The Rain

by Andrew Peterson

  “Thanks,” he said again, “now shut the fuck up before I kick your teeth down your throat.”

  I nodded. But I did not shut up. I kept talking, stalling. “So this is Maldonado’s campaign strategy. You beat her up, get the pictures. Abingdon withdraws. Maldonado becomes senator. Very nice.”

  “Now, now, now,” he warned me gently. “Don’t forget those teeth.”

  “Mr. Maldonado goes to Washington. Downright patriotic.”

  This time, Marino smiled with both sides of his mouth. “You’re going to be dead soon, Wells,” he said.

  “After you, Alphonse.”

  He stopped smiling. He considered me. I got the feeling he was measuring me for a shroud.

  After a moment, he reached inside his navy blue jacket. He pulled out a gold cigarette case and popped it open. He took out a long smoke with a gold band under the filter. He laid it gently in his mouth. He lit it tenderly with a golden lighter.

  He turned back to Georgia.

  As he put the case and the lighter back in his jacket, he gestured at Frankenstein with his chin. This time, as the monster grabbed hold of Georgia’s hair with one hand, he caught hold of the front of her blouse with the other. He ripped the cloth with one swift, brutal movement. She screamed and bucked forward in the chair. He tore the blouse away, exposing her bra.

  “Please,” she managed to say.

  He tore the bra off with a swipe of his big hands.

  Marino pulled on his fancy cigarette. He made the tip of it glow. He pulled it from his mouth and studied the glowing tip.

  “Oh God please,” Georgia said. She crossed her hands desperately over her breasts. “I don’t have it, I don’t have it, I swear to God, I never had them, never, never, I don’t know where they are, I swear I swear …” She kept on babbling while Marino turned the cigarette in his hand, studying this angle of the tip and that one. Then he laid it down carefully in an ashtray that sat on the corner of the desk between us.

  “You have pretty tits,” he said.

  “Oh please, oh God,” said Georgia.

  “In thirty seconds I’m going to burn out the centers of them.”

  Hairlip chuckled at his place against the wall.

  “First one of them,” said Marino, “then the other.”

  Georgia’s mouth moved. Saliva clung to the lips. Tears poured down her cheeks. No words came out anymore.

  “For Christ’s sake, Marino,” I said.

  “Shut up, Wells,” he said dreamily.

  “Look at her, for Christ’s sake. If she had the pictures, she’d tell you. Look at her.”

  He was looking at her. He gazed on her lovingly as she shook and covered herself and cried. A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. He was dreaming of how it would be.

  “Twenty seconds,” he said. He was hoarse now. “Where are the pictures, Georgia?”

  “I don’t …” Georgia managed.

  “Marino, you bastard …” I said.

  “He said shut up,” said the Harelip. He didn’t even look at me. He, too, was staring at the girl.

  Marino waited, watching. “Fifteen seconds,” he said. “Where are the pictures?”

  Georgia cried and cried.

  “Ten,” said Marino. Without removing his gaze from the girl, he reached for the cigarette. His fingers touched the ashtray. They felt around the edges. They didn’t find the butt. Marino glanced down. He saw the ashtray was empty. He glanced up, at me.

  I blew a lungful of smoke at him.

  “My brand, too,” I said.

  He smiled down at me. It was a look of wonder. He chuckled. “That cigarette is going to be very bad for your health,” he said.

  “Fuck you, Marino.” I crushed the cigarette out. He watched me do it. I stood up. Harelip came off the wall. I didn’t even look at him. I planted myself in front of Marino with my back to Frankenstein and Georgia. I pointed a finger at the thug’s chest. “I’ve had enough of this shit,” I said. “You’re not burning anyone. The fun’s over.” I lowered the finger I was pointing and put the hand in my pocket. I didn’t want him to see how badly it was shaking. My voice was shaking, too. I had to talk fast to cover it. “Your jackass kicked me around pretty good tonight, but I’m going to overlook that because I’m a nice guy. I’m afraid I have to be a little bit more severe about the girl. You can’t slap her anymore, and burning her with cigarettes is strictly taboo. If you do, I’ll just have to report the matter to the newspaper-reading public.”

