by P. N. Elrod
Escott drove in silence, perhaps sensing my glum mood, or more likely he was tired himself. Between his usual insomnia and the long wait for my call, he wouldn’t have gotten any sleep tonight. I was about to make some kind of comment or other to him about it when his head snapped off to the left as though he’d been given a jolt of electricity.
”Damn,” he said in a soft, strangled voice and slammed the gas pedal down as far as it could go.
5
THE Nash shot forward, but too slowly for Escott. He came out with another curse and I joined him, hardly knowing why. Past his head I glimpsed the black blur of a car rushing up on us. Yellow-white flashes from its open windows raked my eyes. There was noise: stuttering explosions coming so fast that they merged into a single horrifying roar that deafened all thought, stifled all movement.
Escott kept saying “damn” over and over again—somehow I could still hear him—as he fought to dredge more speed from the Nash. He clawed at the wheel and cut a right so hard that I would have tumbled into him except for a timely grab at the dashboard. The explosions stopped only briefly, then resumed as the gunman came even with us once more. Huge pockmarks clattered across the windows.
My own throat went tight and my leg muscles strained against one another, trying to run where running was not possible. I had to trust Escott to get us out and he had to trust his car. Its big engine pulled us ahead a bare two yards and the shooting abruptly ceased for a few heavenly seconds, started, then stopped again.
Escott swerved to the left; I grabbed the top of the seat so hard that the covering ripped. We tapped something and bounced away in reaction, then hit it again more decisively. The Nash shuddered, but kept plowing forward at top speed until Escott hauled us to the right and we emerged from a narrow street to a larger one on two shrieking wheels. When the other two landed heavily on the pavement, I was nearly blasted into the backseat by the sudden acceleration.
Through the rear window I glimpsed the other car sideswipe a lamppost and not recover from the impact. It lurched and faltered, then swung out of sight as we took another quick turn, running like hell through a stop signal and ignoring the horn blasts of an outraged trucker. He missed broadsiding us by a cat’s whisker.
Escott’s teeth were showing and his eyes were wild as they darted from the rearview mirror to the front, to the sides, trying to cover everything at once as we tore along the early-morning streets. He wasn’t interested in using the brakes just yet. For that, he had my wholehearted support.
After the second red light he began to slow down to something like a normal speed. I pried my hands loose and watched them shake—hell, I was shaking all over after that—and asked if he was okay. He came out with one of those brief, one-syllable laughs that had nothing to do with his sense of humor.
“Did you know them?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “The driver was that rat-faced fellow who took my Webley last night.”
Chaven. I groaned inside. “Kyler thinks I bumped off the men he sent after me.”
“That would be a logical conclusion for him to draw. It appears that Miss Paco has not taken the opportunity to inform him of his error.”
“Goddammit, Charles, it came that close to killing you!”
“Yes,” he agreed, and that’s when I noticed the tremor in his hands as they worked the wheel and gears. His knuckles were white, the tendons taut. I faced around front and pretended not to notice. He was handling his fear in his own way and didn’t need me to point out the obvious.
“I should never have let myself get sidetracked,” I muttered.
“As if they gave you much choice in the matter. If you wish to put the blame for this incident upon anyone, let it be Kyler.”
“Incident?” But I canned the rest of it since he was right. Except for having all but the shit scared out of us, we were unharmed. If he wanted to reduce an attempted double murder down to the level of an “incident” that was his business. Mine, I knew, was to eliminate all possibility of it happening again. Bobbi, Escott, and even Gordy were far more valuable to me than bug-house bait like Kyler. Better him and his whole organization than my only real friends.
An unpleasant but necessary job.
A shudder crawled up my spine at that thought. The last time it had brushed through my brain, I’d been out of control. To kill the way I had killed, you had to go crazy for a while. My main fear was that once there, I might not be able to find my way back.
“The sun will be up soon,” Escott reminded me. “We cannot risk returning to the club.”
“And home and your office are out,” I concluded. “We have to find a bolt hole somewhere in this town that Kyler won’t look into.”
“Or even suspect. I think that might be arranged.”
“Can you arrange it before sunrise? If I have to I can hide out in the trunk of rhe car for the day, but …”
“Yes, I’ll see what I can do,” he promised, and we picked up speed again. Then he stared into the mirror and said, “Oh, bloody hell.”
“What?” I asked, looking out the back window with a fresh dose of alarm. If a simple “damn” was his reaction to a machine gun hit, “bloody hell” could only mean an earthquake was sneaking up on us.
Not quite, as it turned out. The car closing in had flashing roof lights and a siren.
“Can we lose him?” I asked, hoping he’d say yes.
Escott shook his head. “He’s in a radio car. If we run, he’ll only call in others to track us down. Perhaps we can reason with him.”
Translated: I would be the one to “reason” with him. Wonderful. “You sure about that? I wasn’t all that good at debate in school.”
“My dear fellow, this night has been quite busy enough for both of us. I, for one, have no wish to top things off by collecting a traffic citation.”
“Okay, okay.” This was only his way of saying that I owed him one.
