The Sundown Speech

by Loren D. Estleman

  There was more room than I expected behind the screen and the bare brick wall in back; I’d forgotten that the places were designed to provide every kind of public entertainment there was, with big band performances, dance numbers, and acrobatic acts.

  Nothing so gaudy was going on at the moment, or had since Herbert Hoover. It was storage space now: a tangle of thick ropes like ship’s rigging, canvas flats in stacks on the floor and leaning against the bricks, cartons filled with mildewing playbills, and an obstacle course of broken seats, piled lumber, and old stage properties left there to skin knees, bark ankles, and snag holes with exposed nailheads. I tore a hole in my suitcoat clambering over it all to get to the corner, where a steel ladder bolted to the wall led straight up into darkness beyond catwalks arranged in a grid. Loops of insulated cable hung from these.

  I took off the coat and my tie, let them drop, and started climbing.

  The rungs were clammy and scabbed with rust. They wouldn’t be used as frequently as when live shows meant changing backdrops and a stagehand to install ropes and pulleys; but they seemed sturdy enough. I stopped to peel a cobweb from across my eyes, and again to wipe my palms on my shirt. I reached back to make sure my revolver was snug in its clip and climbed higher.

  Something scampered across my knuckles, following a ledge made by old mortar squirted out between courses of brick. I didn’t look to see what it was. One phobia at a time was as much as I could handle.

  A shot rang bells in my ears, close enough I took it at first for an explosion; Jerry Marcus’ bomb going off. But then, I wouldn’t hear it, would I? More reports answered, sounding farther away; a routine exchange. The ceiling—or unexposed rafters, more likely—was invisible up there where the lights didn’t reach, but I must have been nearly level with the projection booth.

  I don’t like heights, never have; but I hung by one hand in order to turn my body to gauge just how far I was from Marcus’ shooting stand.

  Not so bad.

  Just the entire length of the auditorium from front to back. I turned back toward the ladder and hauled myself up another rung.

  The catwalks hung from ropes, all of which looked as new as the forty-hour work week. I made a long leg onto the one nearest the ladder, groping for one of the ropes supporting it. It swayed, creaking like an old schooner in rough seas. I held onto the rope with both hands until it stopped. I worked my way along the old boards, grasping the next rope before letting go of the last, feeling for spongy spots in the wood. A drop of sweat rolled off the end of my nose and shot fifteen feet down to the stage. It hit the boards with a plop that sounded as loud to me as any gun report. They knew how to build in acoustics then. The bastards.

  I waited; but then Jerry Marcus started shouting again. He was getting louder by the yard; louder, I thought, than it should have been, coming from inside a room sealed in solid concrete. I took hope; but it might have been wishful thinking.

  The catwalk took a turn at the end, butting onto another that ran parallel to the back of the auditorium where the projection room was. It was dark in the corner. I reached for a rope, missed it, gasped—and smacked my palm against brick. I was closer to the wall than I thought. From then on I groped my way along the wall.

  My hand came up against something that stuck out from the brick. I wrapped my palm around it; the blunt end of something that turned out to be slim and cylindrical as I felt along it. When my hand touched cold steel I grasped the handle in both hands and lifted. Something came clear of the hooks or whatever had been holding it in place. I took down the fire axe and resumed progress, holding it horizontally across my waist. It made a dandy balancing rod.

  More shots. I stopped until they did. I wondered how many reloads Marcus had with him. Plenty, probably. He seemed to have seen to everything else. Another lull, and then I crept on.

  Something snapped with a bang I thought at first was another shot; but the catwalk took a sudden, stomach-lurching tilt. A rope had given way.

  But the boards held. I rearranged my grip on the axe, sliding one hand up to the base of the blade and releasing the other to steady myself against the wall.

  The surface changed abruptly: coarser, the spaces between the mortar more spread out. I had run out of brick and was supporting myself against the concrete blocks that enclosed the projection room. I stretched my arm farther along, testing the surface with my palm. It was unbroken. If I got to work with the axe right away, I might break through before Christmas.

