Hold on. I’d better not get too ambitious. Don’t borrow trouble. I’ve got plenty of that in my own name. Hang loose, play cool.
The main thing is to defend myself. Okay, I’ve got to have my rifle. After that, maybe I’ll hole up till dark, or maybe I’ll walk straight back and dare them to come near me. Anyhow with a weapon I’ll be safe, I’ll be on top of things.
These stupid trees look alike. How am I going to find the hollow one I moved the rifle to?
Well, I know the landmarks from the path above the coast. And I can find the path by plowing straight east. And I can tell east by those sunbeams that cut through the leaves into the shadows.
But Rance and Shaddock may be on the path….
Help me, saints. I promise you a novena, a stained glass window, whatever you want; I promise you I’ll believe. Oh, God, God, God, there has to be somebody in heaven who cares!
I push through the grabbing, clawing brush, under the horrible brooding trees. Sweat soaks my clothes till they stick to me like a shroud. My own stink drowns the jungle smells. I shake, I stagger, I strain for air. What have I done to deserve this?
Okay, I’m a jailbird. But I served my time, didn’t I? And I was poor; I had no choice; it was a bad environment. That’s what the fat sociologists are saying these days about the niggers, isn’t it? Why can’t they say it about me?
My mistake, okay, I’ll admit I made a bad mistake. (Was it also a mistake marrying Eva Delvecchio? She’s in the Family, and her old man gave me a job managing a night club, better than any other job I could have gotten after being in Joliet. But God, what a slob she is! Why’d she have to follow me down to Santa Ana after the trouble broke? I guess I’m too good for her. She said once, throwing a fit, she did say she’d been foolish enough to be in love with me. And four .kids … I got four kids, even if they are runny-nosed yelling brats, four kids to say I’m no fairy. And plenty of other women; not just that Gayle moron.) My mistake—Papa Delvecchio, shriveled old bastard, chewing me out, calling me stupid. What right did he have to call me stupid? I told him again and again, okay, I told him, I was running a badger game upstairs, but nobody gets hit by one of those unless he asks for it—I didn’t hold a gun on any customer’s head and tell them he had to go upstairs or else, did I?—and if just once I happened to badger the wrong guy, why, anybody could make a mistake. You don’t look down on a businessman who made a wrong investment, do you?
It wasn’t fair that I had to skip the country one jump ahead of a .45 slug. My God, they yak about the death penalty being cruel and unusual punishment, don’t they? They yak about equal protection under the law. Well, where was the law when I needed it?
And that’s how come I landed in hell. The Family happening to own a casino in Vizcaya, and Papa making me manager. Only sheesh, what a crummy operation! Chickenfeed, chickenshit. And then when the goddamn colonels closed us down, well, what could I do but pimp? I had a wife and kids to support, didn’t I, and Papa was dead now and nobody else in that oh-so-loving Family would send me any more checks, and when the old government was restored I had nobody to speak for me and the Family put that Collodi turd in charge of my casino. …
Listen, up there. I’m due for a break. I am. I thought this would be it, when Haverner’s people approached me. And instead I’m fighting through a jungle, my life in danger. It’s not right, I tell you!
… Ah.
The trail. Thank you, Mary, thank you; you led me out of the graveyard and I won’t forget you. Now, quick, which way? Take a bearing on that rock where Rance tried to drown me…. Yeah, it’s south of here.
But him and Shaddock are coming at me from the south.
Be quick. I’ve got to beat them to the gun. Trot, trot, trot, never mind the sweat or my backbone jarring into my skull. I’ll remember this later in my air-conditioned Chicago penthouse and be proud, like a combat soldier. (That’s what I am. A combat soldier. Orestes Cruz could’ve become another Fidel Castro, couldn’t he? They ought to pin a medal on me. Instead, I’ve got to hide in Santa Ana, the asshole of the world. Except maybe Ellis Nordberg can help me out. He’s got to. After all I’ve done for him.)
The air’s hot, a-boom with surf, but the sun’s behind the trees on my right and I jog through shadows. My tongue’s a log in my mouth and my chest hurts. Why does this have to happen to me?
There!