Escott came to a gradual stop by a streetlight and gave the motor a rest. The cop pulled up behind us and got out cautiously, hand on his gun. Escott tried to roll down his window, but something was wrong with the mechanism. He gave up and opened the door instead, which made a terrible creaking, cracking noise that echoed off the nearby buildings. It almost sounded like a gunshot and startled all of us for a moment. Escott remained seated, doing a fair imitation of polite innocence. The cop looked him over carefully, and told him to come out. Escott complied.
“Is there a problem, officer?” he asked, using his blandest tone and most formal accent.
“Your license and registration,” he ordered. They attended to that ritual, then I was ordered out of the car to take my turn. “You two wanna tell me what happened here?” He gestured at the car.
Escott followed the gesture, all ready with a distracting story so I could move in for the dirty work, but he hauled up short. It was one of the few times in our association that I had ever seen him totally speechless. He couldn’t have not known that the car would be a mess, bur there’s a wide difference between knowing in your mind and seeing with your eyes.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he repeated, full of sincere anguish and anger.
The thick windows on his side were nearly opaque with chips and cracks where the bullets had struck; many of them were exactly level where his head had been. A fresh pattern of dimples, dents, and a long ugly scrape ran along the door panels. The paint job was a disaster, but the heavy steel glinting through it was still good for a few more miles and then some. About the only difference between his armored Nash and a tank were the headlights, wheels, and lack of mounted guns.
And if Charles Escott loved anything, he loved his car. This had left him stunned as few things would.
“Well?” The cop raised his voice to penetrate Escott’s shock. No reaction. The cop then looked to me for an answer. I had enough light to work with; I smiled and got his undivided attention.
Blithely unaware that he’d ever stopped, the cop drove away. We wasted no time taking another direc
tion until Escott spotted an open gas station and parked a little past it. He said something about a phone call and walked back to place it. I got out as well to work some of the stiffness from my tense muscles. I’d only given the cop straight inarguable suggestions—better than getting caught in the trap of deep hypnosis— but it was still disturbing for me. Walking around the car a few times and letting the icy air clean out my lungs helped ease things until Escott’s return.
He walked back quickly enough and I was glad to get going again. My imagination was working too well visualizing what could happen if we didn’t find a hole to pull in after us.
“I called the club and let Gordy know we wouldn’t be back tonight,” he said.
“You told him about the hit?”
“Yes, though he was not especially surprised. That machine gun made a devil of a row; they had no trouble hearing it.”
“What about Bobbi? Is she all right?”
“Miss Smythe is still sleeping soundly. No doubt her interior room muffled most of the noise.”
Between that, her club performance, and our lovemaking, it’d take more than a greeting card from a Thompson to wake her up. It was okay by me; I’d rather have her sleeping through the storm than worrying about us.
“Gordy and his men will remain on guard today. With this shift in the situation from a quiet kidnapping to an outright attack, he deems it to be the safest course of action. This presumes that you still mean to go through with—”
“I will,” I said shortly, interrupting before he could put it into words and bring it that much closer to being a reality. He caught the hint and dropped the subject without further comment.
“Now, as for our own shelter, I’ve set something up, but we must hurry. You’re running out of time.”
He was right about that. The sky was starting to lighten. Invisible to Escott, perhaps, but very noticeable to me.
We headed south and kept going. I was tempted to ask him where, but he was concentrating on street signs and it was in my own interest not to disturb him. He took us into a stark section of the city that was full of the kind of shadows that could out-wrestle even the noonday sun. I began to get my own general idea of what he’d planned, and as we traveled more deeply into the area, I breathed a sigh of relief.
He slowed as we approached a block full of aggressively drab buildings that only a bulldozer could have improved. Some broken windows were boarded up, others had been left to gape helplessly at the deserted street. We coasted to a silent stop and Escott flashed the headlights once, frowning with tension.
“There.” I pointed. “Is that it?”
Halfway down, the double doors to a decrepit and outwardly abandoned garage swung open, guided by two vague figures wearing overalls. One turned and waved us forward. Escott worked the gears and we quickly slipped into a cramped and greasy repair bay. Even as he cut the motor and lights, the tall doors closed, shutting us into a pitch black limbo.
“This is it,” he confirmed in the sudden quiet.
A flashlight came out of nowhere and blinded me as the man holding it checked first my face, then Escott’s. We must have passed because it swept down to the stained floor and we were told to get out. Escott did so without hesitation and I copied him. I didn’t know the man’s voice, but it sounded reasonably polite, and no one seemed to be pointing anything lethal in our direction.
We followed the flashlight beam through several tool-littered workrooms and a place that might have served as an office. It connected with a short bare hall that led directly to an outside door. Waiting in the narrow alley beyond was a newer version of the Nash we’d just left, minus the bullet scars. The back door opened for us and we piled in, leaving our escorts behind.
Two men were in the front seat; the tall one on the passenger side turned around and extended his hand.
“Charles, how the hell are you?” asked a rich voice, an actor’s trained voice that confirmed my earlier guess about Escott’s arrangements.
