The naked hatred in her face was an unpleasant sight. She was positively radiating contempt and rage at me. It was like looking right into an ultraviolet lamp.
I saw what had happened. Elena had despaired of ever getting any help from me, so, when Chavez appeared on the scene, she had gone to him with the same offer she had made to me. I wondered if she had been the “chick” Chavez had been expecting on Sunday night.
Probably she was. And if she had offered Chavez the same pay-in-advance scheme that she had offered me, why, that meant—
I scowled. Suddenly I hated Chavez as hard as I could hate a man.
He had taken advantage of her, nine chances out of ten. And then he had set up the ambush deal at the Casablanca, figuring that while Klaus and Litwhiler massacred each other out there he would quietly slip out here, guided by Elena, and abscond with the engraver, the plates, and—maybe—Elena herself.
A smart cookie, that Chavez. Why settle for a simple old doublecross if you can work a triplecross as well? The way he saw it, it was a good chance of dumping both Klaus and me—with Hammell’s gang already frozen out of the scene—and setting up in business for himself using the talents of old Szekely.
Chavez said, “I’m warning you, Manners. Let go of the old man.”
I squinted down the barrel of Chavez’ gun and said, “You wouldn’t risk shooting at me with him right here, would you?”
“I’m a crack shot, Manners. I’d risk it. And I’d nail you.”
“You’re bragging, man. You’re just showing off for your girlfriend. But she won’t like it if you kill her father by mistake.”
His tan face showed pale, now. He hovered indecisively, and while he hovered I casually drew my hand out of my pocket.
I showed him the gun.
“You see this?” I asked him. “I’ve got one, too. And I’ll use it. Get away from the door or I’ll shoot the old man. He won’t be any good to you or me if he’s dead, Chavez. But if I can’t have him, nobody will.”
Elena’s eyes were incredible, now. Cat-slits of fury and contempt. There was no little-girl innocence about her, now. I knew she would gladly have ripped my eyeballs out if I came within reach.
I nudged the old man. “Let’s go,” I said.
We took a step forward. Chavez’ lips worked silently. I kept the gun angled up so it aimed right into old Szekely’s right ear. Even if Chavez fired, I would automatically discharge a shot no matter where I was hit—and Chavez knew it. He was stymied. If he killed me, I’d kill the old man—and he’d end up with nothing but useless corpses.
Another step.
Another.
I was almost in the middle of the floor, now. Chavez and Elena still hadn’t moved away from the door. I gestured with a quick toss of my head.
“Get over there,” I said. “Over by the bookcase, both of you. You’re in my way.”
Chavez didn’t move.
I said, “Don’t make trouble, man. You know you’re stuck. Let’s not have any needless fireworks around here. Just get yourself where I tell you to stand, and the old man will stay healthy.”
“Manners, when I catch up with you I’m going to give you the works. We’ll take you out into the desert and work you over inch by inch, and then—”
“Skip the details,” I said. “You’re wasting my time. Get over there.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Don’t be a wise guy, Chavez.”
He smirked obnoxiously. Leaning against the door frame, he said, “And suppose I just stand right here, smart boy? What are you going to do then?”
I scowled at him. “I’m going to count to ten,” I said quietly. “If you’re not out of my way and standing by the bookcase by the time I count ten, I’m going to kill the old man. You hear me, Chavez? I’ll kill him. And the next bullet will be for you.”
“You talk big, man.”
“One,” I said. “Two. Three.”
Chavez looked uneasy. But he didn’t move. He just stood there in the doorway, right in front of me, a gun in his hand, a cold smile on his face.
“Four. Five.”
He wasn’t budging. I felt a chilly trickle of sweat running down my side. Don’t call my bluff, Chavez, I prayed desperately. Don’t test me, you filthy scum. Please don’t. Because then maybe one of us will have to die—or maybe more than one.
I cleared my throat.
“Six. Seven.”
