High Midnight tp-6

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Did some fighting, didn’t you?” Hemingway said with interest.

  “Not with gloves on,” I said.

  “I think I like him,” Hemingway said with a friendly smile to Cooper.

  I was hot and getting irritable and I didn’t give a turkey’s tassel what Hemingway thought of me. No one had asked me what I thought of Hemingway.

  Cooper looked out the window and moved to one of the chairs, which he sat in slowly, cocking his head with his good ear in my direction.

  “Hemingstein here,” he said pointing a finger at Hemingway, “wanted to get away quietly. Buddy Da Silva is trying to get him to look over the screenplay of For Whom the Bell Tolls, and the Great White Hunter is not ready to make any decisions.”

  “So it’s better to hide here than in Cuba?” I said, letting everyone know that I too knew who Hemingway was.

  Cooper shrugged.

  “Good hunting around here,” he said. “Wild pigs. Some deer, even a cougar or two.”

  “Snakes,” said Castelli with a distinct Spanish accent. “Rattlesnakes. Lots of them.”

  “Right,” said Cooper, unperturbed.

  “I’ve got reason to believe that one or more of the people on the High Midnight project might want to do you in,” I said.

  “Do me …” began Cooper.

  “In,” I repeated. “Shoot you, push you over a mountain or put one of my kitchen knives in your back.”

  He asked why and I explained; at least I explained everything but the possibility that I might be the one who planted the idea in the not terribly fertile minds of Fargo and Gelhorn. I also told him about the Ford coupe I had lost on the road.

  Castelli leaped from his chair and went to the window with clenched teeth.

  “The Fascisti,” he said.

  Hemingway went to the window and put his hand on Castelli’s shoulder. “No, why would they follow Mr. Peepers?” he said.

  “No, Mr. Heminghill,” I said, looking around the room casually, “they just want to kill Gary Cooper.”

  Hemingway turned from the window, unsure of whether to smile or tear me off at the neck. “Your friend has a sense of humor,” Hemingway said to Cooper.

  “Every crowd should have at least one person with a sense of humor,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Meaning I don’t,” Hemingway said, moving toward me with clenched fists.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I don’t know you well enough, and I haven’t read much of your work, but I’ve seen the movies.”

  “The movies of my work are crap,” he growled.

  “I like them,” I said, “but what do I know?”

  “Hold on,” said Cooper, stepping between us. “Let’s just figure out what to do while we have some lunch.” Everyone agreed to that, and Castelli and Hemingway brought out bread, sliced chicken and beer.

  “I think a man needs good hot mustard to tell him he’s alive,” said Hemingway, passing the mustard to me.

  I turned it down. “Do you think you might tell me what’s going on now?” I said to Cooper between bites and gulps.

  “I’ve got to tell him,” Cooper said to Hemingway. Both men had downed three sandwiches to my one. Castelli had been at about my pace. Hemingway agreed reluctantly.

  “Luis here is in the country illegally,” said Cooper. “He was a Loyalist, even though his family was nobility.”

  “I am a Loyalist,” Castelli corrected. “The battle is not over. It is only delayed.”

  “Which,” jumped in Hemingway, “may be why the Spanish Fascists have tracked him across Europe and up South America. I got him out of Mexico one fart ahead of a trio of killers.”

  “They tried to split my head,” Castelli said with a wild grin, “but they cannot kill me so easily.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I said, to stay on his good side.

  “The American government isn’t exactly looking for Luis,” Cooper explained, “but they aren’t exactly welcoming him either. Franco says he’s an international criminal and demands that he be found and sent back. Just to make sure, he’s sent some people to try to get rid of him.”

  “And Tillman threatened to expose your part in this?” I said.

  “Tillman?” asked Cooper, pausing in his consumption of sandwich to look puzzled.

  “The number-two corpse in my room. The guy who looked like a brick.”

  “Right,” Cooper said. “That, the business with Lola Farmer and a few other things that would not only embarrass me but my friends, particularly Hemingstein over here, who has committed a few indiscretions in his day.”

