A Diet of Treacle

by Lawrence Block

  They stopped twice on the way. They had hotdogs in Lodi and hamburgers in Ashtabula. Joe drove all the way until they were in Cleveland. He found a place to leave the car and they looked for a hotel. They found one at 13th and Paine. It bore a startling resemblance to the one they had occupied in Buffalo. Again they paid in advance. Again the room was a mess. Joe was tired from the drive and went to sleep at once. Anita stayed with Joe while Shank went out to find a beanery for a meal. On the way he stopped at a newsstand selling out-of-town papers, where he bought a copy of the New York Times.

  It carried the story.

  The cops knew too much. They had determined that two men and a girl had been involved in the murder. They had descriptions of Shank and Joe. They had lifted fingerprints from the apartment. They had one name—Shank Marsten. They did not have Joe’s name, or at least it had not been released by the newspapers so far.

  The police further figured the trio had left town; consequently, a state-wide alarm was out. There was a report the three had showed in Buffalo. Shank read that part and cursed quietly and methodically. He wondered how the cops had ascertained that. He wondered how much else they knew.

  Shank ordered a chopped steak with home fries and a cup of coffee. The meat was good, the potatoes a little greasy, the coffee weak. He ate everything on his plate and drank two cups of coffee.

  He tipped the waitress. He gave her a smile and she returned it. She was a pretty girl. Light red hair. And a good pair the white uniform could not hide. A nice rear end. He wondered if he could make a pass at her. He decided not to, even though she looked as if she would be fun in the sack. Too risky.

  He smiled again and she gave him back such a good, wide, toothy smile he knew she would be flat on her back the minute he asked her. He wondered what she would say if she would find out he was a vicious killer. That was what the papers called him. A vicious killer. The waitress would be scared green.

  “I get off at one,” she told him.

  “I’ll be back,” he said. Let her think so if she wanted to, Shank thought. Let her wait—for a vicious killer. He left the beanery and wandered back to the hotel. A vicious killer, he chuckled to himself. He remembered how it had felt, killing the cop. A strange feeling. Equal parts of power and emptiness. A funny sensation.

  Now the trio was running. Running fast and running scared. In a day or so the cops would know about the car. It would have to be ditched, Shank knew. Maybe trade it in for another one. Where would they get the money?

  A vicious killer. He did not feel very vicious. He remembered the way he had moved in, using the girl as a shield, his knife moving in on the cop. He remembered the funny feeling of power and emptiness. He wondered if he would have to kill again, and how it would feel a second time.

  The trio stayed close to home. Two would remain in the hotel room, sleeping or waiting, while the other would prowl the gray streets of Cleveland. Shank looked for people he knew, racket people, junk people. He was on the make for some sort of a connection—and came up with nothing.

  And time bled them. The hotel took its cut and the diners took their cut. And the money went—quickly, too quickly, while the car sat alone on a quiet street as the trio waited for the time to head for Chicago. Each reacted in his own way. Shank was always searching for a way, a chance, a shot in the endless dark. He tried the bars in the Negro section where horns wailed all night long and sleek dark women wiggled their hips in open invitation. He tried the waterfront, the lake shore, where bars overflowed with dock workers and where the mouths of the whores were bloody with lipstick. He tried the waiting places—the bus station, the railroad terminal, the park.

  He came up with nothing.

  Joe retreated to a fantasy world. He spent his money on paperback books. He bought the books five or six at a time and took them back to the room. There he read one after another, letting the prose draw a curtain shutting out reality. When he spoke to Shank or to Anita his voice was loose and easy, flip and cool, an absolute denial of running and hiding. His fingers turned the pages of book after meaningless book, and his eyes vacantly scanned words to hurry on.

  Anita turned into herself. But she could find neither salvation nor escape from reality. She, like Joe, spent the bulk of her time in the small room. But she did not read, although the many books Joe had discarded lay about her. Instead, she sat on the bed and stared at nothing. She spoke rarely, and then only in answer to a question from either Shank or Joe. She thought her own thoughts without attempting to share them. They were not happy thoughts. But they were hers, and she ran them again and again.