The big tree with the hurricane scars, my marker, my salvation. Turn off here into the jungle, but only a few yards, and here’s the hiding place. I snatch into the gnawed-out trunk and my hands find the weapon.
Salvation roars. I grab that gun the way I’d grab young Bill York’s cock.
(I am not queer. Ask Eva. Ask Gayle. Ask a hundred women, well, a couple dozen. Eva never guessed anything. Christ, if she had, if she’d told Papa! Suddenly it’s cold, till I hug the gun to my chest.
(Okay, I like it with boys. Better than I like it with girls. Is that so terrible? Not according to the fat sociologists. I’ve never made a fool of myself joining Gay Liberation or anything like that. I’m just liberal, that’s all. And—reform school, twice in the pen, years at a time—what the fuck do they expect a guy will do?
(And what’s bad about it, when it’s what they both want? Or about supplying horse to people that want horse, who’ll go out of their heads from wanting it if people like me don’t find it for them? Hell, they say cigarettes are bad for you; the government makes them put it on every package—I don’t believe that, I want a smoke right now, but better wait till I’m safe before I light up, my mouth’s so dry—the government says cigarettes give you cancer and then goes right ahead and lets the big companies sell them and collects taxes on the stuff. Why not horse, smack, whatever anybody wants that isn’t hurting anybody else?)
I stroke and stroke my long gun. I love guns. We call cocks “guns” too, don’t we? I love shooting. Both kinds.
That’s another thing the do-gooders want to take away from us. Our right to be armed. To protect ourselves.
If I ever went into politics … Oh, I’d have them behind me, the people. They’ve had a bellyful of do-gooders. They’re crying for a leader who’ll tell it like it is. I could do plenty of good myself. The right kind of good. Make the rich motherfuckers really help the poor; squeeze them till they squeal. Solve the race problem: send the niggers back to Africa where they belong. And the Jews to Israel? No, wouldn’t work, I guess. But keep an eye on them: use the good ones but don’t let the pushcart types, even the millionaire pushcart types, don’t let them go on running the country the way they have been. Tell the Russkies and the Chinks to tow the line or we’ll blow them off the map. Tell the world that Uncle Sam is through taking everybody’s shit.
Oh, I’m a realist. A guy who’s been in jail will never make President. But I could work behind the scenes and really help the people. I’ve seen enough behind-the-scenes politics. Only that’s corrupt and I’d be different.
All I need is a break. One big take. It’s not even a steal. It’s just getting my fair share that I never had before in my life. If I’d won Haverner’s million, I’d have put it in something gilt-edged and never broken another law where anybody could notice, and maybe gone into politics and become a big name, which I deserve better than that dimbulb in the White House. What’s the difference between him and me? Why does he make it and me not? Money, that’s why. It’s as simple as that.
As simple as this gun in my hands.
Eight bullets loaded, and here are two extra clips. I put them in my coat pockets. Their weight feels good.
I guess I’ll just sashay out in plain view. I won’t say anything unless they speak first. I’ll just hold this old rifle at the ready, and make sure they don’t jump me from behind, and walk on up to my room, and wait for Ellis to come to me, because he’ll need my help against Julia; we’ll have to plan something against that frigid witch. Her and her pitiful little daughter! Ha! I wonder if she even has any.
March south to the house, big man.
Oh, God, oh, Jesus, saints, Mother Mary, there they are. And Anselmo is with them.
Two quick shots would take them, but the Indian’s got his own gun, that S. & W., and I’d never make him fast enough—
Rance and Shaddock stop short. Then Shaddock yells, the crazy fool, and charges.
I could drop him, but meanwhile Anselmo could drop me.
Everything happens slow, slow, slow. Why am I caught in this nightmare? When will Mother wake me from it?
Run.
I’ll shoot if they don’t leave me alone. I will. But I’m no mad dog like Shaddock. I don’t want to kill anybody. And I’m in good shape in spite of the poverty, in spite of the drinking, because I had troubles to forget. I can stay ahead of that lunatic. I did good in track, in school. It’s like I can see us again, all naked in the locker room.
Him and me, we round another blind corner and are out of sight of the others. I whirl and snap a shot. I miss. O God, that wasn’t fair, making me miss! But he does stop, then fades back.
I go on. They won’t push me hard. Leave me be, that’s what I ask, leave me be. Stop torturing me before I get mad.