  Hemingway laughed, and the laugh made it clear that he and pal Coop were talking about wild sex and uncontrolled orgies, or at least hinting at them.

  “The guy accused Coop of being a homosexual,” Hemingway chuckled.

  Cooper grinned and looked sheepish again.

  I had fallen in with a den of boy scouts tittering about girls and bodily functions on their annual outing. I didn’t laugh. Hemingway didn’t seem to like the fact that I didn’t laugh. He didn’t mind that Castelli didn’t laugh, but then again it was clear to all of us that the whack in the face that Castelli had sustained had done his brain no great good.

  I finished my beer, and Hemingway finished his second or third. His hands were flat on the table, and he was considering something.

  “What do you propose I do, Peters?” Cooper said, pursing his lips.

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Probably stay here for a while, while I try to defuse the whole thing and find the killer. The police think I did it. I don’t think you can stay here long, though. They might not be able to get the location from your mother, but one of you hunters must have left a trail here through a friend or a note or something. I’ll stick around for a while to be sure the guys on the road don’t double back and figure out where we are. I doubt it, but it might happen.”

  “Fair enough,” agreed Cooper.

  “How many of them are there?” Hemingway asked, touching his beard.

  “Two,” I said.

  “There are four of us,” he said. “Are we four grown men hiding from two guys?”

  “I think it would be a good idea,” I said. “They’re after Coop, not the other way around.”

  “In the jungles of Africa, the countryside of Spain and China, I learned the hard way that the best way to keep from getting killed is to attack the animal, not give him a chance to go for you,” Hemingway challenged.

  “In the neighborhoods of Los Angeles, I learned that people with guns and knives and cars can hide anywhere and come at you when you least expect them,” I answered. “It’s the trouble with city living; the animals don’t know the rules.”

  “Ever been in a war, Peters?” Hemingway said evenly.

  “No, not the kind where they choose up sides,” I said just as evenly.

  “I almost lost a leg in Italy,” said Hemingway. “Torn to pieces. I carried a man a mile with my leg mangled.”

  “I understand,” I said. “You don’t like to talk about it.”

  In a minute we would be one-upping each other with bullet wounds. I probably had Hemingway beat, but from the look of Castelli, he was the all-around winner. The man’s face showed more defeat and dignity then any I’d ever seen. It was also touched with madness.

  Castelli and I cleaned off the table while Cooper watched the windows, at my suggestion.

  “How about a little exercise to get rid of some of this beer?” Hemingway said playfully.

  “I can do without exercise today,” I said.

  “I’ve got a couple of pair of gloves with me,” Hemingway said, looking at me with a clear challenge. “Luis doesn’t fight, can’t because of his head, and Coop can’t throw a punch.”

  “Never had a fight in my life,” Cooper admitted from the window. “Never learned to throw a punch. Still have trouble faking a reasonable-looking punch for a picture.”

  “My friend can’t fight or play baseball,” Hemingway s
aid with mock pity. “But he can sure act What do you say, Peepers? Just a little limbering up, no one gets hurt?”

  I declined a few more times, and Hemingway upped the ante. In a few minutes he might actually slap me in the face with one of the gloves and give me his Authors’ Guild card, if he had one. Hemingway was younger than I, heavier than I and probably a better boxer than I. He fished out some gloves and took his shirt off before putting on his pair. His chest was hairy and his shoulders broad. His stomach was a little fuller than he might have liked. Castelli pushed back the furniture and the rug and helped me put on the gloves. Hemingway got his on quickly and easily. Beware a man who carries his own boxing gloves and can put them on alone.

  “That’s a bullet wound,” Hemingway said, staring at the scar on my stomach.

  “One of those nonwars I was in,” I said.

  Cooper looked over at us and shrugged hopelessly in my direction to make it clear he didn’t condone his buddy’s idea of fun, but what could you do when an acknowledged genius wanted to play games. I marveled that Cooper could get all that into a little shrug, but that was his trade. Mine was staying alive.