  Marino just stared at me. He could not speak. I pushed on.

  “And when I report it, Mr. Marino, you know what that means? It means Maldonado has no more chance of making it to the U.S. Senate than Palookaville has of winning the Triple Crown. And should that become the case, a certain Mr. Dellacroce, believed in law enforcement circles to be the leading luminary of the Dellacroce crime family, is going to be very, very perturbed. Somebody’s going to pay for it, pal, and it won’t be me.”

  Marino’s cruel lips parted. I was rolling again before he got a word in.

  “Oh sure,” I said. “I know what you’re thinking.” I almost took my hand out of my pocket, but the minute it released its death grip on the flannel, it began quaking like Los Angeles on a bad day. I grabbed hold again and kept it there. “You’re thinking: Well, hell, if I just kill this guy, then I won’t have to worry about his writing this sordid little story on the front page for all to see. But you’re wrong there, Marino. You’re dead wrong. And I’ll tell you why you’re dead wrong. Sure I will.” I felt almost certain there was a reason. I just had to come up with it. I said: “Sure I’ll tell you why you’re dead wrong. You’re dead wrong because if you kill me, every reporter in this town’ll be after you and in a couple of other towns besides. They won’t need to get all the facts either. Even their worst guesses will put an end to Maldonado’s Senate bid. Sure. So just let the girl go, pal, and maybe I’ll be good to you and forget the whole thing.”

  “Kill him,” Marino said.

  Harelip pulled out his automatic. Marino glanced at him.

  “Do it in the stairwell,” he said.

  Hairlip stepped across the room. He lifted the automatic and placed the bore to my forehead. It felt cold.

  “Let’s go out to the stairwell,” he said.

  “Good-bye, Wells,” said Marino.

  I turned around and started for the door. As I stepped out of the office, I heard a clicking noise and glanced back. Marino had taken out his gold cigarette case again. He was looking at Georgia again. She was staring after me in wide-eyed horror. Then her attention was drawn away by the voice of Marino.

  “Now,” he murmured, “as I was saying …”

  15

  Harelip was good. He knew what he was doing. He stayed right behind me with the fingers of his left hand pressed lightly between my shoulder blades. The other hand, the hand with the gun in it, he kept back, close to his body. That way, he could march me along briskly, but keep me from swinging around and knocking the weapon loose.

  We came out of the office into a dark reception area. Harelip hurried me through. We turned a corner. We came to a wooden door. I tried reaching for the knob.

  “Ey!” said Harelip. I dropped my hand to my side.

  Now, he placed the barrel of the gun firmly in the small of my back. His left hand came around me and pulled the door open. With the gun pressed tight against me and his left arm surrounding me, I couldn’t turn or move quickly. I couldn’t get any leverage on him. He shoved me through the door.

  We entered the foyer, where the elevators were. A ceiling fluorescent fluttered dully, lighting about fifteen yards of floor. Dirty linoleum, big black-and-white squares like a checkerboard. At the other end of those fifteen yards was the heavy metal door that led to the stairwell. I looked at it, and my breathing got short. A bolt of electric fear went through me. It did not seem very far to that door at all. It didn’t seem like there was much time to think of a way out of this. It didn’t seem like
there was a way out of this. Nothing to do but march quietly to my place of execution.

  We started walking toward the door.

  I tried to break his concentration. Get him talking.

  “Let me ask you something,” I said. My voice was high and breathy: I was that afraid.

  Harelip said nothing. He marched me forward, step by step.

  “How did you guys really find the girl? You couldn’t have followed me. You couldn’t have known I’d look for her.”

  Harelip said nothing. We were ten yards from the door. I began to imagine my body on the other side of it—as if we’d open the door and find it lying there.

  “Maybe it was Kendrick. Maybe he told you before you killed him,” I said. “Sure. Marino took him out for pimping in his territory, and Kendrick tried to buy him off with the pictures. But then you’d have the photos already, wouldn’t you?”

  Harelip said nothing. Step by step. Five yards.