Escott’s white hand was engulfed in Shoe Coldfield’s black one for several seconds. “Better, now that you’re here, my friend. Thank you for coming.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it. How’re you doing, Fleming?”
I couldn’t help but grin as we shook hands in turn. “Just fine.”
“Not from what I hear. Isham, get this buggy moving,” he told the driver. The big heavy car did not roll from the alley so much as sail, like a graceful ship on a smooth sea. We glided down the streets, hardly making a sound.
I figured Escott to be the likely source of Coldfield’s news. “What have you heard?”
“That Vaughn Kyler’s looking to turn both of you into fish food the first chance he gets. Talk about grabbing a tiger by the tail. How did you manage to catch on to this one?” he asked Escott.
“It wasn’t all that easy…,” he began, and gave Coldfield a summary of most of the fun and games.
Coldfield rubbed a thumbnail against the carefully trimmed beard edging his jaw. “Shit. In a way this is almost my doing. If I hadn’t recommended you to Griff—”
“Someone else with fewer advantages working for them would undoubtedly be feeding the aforementioned fish.”
“Let’s hope they keep going hungry. And now Angela Paco mixed herself into things, huh? I knew old Frankie had a daughter, but I didn’t know she was looking to take over the family business. Sounds like she’s making a good job of it, too.”
“If you were unaware of that, then it’s unlikely for Kyler to suspect her involvement, hence his misdirected attack on us.”
“That’s what it looks like. You sure you’re okay, both of you?”
Escott nodded. “We’re only a trifle shaken, but my poor car is in fearful need of repair.”
Coldfield laughed briefly. “As long as it did the job. That thing’s the best investment you ever made and I’m glad I talked you into getting it.”
“As am I,” Escott agreed with humble sincerity. “Are we going to the Shoebox?” he asked, referring to Coldfield’s night-club in the heart of Chicago’s “Bronze Belt.”
“Not private enough. Kyler’s going to have everyone but mediums working for him to find out what happened to you two, but I’ve got a spot that should be all right.”
“But will you be safe as well?”
“Safe as I ever am,” he replied. I got the impression that Escott wasn’t all that reassured. “How long you need it for?”
“For the day at least,” I said. “I don’t want to make any moves until nightfall.”
“And then what are you planning?”
My voice was thick. “Then I’ll take care of Kyler.”
A lot of obvious questions crossed Coldfield’s face, but never came out. He glanced at Escott, who simply nodded.
Even through the extra thick windows, I could sense the oncoming light. I hoped that our destination was close by or Escott would have an apparent corpse on his hands to explain away when the sun came up.
We had all of five minutes to spare when the driver brought us to a gentle stop in another alley, next to another anonymous door. Coldfield got out first to deal with the lock, then hustled us inside. I reveled in the soothing darkness there, but still felt the approach of day creeping into my bones.
Coldfield led us upstairs. The place was old and could have been designed for anything: an office, a hotel, or apartments of some sort. Perhaps he used it for all three at one time or another, but not recently. The air was cold and stale and our shoes left revealing tracks in forgotten grit on the steps. And it was quiet. I listened hard when we paused on the landing and heard no one and nothing else moving within the building.
Our host noticed and approved of my caution. “I tell you two, the lines between black and white are pretty solid in this town, each on his own side and neither caring much about the other except during elections. I know plenty of people who wouldn’t mind seeing you white guys kill each other off and be glad to help things along, so you keep your heads
low—and I’m talking about down to the ground. This place is just between us and Isham downstairs and he won’t talk, but you don’t want to take any chances.”
“Words to live by,” I said. “What is this place, anyway?”
“A private way station for people in trouble.”
He ushered us through the first door on the right and turned on a lamp. We stood in a small, windowless room, containing four ancient folding cots, an oil heater, a pile of dusty magazines, and a lonely old telephone. Though we were out of the wind, it seemed colder in here than in the street. Coldfield lighted the heater right away to start taking the edge off the worst of it.
Always fastidious about himself and his surroundings, Escott favored the stark place with one of his rare smiles. “This is quire an improvement over those rooms we shared at Ludbury.”
“Good God, yes,” agreed Coldfield.
“Ludbury?” I asked.
“A railroad town in Ontario,” he explained. “The noisiest, smelliest, coldest pit we ever had the rotten luck to fall into. The pulp mills were bad enough, but add on the creosote and sulfuric acid plants and you could choke to death if the wind started blowing the wrong way. It was full of workers and miners, every one of them tougher than the next, uglier than most, and itching to prove it come Saturday night.”
“What were you doing there?”
”King Lear.”
“It went over surprisingly well, as I recall,” Escott put in brightly.
“Oh, yeah, they just loved the scene where Cornwall is tearing out Cloucester’s eyes. They wanted an encore to that one. Maybe this kind of work is one hell of a lot safer.”
“You may be certain of it, old man.” Escott warmed his hands in front of the heater, flexing his long fingers. They were no longer shaking. “(liven those circumstances, I would think twice about taking up acting again. An audience like that one would have convinced the most rigid Fundamentalist that Darwin had, indeed, some insights about our origins.”