  It was evening. Joe was lying on a bed, book in his hand, a western entitled A Sound of Distant Drums, by James Blue. Anita was sitting on the edge of the other bed and staring emptily across the room. The door opened. It was Shank.

  “We got to move,” he said. He was holding a copy of the Cleveland Press in one hand. He folded it and tossed it to the floor.

  “They made the car,” he said. “They got license, description, the works. They know we headed for Cleveland. We got to get out of here.”

  “We take the car, man?”

  Shank shook his head, impatient with Joe. “They made the car, damn it. They maybe already found it. They maybe have it all staked out just waiting for us to come back. We don’t touch the car. We don’t go near that car. We get the first bus to Chicago and we leave this town far behind. That’s what we do.”

  “Now?” Joe said.

  Shank lit a cigarette. “Problem,” he said. “A long problem.”

  “Go on.”

  “We’re out of bread. Not starving. But we can’t swing tickets to Chi.”

  “All that money from Buffalo—”

  “The car,” Shank reminded him. “And the hotel. And food. We’re broke, man. Broke.”

  “What do we do?”

  Shank considered. “Be ready to leave,” he said. “You and the chick, be ready to leave in a hurry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Joe nodded, thought for perhaps three seconds, then returned his attention to A Sound of Distant Drums.

  Anita remained motionless. They would be caught soon. Caught. And they could stop running, and they could stop hiding, and they could stop living.

  And Shank went out, alone.

  He could ditch them, Shank was thinking. He could leave them here to rot.

  There was enough money left for one ticket to Chicago, Shank considered. Not enough for three, not nearly enough. But enough to get Shank there. Then he would find Bunky, he would turn over the whole town until he found him, and then Bunky would turn Shank on to the Chicago scene and everything would be all right again. Shank would find himself a gig again, a pushing gig or a boosting gig or something where the money came quick and easy. And the heat would go down a little at a time until it was cool again. Then he would go back to New York and empty his savings account and head somewhere else with all that money and find the right place and the right ticket.

  Joe and Anita could make out for themselves, Shank figured. Maybe they would be clear, maybe the cops wouldn’t find them at all. They could stay alive. Anita could go out and hustle, turn a few tricks to keep Joe and herself eating regularly. Hell, the way it was the girl didn’t do a damned thing. Just sat around on her duff and took up space. No reason why she couldn’t turn a trick or two.

  And Shank would be in Chi. Living free and clear and easy.

  But he knew it wasn’t going to happen that way. He crouched in the alley, waiting, and he knew he was not going to run out on them. He wasn’t sure of his motives. He didn’t need them. They were excess baggage. They couldn’t think and they couldn’t act.

  And yet he couldn’t ditch them.

  He crouched in the alley and his fingers curled around the butt of the gun. The cop’s gun. The cop was dead now and his gun was in Shank’s hand. The gun was loaded all the way. The cop never had a chance to empty the gun, so now he was dead and Shank had the gun for himself.

&nb
sp; Stupid cop, Shank thought. He should have shot the chick right off the bat, put a bullet in Anita, then stepped aside and let Shank have a slug in the face. But the cop was the chivalrous type. Wouldn’t shoot a woman. Wasn’t nice and proper. So the cop was dead and Shank was alive.

  Shank kneeled in the alley. The ground was covered with gravel and it was uncomfortable. He wished somebody would come. He was getting a little edgy. The gun felt cold in his hand.

  Maybe he could have sold the gun. A good piece was worth long bread to somebody who didn’t have a permit. A piece that couldn’t be traced. A nice safe piece. It could bring up to a hundred dollars, a long bill for a piece of metal with six bullets in it. But no. Instead, he would use the gun. Who knew what it would bring?

  He heard footsteps.

  His muscles went tense. He leaned out of the alleyway, his eyes keen and aware. He saw a woman, her hair bound up in a babushka, her coat cheap cloth, her shoes worn. A pocketbook hanging from one arm. But what could there possibly be in the pocketbook—maybe a hot two dollars in change?

  He let her pass and went on waiting.

  Maybe he had picked the wrong place. What did he know about Cleveland? Shank felt doubts assail him. Maybe nobody ever walked around that street at night. Maybe people walked other streets. Maybe people did not walk at all in Cleveland at night. Maybe they all took cabs. Maybe they went to bed when the sun went down. Maybe—

  More footsteps.