  “But it was Kendrick, wasn’t it?” I said. “He had a big mouth. Hung out in your circles. He must have just spread the word around too far.”

  Harelip said nothing. He kept his fingers to my back, he kept the gun to his body, out of my reach. He marched me across the last yards to the stairwell door.

  Once again, he planted the automatic in my kidney. He reached around me and grasped the knob. It was the same move he’d made before, as we came into the foyer. Only this time, I knew it was coming. This time, as he moved, I moved too.

  It was that one second when he shifted his balance. I figured I had time for one motion then. I reached across myself with my right hand and grabbed his outstretched wrist while, at the same instant, I shot my left elbow back, knocking his gun hand wide.

  I kept coming around until I was facing him. Then I let go of his wrist and jabbed my fingers into his eye.

  I hit him solid. I felt the aspic of the eyeball give under my fingertips. Harelip gave one short, choked, high-pitched shriek. He fell back from me with one hand to his face as the other waved the automatic wildly in the air. I stepped forward and drove my fist hard into his gut.

  This time, his scream was deep and it came from deep in his throat. He deflated, slowly, bending forward, sinking down. The automatic dropped to the floor. So did the gunman.

  I stooped and recovered the automatic. I went inside Harelip’s coat and got the revolver, too. I straightened up. Harelip lay on his side, clutching his belly. He was staring straight ahead, right at my ankles. He was staring kind of stupidly, but he was still conscious. I didn’t like that. I kicked him in the face.

  That put his lights out. He rolled over from the force of the blow. His eyelids stayed up but only white was showing in there now.

  I looked down at the gun in my hand. I’m not very good with guns. I don’t need them much in my line of work and frankly they scare the bejesus out of me. But it would have been easy just then to point this one at the bleeding thug and pull the trigger. At least, I thought it would be easy.

  But I didn’t try it. I turned away from him and started back across the foyer. I went quickly, the gun out in front of me, through the door, through the reception area, back to the office where Georgia was. I pushed the door in and went in after it.

  I had a moment, before they reacted, to catch the tableau. The monster-man was still in back of Georgia. He had his hand cupped under her chin and was dragging her head backward. He had both her hands behind her back and was keeping them pinned there, with both her wrists gripped tight in one of his paws. So he had the front of her completely exposed to Marino. And Marino was stepping forward with that cigarette of his.

  I pointed the automatic at the monster’s kneecap. My hand shook badly. I’d never shot anyone before. It isn’t easy, it turns out.

  But I pulled the trigger. The gun jolted in my hand. A wind seemed to blow the side of the monster’s trousers up around his thigh. The next thing I knew, he was letting out a kind of gurgling roar and falling to the ground with a thud that made the whole room shake.

  I turned the gun on Marino.

  “And I’m not even angry yet,” I said.

  He seemed convinced. He put his hands up in the air just like in the movies. He didn’t say a word. He just watched as I walked over to Georgia, grabbed her by the upper arm and lifted her out of the chair.

  I pulled her close to my side. I glanced down at Frankenstein. He was still writhing and grimacing in his pain. But now his hand had started moving toward his jacket.

  I kept the gun on Marino.

  “He’s not quick enough,” I lied.

  Marino glanced at the monster nervously. “Okay. Forget it,” he said.

  The monster let his hand return to his shattered leg. His pants were covered with blood now. He lay on the floor, grunting. He pointed that big square head of his straight at me. He stared at me dully with his enormous eyes. I got the distinct impression he was memorizing my face.

  I backed toward the door, taking Georgia with me. She was still making small noises deep in her throat. She was staring around like a frightened animal. I’m not even sure she knew where she was.

  I kept moving until my back touched the door. I stopped and looked Marino in the eye. He smiled at me.

  Softly, he said: “How long do you think …?”

  “Shut up,” I said. There was no way to hide the shaking in my voice now. “Shut up and listen, you piece of shit. I’m taking the lady and getting out of here. If you want me, I’ll be at the Star. I’ll be at my desk writing all this down, everything I saw here tonight. It ought to be in Saturday’s editions. Front page. So if anything happens to the girl, you’ll be the first one they’ll come for. Count on that, Marino. Because I’ll make sure of it.”