The thing to do is hole up. Stand them off. Anselmo, yeah, Anselmo is Haverner’s gun. He won’t necessarily shoot at me. Or will he? I piss in my pants; it runs hot down my leg; I run; I run in the heat. What are his orders?
What I’ve got to do is get behind some shelter. Then I can ask him. Maybe he doesn’t really mean me any harm. It’s just that I can’t take the chance. I’ve been stabbed in the back so often by people I thought I could trust.
He has his radio set along. I saw it. So through him I can talk with Haverner. We can talk like reasonable men, Haverner and me, once I’m safe.
Or does Haverner own Anselmo? Really? Like Bull Brannigan and others have owned me? Stomp hard on that thought. I’m only tired, hounded out of my skull. I only need a chance to rest. I’ve needed that all my life.
It’s a hard uphill jog. And I have to keep twisting my neck to try and see them in the shadows. But they’re keeping out of sight, the backstabbing cowards; they’re slinking after me. Let me find a place to make a stand and I’ll soon put them in their place, down in the graveyard. Give me half a chance, the half-chance I never had in my life, and I’ll take care of them.
Suddenly the tangle on my left opens up. There’s a steep slope here where the hills stick a ridge out toward the sea. Grass, bushes, scattered pine trees, boulders, the Crag behind— but look, that sheer rise, barely a hundred yards off, and the mouth in it, a cave!
From here, the cave’s a black triangle. Let me get in there, belly down, rifle butt against my shoulder, and I’ll be invisible from outside. I’ll pick off Rance and Shaddock, self-defense, and then I’ll talk to Anselmo and Haverner and they’ll see how they’ve misjudged me.
My heartbeat’s trying to shake me to pieces.
But somehow I make it over the slope, reach the beautiful deep shadow of the cliff and get into the cleft. I throw myself down, and there’s even a kind of natural threshold in front of me, a rocky ridge to shield me.
I am safe.
I takes me a while to notice how I lie in stinking mush and can barely see the clustered bony-winged things that hang over my head, barely hear them chitter in the dark…. Holy fuck! A bat cave! I’m sunk to my chin in batshit!
Well …
They come into sight, big blond Rance, slim Shaddock, hunting me that never did them any harm, hunting me for nothing except money and fun. I get Rance in my sights, right in the cross-hairs, lover-boy Rance, ah, how he’ll feel when it goes into him! I squeeze the trigger, slow, careful, enjoying.
The gun comes.
And I’ve missed. The swine moved at exactly the wrong moment. (Well, he was being cautious, of course, moving all the time, not like the nigger on the beach who thought he had the whole white world in his hand.) He springs back. They all three take cover behind a couple of big rocks. Light glows on the grass around them. And me, I’ve got to gag on the stink of guano.
A voice: “Ahoy! Flagler!” Sounds like Shaddock.
“What do you want?” I call. “Why are you after me? I never hurt you.”
“You’ve hurt elsewhere.” Who but a Haah-vahd type would say it like that? “We can’t take chances with you.”
“What do you want?” I yell again, and fire another shot to keep their heads down, keep Anselmo out of the picture, hear the crack and feel the weapon come alive. Bee-eee-yow!
“We’ll bargain,” Shaddock shouts. I hear Rance argue, can’t make out the words, but sure, sure, he’s got a deal with Julia.
Shaddock seems to overrule him. “Listen, Matt. Turn in your gun and your knife, and I don’t think we need be afraid of you. Is that fair?”
“Hell, no!” I answer. “One of me and how many of you? You could do any damn thing to me you wanted, once I was disarmed. I got a right of self-defense. I’ll keep my weapons.”
“How long? You’re under siege, you realize.”
“I am? What’re you going to shoot at me with?”
When Anselmo doesn’t say anything, I feel my glory.
I call to him. “How about that, Anselmo? You’re just a reporter for Mr. Haverner, aren’t you? He doesn’t care what I do, what any of us do, as long as we do something. Isn’t that right?”
Still the Indian doesn’t speak.
“Do you propose to come forth, then?” Shaddock asks. “I warn you, if you come armed, we’ll have to assume you’re dangerous.”
Think.