  Which Crystal the ticket clerk and I would never live to celebrate.

  * * *

  Marcus raised his voice again. This time I picked out the words.

  “How do you like this show, Ann Arbor?” He fired a shot.

  My chest seized up; I gripped the axe handle hard enough it’s a wonder it didn’t crack.

  Then I heard a whimper and a tone of pleading. A woman’s voice. It had been just another potshot, to punctuate what he’d said.

  A low, shuddering whimper. A pleading tone. A woman’s voice, weakening under the strain.

  Heard.

  Through concrete block.

  I bent a knee, laying the axe across the boards at my feet. Groped again at the wall, widening my reach. Cold concrete. Porous; but not porous enough to let in oxygen to feed an out-of-control blaze or to let out a sound coming from anything less than the top of the lungs of a fanatic. Even the shot had seemed to come within inches of my ear.

  I bent the other knee, lowering myself to the catwalk with my feet hanging over the edge. I took a deep breath, lifted my steadying hands from the boards, and pressed my palms against the wall. It was smoother than what I’d been feeling, and by comparison warm to the touch. I tapped it with a finger. A hollow noise.

  Measuring now. I spread my palms out from the center, up and down, feeling for the seam where the block left off and plaster began. It was plaster for sure. Somewhere, in the act of remodeling, someone had broken through, probably to make room for an escape hatch for the projectionist if a fire had broken out, then plastered it over to prevent unwanted access from my side. Something had scampered across the top of my hand when I was climbing the ladder. Nobody likes sharing his workplace with rats.

  No one likes the idea of burning to death, either; but someone had dropped the ball, neglecting to go through with the safety plan. Mrs. Candlemass would want to know about this. There were insurance issues involved, and legal complications.

  I climbed back to my feet, bringing with me the axe; a shakier operation than the reverse. It put extra pressure on the remaining ropes holding up the catwalk. Upright at last, I spread my feet, took a deep breath, and swung the axe.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “What do you want, Jerry?”

  A calm voice but a powerful one: I felt it in the soles of my feet. Lieutenant Karyl had scored a bullhorn.

  I stopped the axe in midswing; a disc shifted in my spine. I grasped a rope while the pain diffused itself through all my extremities.

  “I want—”

  Marcus reeled off a list of names, most of which meant nothing to me. I recognized the mayor’s. It might as well have been the president’s. He’d made up his mind. He was just enjoying the moment of power before digging Crater Lake into the middle of the city. Next he would call for the pope. It could be one of the dead ones for all it mattered.

  “What do you want them for, Jerry?”

  “Tell them they’re invited to a world premiere!”

  “Please!”

  Crystal’s voice, stretched thin.

  Something thumped; the butt of a revolver? A whimper stopped in the middle.

  “I didn’t get all those names, Jerry,” Karyl said. “Can you repeat?” He sounded as calm as a lagoon at midnight.

  “I don’t chew my cabbage twice! If any of them—any one!—doesn’t show, I’ll put a hole in Little Miss Box Office’s head. How do you think that’ll go over with the critics?”

  “Gratuitous violence, Jerry. You know the la
nguage.”

  A shot destroyed some more historical architecture.

  “Stop dicking around! You know my demands!”

  “It’ll take time to reach them all. We don’t want to go to all the trouble if you get impatient and do something you can’t undo.”

  Marcus laughed; high and shrill. I felt again something scampering across my hand. Whether he was as mad as Mab or acting, it all amounted to the same thing. I set down the axe, propping it between my knees, mopped my palms on my thighs, and picked it back up.

  “Been there, done that,” he said. “Ask Tom. Ask Moze.”

  “If you’re confessing to the murders of your brother and Alec Moselle, we can still work something out. Jerry, you’re not capable of making a rational decision. We’ve got people who can help you through that. You’re not a criminal, just someone who needs help.”

  “I’m just fine. It’s the rest of the world needs help. Are you going to give me what I want or not? This vest is getting hot.”