  He didn’t answer. He seemed to be thinking. Maybe he was thinking about Dellacroce reading Saturday’s paper. Or about Dellacroce losing his Senate candidate. Or about Alphonse Marino losing his job, the mobster way.

  I let go of Georgia. She swayed for a moment so that I thought she’d go over. Then she steadied herself. I reached back and got the doorknob. I edged the door open and gestured her out with my head.

  I faced Marino one last time. “Remember, Alphonse, anything happens to her, the Star’ll hang you.” I started backing out the door. “Anything happens to me,” I said, “and there’ll be a nasty little editorial besides.”

  And I was out of there.

  16

  Harelip was starting to stir when we came out into the foyer. I kept an eye on him as we waited for the elevator. I kept one hand on the girl and one hand on the gun until we were inside the box, and the doors had slid closed.

  Then I let Georgia go. She stood in the corner, her face pressed against the elevator’s cold metal. She was hugging her shoulders, her arms crossed over her naked breasts. She did not make a noise.

  I leaned back against the wall. My sore, bleeding face broke into a sweat all over. I stared at the doors in front of me. My mouth hung open. I breathed through it. I kept thinking about the cracking sound the gun had made when I’d fired it. I kept seeing the wind blow Frankenstein’s trousers. I kept feeling the jolt of the automatic in my hand. It wasn’t pleasant. I began to feel nauseous.

  The elevator went down. I rolled my head to look at Georgia in the corner. She continued to cower there.

  “Well,” I said, “that’s the power of the press for you.”

  I heard her make a noise. A laugh, it sounded like. That seemed to bust the dam. She hit the wall with her fist and cried out, “Oh!” Then she started sobbing. The sound was very loud and full of anguish. She hit the wall with her fist again and again as she sobbed.

  The elevator touched down. I tensed, waiting for the door to open. Maybe some of them were out there. Maybe they were waiting for us, just standing out there with their guns already aimed at the door. Georgia just kept pounding the wall. She used her open palm now. She kept sobbing.

  The doors opened. There was no one out there. Georgia kept slapping the wall an
d sobbing.

  “Come on,” I said.

  I took her by the arm. I drew her to me. I put my arm around her shoulders. Her flesh felt warm under my palm. Her breasts felt soft against my side.

  I kept the automatic in front of me. I followed it out of the elevator, across the lobby, through the front doors, into the night. The heat was still out there. It was dangling there, sodden, like a wet blanket on a laundry line. When I looked up and down the street, I could see the haze of it. The shimmer in the lamplight, the halo of humidity. I was already covered with sweat, but I started sweating all over again as we crossed the broad avenue. I kept looking left and right at the deserted pavement. White litter motionless on the blacktop. The midtown skyline rising up at the end of a corridor of stone.

  Georgia kept sobbing. She was still sobbing when I put her in the car. When I walked around to the driver’s side, I had to let myself in. She just sat there with her arms crossed in front of her, with her chin on her chest, sobbing.

  I got in. I turned on the ignition, the lights. I flipped it into gear.

  Georgia swung around to me. Her hair lashed her face as she turned. Her cheeks were blotchy, her mouth was twisted, her eyes were hot. “Those … bastards!” she cried. “Those bastards!”

  I pulled away from the curb. I swung the car around. I tore up the avenue. I did not stop at the lights.

  I reached out and flipped open the dash as I drove. I stashed the automatic in there. I hooked the revolver out of my pocket and put that in there, too. I was an arsenal. I couldn’t wait to get rid of the things.

  I turned on the air conditioner. I sighed as the first hot blast turned cool.

  “I want … I want to kill them,” said Georgia with a throaty growl. “I wish I could kill them.”

  Now there was traffic around me. We were approaching St. Mark’s Place. There were people on the street. There were kids with long hair and dyed hair and no hair at all loping up and down the sidewalk to their own rhythm and bop. A light turned red ahead of me. I slowed to a stop. I slid out of my jacket. I pushed it at her.