  Hemingway’s arms were longer than mine, and he tapped me gently a few times. I pawed his hands away. Neither of us danced. Castelli stood to the side, leaning against the wall and watching silently. We went on doing nothing for a few minutes until I thought Hemingway had had enough.

  “Let’s call it a workout,” I said, dropping my hands. Hemingway popped me in the face, not too hard, but not too friendly. If it was going to be the end, he was going to have the last whack, just as he probably insisted on having the last word. I threw a hard right at his stomach and came back with a left to his mouth. Blood welled around one of his upper teeth.

  “That’s enough,” said Cooper, but Hemingway was happy now. This was real. This was earnest for Ernest. I let him hit me with a solid right to the side of the head, hoping it would satisfy him, but it didn’t. He followed with a pair to my chest and a left to my head. The gloves were light and the punches hurt. I felt like reminding Hemingway that we were on the same side.

  Hemingway had everything on his side, but I had a singular advantage. It was the one thing that probably made me a reasonable detective and a pain in the ass to have around. I just didn’t give up. Hemingway continued to pop at my head, sending me back over the chair. I came up and went for him. For every five punches he gave me, I gave him one, but I was sure mine hurt. I went for the kidneys and the stomach. I got in a good rabbit punch when he ducked down.

  “You crazy bastard,” he said, unsure of whether to laugh or get angry. “There are rules to this game.”

  “This isn’t a game,” I said and went for him again. I thought I was Henry Armstrong. I probably looked like a bad imitation of an irate Donald Duck, but it was wearing Hemingway down. I doubted if he had ever been in a real use-what-you-can battle. Hell, I had been in one the day before. Pain was part of the job. For Hemingway, pain was something you learned to endure. You even enjoyed it. At least that’s what he said in his books. I’d lied. I’d read more than one of them.

  Hemingway began to pant and lower his guard.

  “We’ll call it a draw,” he said.

  “You call it what you like,” I answered, putting the right glove between my legs to pull it off. “I call it a bunch of horseshit.”

  The rest of the afternoon was spent in silence, with each of us taking turns at the window. Eventually Hemingway began to ask me questions about being a private detective and a cop. He listened like no one I had ever met. His eyes told me that his mind was registering everything, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was being converted into a character for future use.

  By dinner time we were so bored that we said the hell with watching the window for a few minutes and all pitched in to cook the roast Cooper had brought with him. Dinner was better than lunch, and Hemingway was mellow. We shared sad stories about former wives who misunderstood us, and were on the way to being besieged buddies. After dinner Cooper took apart and reassembled his rifle.

  “Knows a hell of a lot about guns,” Hemingway said, nodding at Cooper, “but not about how to shoot them.”

  “Maybe so,” agreed Cooper, “but I’ll outshoot you blindfolded.”

  Since I knew I couldn’t shoot at all and had proven it as a cop and a detective, I let them rattle on and turned them off. They decided to test their abilities in an evening hunt. I suggested that they put it off till the morning to be sure I wasn’t followed, but they would have no part of such cowardice. Out they went, rifles in hand. Castelli stayed behind, and I followed the pair further up the hill. The sun was setting but still had maybe an hour to go.

  “Watch for rattlers,” Cooper warned, taking long strides with his eyes on the ground.

  I watched and followed them to the top of the hill, where they or someone had dug out a little pit to sit in. On the other side of the pit was a clearing for about seventy yards, and then woods.

  Cooper settled in and pointed to the clearing.

  “Water hole just beyond the trees,” he whispered. “Pigs sometimes stick their snouts into the clearing.”

  “One hundred a pig,” said Hemingway. Cooper agreed, and I checked my holster and.38, which could surely not kill a pig at fifty yards. We sat waiting with the mosquitoes and the calls of birds. Something that might have been a grunt sounded in the trees, and both Hemingway and Cooper sat up.

  “How’ll you know which one killed the pig?” I said.

  “Dig out the bullet,” Hemingway whispered. “Quiet.”