  “So take it off. Who’s stopping you?”

  “Enough. The show always starts on time.”

  I cocked the axe behind my hip; fisted it in both hands.

  “How about letting the young lady go while we’re waiting?”

  A bullet pierced the plaster patch two inches shy of my left knee. I froze with the axe cocked.

  It was a wild shot. He was so far gone he’d slung it away from the projector opening, toward what should have been concrete block. By all rights the slug should have spanged around the booth, endangering captive and captor.

  Silence followed.

  I lowered the axe; drew the revolver.

  Crazy isn’t stupid. He’d investigate.

  Something made a scratching sound. It might have been a rat gnawing at one of the ropes that held me up.

  I hoped that’s all it was.

  I scrambled aside of the patch of plaster an instant before a hole tore through it. I heard the shot, and the slug burying itself in the wall backstage.

  In the dim light, something stuck itself through the bullet hole; a finger, probing into nothingness.

  He didn’t know I was there. I had that on my side, also the distraction from the auditorium and his captive. I breathed as shallowly as possible.

  Waiting. With an axe in one hand and a revolver in the other.

  A moment of silence, followed by an explosion.

  I flinched; who wouldn’t, knowing what the well-dressed homicidal maniac was wearing that season? A foot in a thick-soled combat boot poked through a hole in the plaster, spilling out a ragged oval of light from the other side. He had a powerful kick, but fast reflexes also; the foot withdrew before I could swing the axe.

  Something heavy scraped the floor on the other side of the partition, eclipsing the light from inside. He was fortifying that position.

  I dropped the axe, holstered the revolver, grasped two ropes, swung back, swung forward, back again, and Errol-Flynned my way, feet foremost, through the plaster.

  I stuck the landing, standing in the middle of a concrete pillbox staring at Jerry Marcus: his mouth open, face distended, one hand holding his full-bellied Magnum, the other the remote, programmed to the ordnance on his vest. A rolling metal rack lay on its side in a litter of film cans. I’d knocked it over before he could finish blocking the entrance.

  The room was tiny, just big enough for the man in charge to turn from the projector to the film rack. The projector itself, a monster Bell & Howell the size of a VW Beetle, took up most of the space, shining its steel-beam-solid shaft of light through a small aperture in the concrete wall onto the screen on the other side of the auditorium; the heat of its bulb turned the room into an oven. Jerry Marcus had sweat clear through his explosive vest, a khaki one with lots of pockets like photographers wore to carry their extra lenses, cameras, and rolls of film; he’d probably taken it from Moze’s studio along with the chemicals he’d needed. A tangle of wires stretched from a flap pocket on his chest to both bulging side pockets.

  His hostage, a thin blond young woman in a loose flannel shirt and ripped jeans, was drenched also. Her eyes stared from their sockets in a face distended with terror.

  “Drop it!” Jerry gripped both weapons tight.

  I had the .38 half out. I drew it the rest of the way between two fingers and let it fall. His eyes followed the movement. In that instant I shoved the massive projector around on its swivel.

  A quarter-ton of Hollywood technology swung his way. He ducked it, but he stumbled against the concrete wall, dropping the remote and the revolver.

  I lunged to catch the remote before it hit the floor.

  I missed; but the only noise it made when it struck was a rattle. I lunged for it.

  I was closer, but Marcus’ reflexes held up. He kicked it into a corner. I raced him. This time he was closer. He came up with it as my hand whiffed past him.

  There was only one button, a yellow one the size of a dime. His thumb pressed down on it.

  Nothing happened.

  He pressed it again and again, shaking the remote. Then he looked down at his vest. The wires were gone. He looked at me.

  I opened my hand and let them fall to the floor.

  He snatched up the Magnum while I was still reaching for my .38. The gun roared, echoing off concrete.

  In the instant, I almost groped at my chest for the bullet.

  My ears rang. I looked down at Jerry Marcus, sprawled on the pile of film reels with a blue-black hole in the center of his forehead.