The corner of Chavez’ mouth began to twitch. Next to him, Elena’s face grew very pale. I kept the gun aimed right at the old man’s head. He didn’t seem to have any idea of what was going on, though the sight of all these guns had left him shaking like a poplar leaf out in the wind.
“Eight.”
And Elena snapped out of her trance. She plucked at Chavez’ sleeve and whispered urgently, “Please. Please do as he says. He is insane. He will kill my father. Oh, please do as he says!”
“Nine.”
Chavez was weakening. His face was glossy with sweat, now. I was just drawing my tongue to the roof of my mouth to say ten, when he shook his head and grunted, “All right, Manners. You win this round.”
He stepped quickly aside, going with Elena to the bookcase to the left of the door. Elena glared at me and said something low and virulent-sounding in Hungarian. I couldn’t understand a syllable of it, but I was willing to bet it wasn’t the sort of language a young lady of Budapest was supposed to know.
Swinging around to face them, and shifting the gun so I was covering Chavez instead of the old man, I backed out the door, practically dragging Szekely every inch of the way. I kicked the door shut. Then—still in reverse gear, holding the engraver in front of me in case Chavez got the bright idea of taking a potshot at me from the window—I backed down the front walkway and edged toward my car.
Getting Szekely inside was a complicated maneuver. I had to grope for the handle without taking my eyes off the house. I got the door open and nudged him inside. He collapsed limply on the seat. Then, scooting around the car, I slipped behind the wheel and got the car going. It picked up beautifully with a great throbbing hum of power. Szekely moaned limply and squirrelled down on the seat. Just as well, I thought. This way he’d be out of the line of fire in case Chavez pursued me.
The car pulled away.
Everything was set, now. Klaus and Litwhiler busy with each other at the roadhouse; plates and engraver safe in my car; Chavez left behind. The jaws of the trap had closed neatly.
Except for Elena.
She had messed things up slightly. I had failed to warn her of what I was up to—and she had rung Chavez in on me. Well, no helping that now. I tromped down on the accelerator. I had to get the old man to a police station and slip away without being noticed myself. In the morning, the Treasury men could claim the plates, confiscate the remaining supply of queer, and generally mop up the situation, with me well off the scene.
I had gone a little more than a block when I saw the car pursuing me. Chavez’ car.
It was a rented Cadillac, just like mine except for the color. I could make out two forms in the front seat of the car. So he had brought Elena with him, the idiot.
A red light winked on in front of me. I hit the gas and shot right through it. Chavez did the same when he came to it. I had the speed up to fifty, now, which was about all I dared to go on narrow suburban streets, even at half past four in the morning. But Chavez was doing sixty. He was nibbling down the gap between us. And it’s a lot easier to shoot ahead than behind when you’re in a moving car.
I heard a pinging sound—a bullet striking the rear of the car square between the tailfins and plowing through the trunk to come to a halt harmlessly against the back seat. I glanced into the rear-view mirror and saw Chavez leaning out his window, about to take another crack at me.
I nudged the wheel. The car cut sharply to the right. And a good thing, too, because I heard the zing of a bullet going through the air just to the left of the car.
Only a madman or a
Californian would get into a running gun battle with helpless passengers in the cars. Chavez was a Californian, if not a madman. I pushed down on the accelerator, rammed the car up to seventy, and hoped for the best.
SEVENTEEN
It was a one-sided battle. I couldn’t just lean over the side and take a potshot at Chavez with the car racing full tilt down a city street. All I could do was drive straight on.
I did. I had the not unreasonable hope that our antics would draw the attention of the police, who would head us off in motorcycles. Once we were all safely in custody, I’d be able to explain things, have Chavez put away, the Szekelys freed—
Only the Philadelphia police force, bless them all, was otherwise occupied this time. I roared down one street and up the next, Chavez hugging right along half a block behind me and popping off a shot every time he had a clear view, and nary a cop appeared.
I was sweating furiously. A bullet whined through the back window, continued on a wobbly course through the car, and passed to my right and out through the windshield.