  Both men raised their rifles, and a miracle happened. The pigs shot first. A bullet dug up ground in front of the pit and a second one buzzed over our heads.

  “Get down,” I said, and both men ducked into the pit.

  “They found us,” said Cooper.

  “Who?” said Hemingway. “The ones after you or the ones after Luis?”

  “Got us nailed down,” said Cooper through clenched teeth.

  “We have the high ground,” said Hemingway. “We can wait till dark and …”

  “We have to get the hell out of here,” I said. “It’s as simple as that. We’ve got to get behind them, or they’re going to keep us on this hill till they kill us. Do you have a phone in that cabin?”

  “No,” said Cooper.

  “Is there some nice safe way down where someone can’t hide and wait for us?” I asked.

  “No,” said Cooper.

  “See my point?” I said. “One of you can stay up here and keep them busy. The other one can come with me and go around behind them.”

  “Right,” agreed Cooper. “I couldn’t make it down behind them without making a lot of noise, not with my back and hearing. I’ll stay up here and keep them busy.”

  “I think I’d better stay here,” said Hemingway. “My leg would slow you up.”

  I looked at both of them, and they looked back at me. Good-bye was in their eyes. It was my job and welcome to it, but there weren’t going to be any words.

  “Hell,” said Cooper after a long pause and another bullet from the woods. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No,” I said, rolling over the side of the hill, away from the woods. Hasn’t every private detective stalked killers in woods infested with wild pigs and rattlesnakes? This wasn’t my jungle, but I was stuck with it.

  The sun went down on one side of the hill and I went down the other. I got to the bottom before the sun. My feet had picked up about twenty pounds each and were taking on ounces fast as I made my way around the hill, trying to look for snakes and at the same time not be killed by hidden Fascists or some combination of Fargo, Gelhorn, Bowie and Lombardi, a firm with which I wanted no further business.

  CHAPTER TEN

  What the hell are you doing this for?” I asked myself as I slid down the last few feet of hill drenched in sweat. I’m not sure I asked the question to myself. Hysteria was a real possibility, and I may have been talking aloud in
spite of the potential danger, but it was a good question and one I couldn’t answer.

  I sat in a hole at the edge of the woods, panting. Nature had etched on me, using twigs, branches and rocks. A shot from the woods tore into the hills a few feet below the pit where Cooper and Hemingway were holding fort. One of them responded with a shot that came closer to hitting me than any enemy in the woods.

  When I could breathe without making as much noise as the MGM lion, I ambled forward through the trees and bushes in a crouch with my trusty.38 in hand. When I hit a small murky clearing, a rifle bullet spat into a tree nearby and a voice shouted, “Stop there.”

  Part of the mystery was now settled. It wasn’t a team of Fascists after Castelli. It was Max Gelhorn.

  “Gelhorn,” I shouted, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “You know damn well what we’re doing,” he answered. “We’re going to shoot Gary Cooper.”

  “And me too?”

  “Yes,” shouted Gelhorn.

  “And the two others with us?” I went on, trying to see where his voice was coming from.

  Apparently he didn’t know that there were four of us. I could hear him conferring with someone before he answered, “Yes. It’s too late for anything else.”

  “I see,” I said, moving behind a large rock and resting my pistol on it for support. “Since you’ve already killed, it doesn’t matter how many more you do in.”

  “We haven’t killed anybody,” came Mickey Fargo’s voice.

  I could make out the two figures now behind a clump of bushes no more than forty yards away.

  “It’s kill or be killed,” shouted Gelhorn. “Since I can’t deliver Cooper and Lombardi insists on him, it’s all I can do. You pointed that out.”

  I hoped our voices weren’t carrying up the hill. My best tactic in case they were was to change the subject.

  “Maybe we can nail Lombardi for the murders and get him off your back?” I said.

  “No,” cried Gelhorn, taking a shot in my general direction that came no closer to me than twenty yards. “Don’t try to reason with me,” Gelhorn screamed in anger. “This isn’t a reasonable situation. This is a desperate situation.”