and Morelli thought I was dead. On the down side, my new suit was a disaster area, I was missing fifty-eight hundred bucks in gambling winnings and I still didn’t know much more than when I’d begun. At least I had names and faces now.
The sky was getting lighter and I had to go home. I started around the corner to my old hotel, but thought better of it. There was a remote chance that Morelli might be there, or return the next day and find out about the guy in the ventilated tuxedo wandering in and asking for a cab. No, that was a very bad idea. I kept walking, moving quickly in hopes of finding some other open business, or better yet, an available cab. No such luck occurred and by now the light was hurting my eyes.
I was anxious enough to make an illegal entry into a closed drugstore on a corner and used their phone to call for transportation. There was still change in my pockets, so I left some on the counter for a pair of their darkest sunglasses and went outside to wait, scanning the street in worried hope. I was tied down to the place now, unable to move until the damn cab arrived.
The gentle gray light from the east was blinding, and I could hardly see the driver when he did arrive. Tumbling into the back, I promised him a two-dollar tip if he could get me to my hotel in as many minutes. With that for motivation, he poured on the coal.
When we reached the hotel, he had to follow me up to my room for the money, but I had to stumble down to the lobby again to pick up a key. My door was locked a
nd my normal method of entry would have sent the man screaming into the streets. I was on a friendly basis with the night clerk, though, and that saved a little time. I persuaded him to give the driver the money and to put it on my bill. He did it with a smile, God bless him, gave me a key, and I fled upstairs.
The sun was up now. I was moving through syrup and going blind. I found the keyhole more by luck than anything else and shoved the door shut, sinking to the floor. My head felt ready to explode from the weak reflected sunlight filtering through the window. I crawled to my trunk, but it was locked. I tried to seep inside but couldn’t; the light was searing my brain, I could hardly think. Where was the damn trunk key?
I groped in the closet, tearing the pockets of my old suit. Wrong guess. The bureau, I left them in a drawer. . . . Crawl over and visit them . . . Middle drawer, under the shirts . . . I groaned with relief as my stiffening fingers brushed them and clutched.
I fumbled forever with the trunk lock and was ready to just break it off when it finally flipped open. I pushed the lid up, forced my legs to straighten, teetered a second, and fell inside. The proximity of my home earth helped, and my arms had just enough flexibility left to pull the lid down again, shutting me safely away from the light.
Then consciousness was whipped away like dust into the wind.
Someone seemed to be knocking at my door, but too close and too loud. It was the trunk lid. Escott was the only one who knew I slept here, so I said come in and it opened a crack. I thought I saw a dim oval floating in a sea of purple sparklers.
“Are you all right, old man?” it asked. “I’ve been trying to call for an hour.”
I shook my head, which made it ache more. I wanted him to go away and let me rest.