  He peered out, cautiously. No good. Two kids, teenagers. Fifteen, sixteen years old. Punk kids, lousy little two-bit punk kids walking home.

  Shank retreated into the alley, acting on instinct. And they, halting at the alley, turned into it. One of the punks took something from the pocket of his black leather jacket. A cigarette? A match flared. One drew on the cigarette, then passed it to the other. A waft of smoke found its way to Shank’s nostrils. Pot. For the everloving motherjumping love of Jesus Christ, the little punks had to pick his alley to blow pot in. A whole city to turn on in and they had to pick his alley! He raised the gun in his hand. He aimed carefully, holding the taller of the two kids in his sight. His finger was tense on the trigger. Kill ‘em. Blow their punk heads off—the desire raced through him. He lowered the gun, trembling slightly. He waited, impatiently, while they finished the joint and discarded the roach in the alley. Then he waited until they walked away. He took up his former position and hoped somebody would come in a hurry. He couldn’t wait much longer. Hurry up, hurry up, come on, damn you to hell, come on. He cursed softly and listened to silence. He heard an automobile horn blocks away on another street. He waited and time crawled at an incredibly slow pace. He stared at the cop’s gun. A complex machine, he nodded to himself. You aimed it, you squeezed the trigger. That drew the hammer back and released it. The hammer slammed the end of the cartridge and detonated the powder charge. The force of the explosion propelled the bullet, the slug of lead, through the chamber and out of the muzzle of the gun into whatever object at which the gun had been aimed. A complex mechanism. Not like the knife, no mechanism at all. The knife was simply a sharpened steel blade you stabbed directly into a person. The knife was an extension of your arm, a kind of long, sharp hand. He stared at the gun. He put his nose to the barrel and smelled. The cop had cared for his gun. It had been oiled recently. It had a good machine-oil smell to it. And it hadn’t been fired in a long time. There was no cordite smell. Shank waited. Then footsteps. Again he leaned forward slowly, carefully. He saw the person approaching. Not a woman with a babushka. Not a pair of punk kids. A man. The man was about fifty. He had gray hair and he wore wire-rimmed glasses. He was slender, medium height. He could have been either a small storekeeper or an accountant. He was the one. When he passed the alley, Shank was behind him. Before the man took two more steps, the gun was in the small of his back.

  “Stop,” Shank said, very quietly. The man stopped in his tracks. “Now turn.” Shank calmly issued the directions. “Now into the alley. That’s the ticket. Keep walking. That’s right. Now stop, and don’t turn around.”

  The man seemed unafraid. “You’re making a mistake,” he said. Shank told him to shut up. “Your wallet,” he said. “No tricks. Just take the wallet out and toss it over your shoulder.” The man’s hand dipped gracefully into his inside jacket pocket. The hand came out with a wallet. “Toss it over here. Nice and easy. No tricks.” The wallet arched in the air. Shank caught it in his left hand. His right hand held the gun. The wallet was expensive pigskin worn smooth by years of use. He flipped it open. Not too much money. But enough.

  “I don’t begrudge you the money,” the man said now. “But you’re making a mistake. Embarking on a career of crime. Stop now, son. Before it’s too late. You sound like a young fellow. You have a full life ahead of you.”

  “You know it all,” Shank said.

  “A full life,” the man said. His voice was, if anything, too calm. “A man like me, I’m over the hill. I am what I am. I can’t change myself. But you can be whatever you want to be, son. Don’t be a criminal. It’s no life for a young man like yourself. No life at all. Running and hiding. Bad.” The gun was warmer now. The steel was not so cold. Shank’s hands had warmed the metal. “A wonderful thing to be young,” the man said. “Oh, these are bad times. No question about it. But a young fellow like you could find work. A good job. Chance for advancement. Not like me. Old man like me lands in a rut and stays in it. No choice for me. I’m over the hill. I’m at the end of my rope.” You don’t know how true that is, Shank thought. How very true indeed.