There were two holes in the windshield now, the other one having been made by Litwhiler’s thug an hour or so earlier, and a cold, fine stream of air whistled in. I was keeping count of Chavez’ shots. That was the fifth one. Maybe he had a second gun, though. Or maybe he could get Elena to reload for him. With her background as a revolutionist, she probably would be able to cope with the job.
I kept turning street corners on a dime, thanking the auto industry for power steering and hoping that maybe at the high speeds we were going Chavez might shoot past without making the turn. No such luck. He drove like a devil, clinging right on my tail. Old Szekely was half-conscious, making small moaning sounds of terror.
The neighborhood was changing, now. We were out of the middle-income suburb where the Szekelys had been kept prisoner, and had now entered a much older section of town, where old brownstone houses were clumped together, only one design per block. Each block has a different style house, but there’s that horrible uniformity all the way down the row, making you wonder if each house has the same people living in it.
I sped down one block, up another, trying to lose Chavez, just stalling for time until the police came after us and put an end to the wild chase.
And finally I did it. The neighborhood was a maze of identical streets, and I shot down one, made a right turn at the corner, took a left at the next block, and swung up on a diagonal back the way I came, only to see the reflection of Chavez’ car zooming past the intersection without taking the turn.
Chavez was going to be sore at himself. By the time he got disentangled from the maze, I would be far across town—I hoped. What I wanted now was a police station. I cruised down a likely looking avenue in a hurry, but without finding either police or a station. The old man was in a bad way, whimpering like a frightened baby. I told him consolingly that everything was going to be all right, but he didn’t seem to understand.
Only in Philadelphia is it possible to drive around for twenty minutes without seeing a living soul. The dashboard clock said five in the morning now. And I had yet to see anyone—not another car, not a policeman, not even a pedestrian.
I kept going down the avenue, looking at both sides of the street as well as watching the rear-view mirror in case Chavez was able to get back on the trail. And finally I found the precinct house I was looking for. I heaved a long sigh of relief.
“End of the trail,” I said to the old man. “I’m going to turn you over to the police, now. They’ll take care of you. Nobody will ever threaten you again.”
He kept up the moaning. I pulled the car up in front of the police station and started to get out. And Chavez appeared.
It had been just luck that I had lost him, a dozen intersections back. Now luck had dealt him the extra aces. He came shooting out of a side street, saw me, and came to a squeaking halt. I ducked down behind the fender of the car, thinking, Here we go again. I was getting tired of duels in the street.
Chavez opened fire. He blasted away twice—telling me that he had reloaded or had an extra gun—and I heard Elena cry out to him, “Do not hit my father!”
Even in Philadelphia, you can’t have a gun battle in front of a police station without getting some results. I took a quick glance behind me and saw lights going on in the precinct house. In another moment the street would be full of cops.
I saw Chavez, out of his car now, snaking around the rear for a clear shot at me.
I gave it to him. Free of charge.
I stood up and let him have his shot, and in the same instant I fired.
This round was mine.
His shot crashed into the trunk of the car. Mine took his head apart. When they train you, they tell you to aim for the body, never for the head—it’s a bigger target. But all I had had to go for was his face. I hit it square on, and the slug ripped right on through and took the back of his head off, and he dropped without a sound. The next second, Elena’s voice went up, a high, banshee-style wail of astonishing volume.
I didn’t wait around to shake hands with the police and accept their congratulations for a job well done. As the gentlemen of the law made their belated arrival on the scene, I softly and silently vanished away, leaving them to confront one corpse, one hysterical girl, one semi-conscious old man, and two rented cars, one of which was full of interesting tidbits like perfect plates for ten-dollar bills.
I fled down the silent street, rounded the corner, ducked into an alleyway that went three-quarters of the way through the block, and cut sharply down the foul-smelling exit into a different street. This one was a good-sized avenue, the main drag of this particular section of town. It was just as dead as the side streets, except for a light on the next corner. Hallelujah. An all-night coffee shop.