  Later, the cleanup team found three nicks in the concrete walls where his slug had ricocheted before it spent itself, a misshapen lump of lead and copper lying like a dead bee on the floor. It had missed the girl and me by inches. He was already dead when his finger pressed the trigger.

  I’d forgotten about the big projector. When I’d spun it away from the square opening to the auditorium, the bright shaft had gone with it. I turned around and looked into the face of a man in an ERT uniform in the balcony on the other side. His scoped rifle rested on the railing, aimed for a second shot. I raised my hands.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Let’s go, Crystal. We’re in the way.”

  The young woman had backed herself into a corner, hugging her knees. Her eyes moved slowly toward the dead man on the floor, but I was standing in front of him. The sniper was wired for sound; he’d lowered his rifle and given me the wave.

  After a long time the ticket clerk stirred. Her hand was clammy. I pulled her to her feet, still blocking her view of Marcus, and we went down by way of the stairs leading to the auditorium, she leaning on me with most of her weight.

  “How did you know my name?” Her voice was little-girl small. I had to strain to hear it.

  “Oh, you’re famous.”

  Halfway down I stopped and pulled her with me against the wall. The stairwell had gotten crowded suddenly.

  The Detroit Bomb Squad came up, hut-hutting military fashion in their RoboCop outfits, carrying shields and a stainless-steel container the size of a trash basket.

  An Ann Arbor uniform shooed us out of the building. There a female officer relieved me of Crystal. Lately I couldn’t seem to hang onto a woman more than a few minutes.

  It looked as if the city had been occupied by a foreign power. There wasn’t a civilian in sight. They’d been cleared from the area for four blocks all around. Bullhorns squealed feedback, distorting warnings to keep things that way.

  Or maybe they weren’t distorted at all. I kept wondering who was playing the cymbals until I realized they were crashing for me alone, a command performance.

  After twenty minutes the bomb squad came out, two men walking abreast inside a protective circle, each with both hands on a handle of the container. They bucket-brigaded it up to a man standing in the top hatch of the armored carrier. Just another day on the job, which turned over every couple of weeks. The local uniforms applauded as the big ugly half-track rolled away.

  I was still there,
smoking my tenth cigarette in a half hour, when they brought the body down in a zipper bag on an aluminum stretcher. They loaded it into a boxy county ambulance and slammed the doors shut on Jerry Marcus.

  THIRTY

  “Can you say it again? I still can’t hear anything on that side.”

  Lieutenant Karyl raised his voice. “I said we found out where Marcus was holed up: House in Saline, a mortgage-foreclosure job, been on the market three months. He broke in through a back door. He left behind a coffee can with better than sixty grand in it in cash; had to have been him, otherwise the payments would have been made. Next order of business is tracking down all his suckers and making a fair distribution.”

  We were in his office in the municipal building. It had been three days and the blinding flash of an explosion was still jerking me out of a sound sleep.

  “Whatever you do,” I said, “some of them won’t think it’s fair.”

  “Who gives a shit?” He waved a hand at yesterday’s Ann Arbor News and Detroit Free Press on his desk. “Both the local editor and this guy Stackpole quote an anonymous source using almost the same words. You’re pretty good at spreading the wealth yourself.”

  “I had promises to keep.”

  “And miles to go before you sleep.”

  I put out my cigarette in a glass tray with a block M in the base. “I keep forgetting they teach cops to read here.”

  “The Crystal girl’s going to be all right. Her parents picked her up from St. Joe, where they had her under observation overnight. They’re sorting through invitations for her to appear on Today and Good Morning America.”

  “Kids. They bounce back.”

  “Speaking of which, we know now why Marcus laid off the Zacharias girl. She stopped mattering when he decided to take himself out with the building. He had the detonator hooked up to an ordinary nine-volt battery, that’s all he needed. The Detroit bomb guys blew up his vest on state land outside Chelsea. That’s about thirty miles from here. People heard it here in town.”