  “A fellow like you—”

  That was all the old man said. Because Shank’s finger tightened on the trigger and the gun was a living creature, alive and leaping in his hand. The first bullet entered the small of the man’s back and he crumpled to the ground, all bent and twisted. The gun jumped. Shank lowered it and fired again. The second and third bullets smashed into the man’s head and made a mess out of it. The fourth and fifth and sixth bullets made holes between the man’s waist and back. There was a moment when time stopped, when the world was suspended in the middle of the air. Like killing the cop, Shank remembered. All that power and all that emptiness. The tremendous noise of the gun—six noises grouped into one—all that power and all that emptiness.

  God!

  The worn pigskin wallet fitted into Shank’s pocket. The gun—empty now, and useless—fell clattering to the ground. For a shadow of time, Shank stood poised in the alleyway, listening to the potent silence, waiting for something undefined. Then he ran. He raced out of the alley to the street, turned down the street and headed west as fast as he could go. He ran at top speed for three blocks without stopping, expecting the high-pitched squeal of police sirens, the whine of a bullet, the voice of a cop shouting, Stop or I shoot, stop or I shoot, the bullets whistling and hitting, piercing skin and flesh and bone. Still there was nothing but silence. So Shank halted for a moment, finally, and then began walking more slowly, forcing himself to stay cool, calm and cool, cool and collected. He stopped by a mailbox and removed the money from the wallet. Enough to get them to Chicago and not much more. The man had not been rich. An old man, a poor old man. Dead. The man had talked about youth. His whole life ahead of him. The future. Oh, the old man was wrong. Dead wrong. Run, Shank thought. Run, run, run. And you ran as fast as you could and you didn’t get anywhere. The most you ever got to was the one pretty minute of power, the gun smoking and a man all broken and bloody and dead. And then you had to run some more, and God in heaven there was never a place to hide, never a pillow to rest your head on, never a hiding place, hiding place, place to rest. God!

  Shank walked to the bus station. Because there was no time to return to the hotel for Anita and Joe, no time at all. Soon the dead man would be found in the alley. Maybe ten minutes of grace remained—maybe an hour, a day. The cops would run down Shank. They could trace the gun, trace it to the dead cop with the hole in his chest, trace it to Shank and Joe and Anita. Cleveland was far too smal
l. Too small to hide in, too small to stay in.

  Run.

  Run!

  He ducked in a phone booth in the Greyhound station, dropped a dime in the slot. The man in the alley was dead. His wallet was in a mailbox. His money was in Shank’s pocket. Run, damn you. Run like hell and where do you hide? Where? He dialed the number of the hotel. The desk clerk answered, his voice thin, whiny.

  “Room 304.”

  Joe picked up the phone. His hello was guarded, frightened. We’re all afraid, Shank thought. Afraid and running, running scared. No way to do it.

  “Greyhound station,” Shank said. “Fast as you can. Don’t waste any time.”

  Joe rang off without reply. Shank walked to the ticket counter where he obtained the information that a bus was leaving for Chicago in less than an hour. He bought three tickets one-way.

  He entered the Post House and ordered a cup of coffee. It was bitter, weak. He drank it anyway and went out to the waiting room. He felt conspicuous.

  Joe and Anita came. They walked like somnambulists, their eyes open but sightless, their feet leaden. Shank told them they were going to Chicago. They nodded vacantly.

  Anita sat on a hard wooden bench and stared at nothing. Joe took a paperback novel from his blue jeans and began to read.

  The bus left on time. They were on it, nervous, waiting, headed for Chicago. The night was black and the sky was starless. The bus raced to Chicago and they raced with it. It went fast but not fast enough.

  “Joe—”

  He looked up. Anita was speaking to him. She had said hardly a word in days. She had lowered a copy of the Chicago Tribune to talk directly to him.

  “He killed a man, Joe. In Cleveland. That’s how he got the money for the tickets. He stuck up a man and shot him six times in the back. He used the same gun he got from the cop in New York, He killed him, Joe.”

  Joe had guessed as much. He wished Anita hadn’t said anything. It was bad this way. Best to forget it, to sink gracefully into immobility, to bury your head in the sand. Shank was out now. They were waiting for him in the hotel room that in effect reproduced the rooms in Buffalo and Cleveland.