It must be three or four miles to the house. Anywhere along the way, a thrown rock, a mugger arm … “Here’s how we’ll do it,” I say. “You’ll walk ahead of me. We’ll go straight to Mr. Haverner.”
“Suppose we don’t agree?” That’s Larry. Sure, he wants to hurt me on account of his precious Julia, his daahling Gayle, his hope for a share in the loot.
“Then I stay put,” I tell them. I can stand the guano, slimy softness, sharp stink, as long as they can stay crouched behind those boulders. I can wait till nightfall, when they won’t be able to see me, and slip free and make my own way back to the house. I can.
I’d rather not, though.
“Anselmo, come talk with me,” I beg. You and me, we understand each other, don’t we? You don’t really want for me to stumble home after dark, through a graveyard jungle, do you? Okay, you’re Haverner’s man, but even a mouthpiece can speak a kind word now and then, can’t he?
“No!” Rance shouts.
Only it’s Shaddock who freezes me. “Better surrender, Matt. The sooner you do, the likelier you are to live. That’s a bat cave you’re in. A percentage of the Island bats have rabies, you know. You don’t have to get bitten. Right now, you’re in a mist from their droppings and passings, and it carries the vims. I warn you, come out and give up!”
No, no, no.
Why does this happen to me?
Is he lying?
Can I take the chance?
“What’ll you do … if I come?” I holler, thin and shaky.
“Confine you. The rest can be discussed later.”
Haverner—Haverner will understand. He’s got to. Sunderland Haverner and Ellis Nordberg. O God, I’ve had so little all my life, you’ve got to give me a break at last, and I’ll be good, I’ll be good.
It squelches when I get to my feet in the horrible stink that may already have screwed me with horrible death. I hold tight on to the rifle and stagger out of the cave.
Down at the bottom of the hill, there’s Anselmo, stepped out into the open. He says something into his walkie-talkie. He looks like he’s getting an answer, but I can’t hear. He nods a little bit and starts up the slope to meet me. I’m real careful, I hold the rifle by the middle of the stock, at arm’s length. I don’t want to drop it, not just yet, but they can see I’m not aiming at anybody.
What?
The automatic’s in his hand. He�
�s in range now, and somehow he’s pulled his gun, and he grins. He doesn’t even show any enjoyment in the grin, just an awful not-unfriendliness. I’ll never bring my weapon to bear in time.
No, no, no! Please!
INTERVAL SEVEN
Part Two
The shot smote eardrums. Echoes of it rang back from the cliff. Startled, a toucan whirled aloft from trees beyond, brilliant and shrill.
Matthew Flagler folded at the midriff, fell, and rolled downslope. His arms and legs flopped. Anselmo padded to intercept him when he should come to rest. Squatting, the mainlander laid pistol to bulging-eyed open-mouthed head. The spraddled shaped did not move, nor did blood—smeared around the curiously small hole in the breast, over jacket and shirt and trousers, in a wet line through the grass—flow further. Anselmo felt the throat for a pulse, nodded, rose and holstered his gun.
By that time Byron and Larry had blundered to join him. “Dead?” Byron croaked.
“Yes,” Anselmo said. “I was not sure. I am a good shot, but the peestol ees”—he searched for a word in English— “treecky.” He might have been talking about a target on a range.
“You’d … have … finished him off?” Larry asked.
Anselmo shrugged. “ ’E was dangerous. A keeller, armed, no?”
“But—he’d quit,” Byron said dazedly. “That rifle wasn’t at the ready, wasn’t aimed or anything.”
“ ’E should ’ave dropped eet. I called Meester ’Averner. ’E said use my own judgment.”
Larry stared and stared, unblinking as the corpse, before he whispered, “Haverner said kill.”
Anselmo made no reply.
“Haverner said kill,” Larry repeated. “It’d be too inconvenient if Matt lived. All right for us to chase him, make a show for Haverner. Haverner was curious what we’d do. But when it turned out we’d only shut him away for a while … why, he might let out too much truth sometime when he was drunk, or …” He swung to confront Anselmo. “Sometime soon, you’d have gotten your orders to kill him. Wouldn’t you? It was only that right here and now gave you a great excuse, seeing as how Matt forgot to let go of his rifle.”
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