My pulse was going triple time as I lunged across the street and into the doughnut dispensary. A truck driver was slouched over an omelet; the short-order cook, who was a young Puerto Rican with a hairline mustache, looked at me uncertainly—at five in the morning you never know who’s going to come barging into your place—and said, “Yes, please?”
“A cup of coffee and a lettuce-and-tomato sandwich,” I said. “I’ll be needing your phone for a minute, too.”
He waved me to the booth. I closed the door, dropped a dime in, dialed a cab service. The phone rang a dozen times before someone picked up. I said I wanted a cab, and gave my address.
“It’ll be fifteen minutes to half an hour,” I was told.
“I’ll be waiting,” I said, and hung up.
I dropped another dime in the slot and dialed for the operator.
“I want to call Washington, D.C.,” I said. “Collect.” I gave her the number. I waited a few minutes. Then I heard the operator say, “Long distance calling. We have a collect call from Mr. Victor Lowney, in Philadelphia. Will you accept the charges?”
“Yes,” the deep voice answered. “Hello, Lowney.”
I didn’t apologize for waking him up. It’s part of his job to be on call twenty-four hours a day at minimum. I said, “Everything’s wrapped up here.”
“Good deal.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic. In my line, they don’t pat you on the back just for doing your job the way they expect you to.
“Couple of details have to be touched up,” I said. “You’ll have to handle them.”
“Go ahead.”
“Klaus was involved in a gun battle just outside town about two hours ago,” I said. “I left before it was over. He may be dead or perhaps he’s in custody. You’ll have to check with the locals in the morning.”
“Right. What else?”
“The engraver. He’s an old Hungarian named Szekely. I got him away from Klaus and dumped him in front of a precinct house, along with plates and other evidence.” I gave him the address of the precinct house. “I also killed Ricky Chavez in the process of delivering the engraver to the cops.”
“Chavez? How’d he get into this?”
“Tell you about it t
omorrow,” I said. “I’ll be in Washington for breakfast. Meantime you phone up that precinct and tell them what they’ve got. You better tell them not to bother looking for Chavez’ killer, either.”
“I got you.”
“Be seeing you,” I said, and hung up.
My sandwich and coffee waited for me on the counter. The truck driver was gone; the short-order man hunched down sleepily and began to read a comic book.
I wolfed down the sandwich. “Slow night, huh?” I asked.
He looked up. “They are always slow. These are long hours, before dawn. Nothing ever happens.”
I grinned. “Nope. Nothing ever happens.”
Finishing the sandwich, I gulped down the coffee and left a bill on the counter. I walked out. The counterman was busy with his comic book.
I waited five minutes on the corner, amid absolute silence. Then a taxi pulled up, and the cabbie stuck his head out.
“You the fellow who phoned for a cab?”
“Yep.”
“Where to?”
“Airport,” I said.
We made the trip in silence. I leaned back in the cab, letting the tension drain out of me. It had been a long night. I was bone-tired. When I got to Washington, I figured I’d file my report and disappear somewhere for a week’s sleep before taking my next assignment.
By quarter of six, we were at the airport. Out here, there were some signs of life. I checked in, making sure my baggage had reached its destination. Then I cooled my heels in the waiting room for what seemed like three years. At half past six—by that time the airport was almost crowded—came the announcement: “Flight 113 for Washington D.C., now boarding at Gate Seventeen. Flight 113 for Washington D.C.—”
I walked out onto the field. Dawn was just breaking over Philadelphia. The sky was gray, with faint streaks of pink near the horizon.
I wasn’t sorry to leave the City of Brotherly Love. Not one little bit.
The plane was airborne precisely at 7:05, and a full house, too—businessmen mostly, with early appointments in the capital. It isn’t much more than a hundred miles by air from Philadelphia to Washington, and by the time the stewardess had finished serving everyone their complimentary coffee and rolls, we were fastening our seatbelts and dipping down for the landing.
Blood on the Mink Page 11
