Dead End

by Ed Lacy

  13—

  I must have fallen off in the early hours, for I awoke this morning when Doc felt of my wrist, looking for my watch. When I pulled it out, it was nearly noon. I explained why I was hiding it and Doc thought it was a smart move. I washed and took the second basket to the express office, my heart beating like a fast drum, wondering if the police would be waiting for me. I'd left my pen at the house, and I had to stop and buy another one. The same clerk was working the counter and he didn't say a word. I told him I'd found more clothes to send my brother.

  On the way back to the house I even walked into a ratty-looking bar for a fast shot to quiet my nerves. There was some loud jerk working off an all-night binge and feeling very gay for himself. He started kidding about my blond hair reminding him of the faggy wrestlers he saw on TV and I got out of the bar fast—before I clipped him.

  The big money was packed in four packages, each a little bigger than a good-sized box of candy. I carried them in a shopping bag. Doc gave me the addresses of the two post offices, reminded me to bring back food for a last supper. He said he would be shaved and dressed by the time I returned, and we'd take off for the market at around ten. Doc had even managed to find a couple of dirty old canvas bags in Molly's room, big enough to carry most of the hundred grand we were each going to take, and the kind of a bag a working stiff would be carrying his few belongings in.

  I felt jittery as I walked toward the first post office. However, Doc had this down pat. It was a drugstore with a one-window post office in the rear. There was a girl clerk. I took out two of the packages, made out labels for them, gave her one as I said, “Parcel post.” To my surprise, my voice sounded calm.

  “Anything breakable in here?” she asked, weighing it.

  “Nope. Just some old notebooks and letters my brother wants.”

  “Then—you mean it contains writing?”

  “Only a lot of pencil writing. You know, school notebooks.”

  “Pen or pencil doesn't make the slightest difference. It's still writing and must be sent first class. This will cost you a dollar and eighty cents.”

  I could have won an Oscar, the doubtful way I stared at the five-dollar bill I was fingering. After the proper hesitation, I muttered, “Sure is a lot of money for nothing. I thought I could ship it parcel post. What would that cost?”

  “What's the difference?” she asked a little stiffly. “You'll have to send it first class.”

  “Well, it beats me why he wants these old papers anyway. But they must be important to him, so send it first class. What's this one add up to?” I asked, handing her the second package. “Has writing in it, too.”

  “This is heavier. Be a... two dollars and twenty cents.”'

  I handed her the five bucks as I said, “I hope I ain't putting out money I'll never get back.”

  The other substation wasn't part of a store. I mean it was, or used to be, a store, but all of it was a post office with several windows. I went through the same routine with the last packages. There were a few wanted flyers on a bulletin board. I couldn't see our mugs and didn't have nerve enough to look.

  I dropped into a coffeepot for a sandwich. Food sometimes calmed my nerves, but not now. I felt high, all of me racing—the way I guess a charge of “horse” hits you. It didn't seem possible I was successfully pulling off one of the biggest scores in crime history.

  I was eating aimlessly; sandwich, pie, toast, cake. I told myself to haul tail out of this place. It would be some jerky, needless move, some little thing, that would queer the whole deal. Elma rarely went farther from the apartment than the corner store, but today she might be walking around here, drop in for a cup of coffee. Not that she'd make me in this clown outfit. Still, it was a needless chance. It was the first time I'd thought of her in days. I wondered how she was taking all this. Not that it mattered to me.

  The fly-specked wall clock said it was eleven after four as I started for the house, anxious to duck any coming-from-work crowds. I stopped in at a small supermarket I'd never been in before, bought some food for supper. I even lucked up on Doc's yen—frozen strawberries.

  As I walked I felt very good, very sure of myself. I'd tested my clown outfit enough to have absolute confidence in it as a disguise. Looking at myself in a store window, I only saw a sloppy-looking fat slob in dirty clothes. And now that all the money was moving, it seemed like most of the work was done, although I knew I was a long way from being in the clear.

  The good feeling—all feelings—fled the second I turned into “our” block. I saw smoke coming out of the house! Fire engines and squad cars were all around the place, blocking the street!

  I ducked into a doorway and for a heavy, dumb moment I didn't get it. The firemen were hosing the wooden house but didn't seem to have the fire under control. I wondered where Doc was—a dull pounding in the front of my head warning me it was all over.

  They moved a pump engine closer, giving me a clear view of the sidewalk near the house. I saw Doc—oh, I sure saw him—in the midst of a crowd of cops and detectives! I even saw Ollie and that little punk who had flattened me. Doc was talking to Lieutenant Smith. Doc looking like a runt next to Smith. Doc still unshaven and in his own wrinkled clothes. Of course, I couldn't hear what Doc was saying. But I didn't have to: His gesturing hands told me plenty—he was going through the motions of his hands being tied! I sure got the message then—right between my stupid eyes!

  14—

  I got the whole picture in one staggering flash. I'd been had from the go!

  Doc with his damn lighter fluid! Smart Doc had me timed to the minute, probably figured on me stopping for coffee, or a shot: Doc had set the house afire a few minutes ago. He had tied his hands and waited for the firemen and cops to find him. Or could be smart old Doc had even raced out of the house first to pull the fire alarm!

  Doc the fox had framed me from the moment he first saw me after the Batty Johnson killing. He wanted me for a partner. Why, the sonofabitch had framed me like a picture! He must have been shopping around for a muscle dope like me ever since he'd got the idea for the kidnapping a long time ago—when he'd heard that Australian nursemaid shooting off her mouth in a bar.

  Oh, Doc was thorough: The perfect snatch needed a perfect fall guy—me! How all those “coincidences” fell in line now, fitted so tightly I wanted to scream. Doc had set me up, and Betty too. Doc and the tall guy were the kidnappers. Maybe another corpse somewheres around town had been in on it. Doc had told the thin guy to wait at Betty's. No wonder Doc had been angry when I busted up with Judy; he must have had her marked as the girl. Then, when I broke up with Judy... How decent and generous Doc had been in fixing Betty up. He needed her, needed a place for me to kill the thin guy!

  Crafty Doc, leaving nothing to chance, figuring every angle down to a split hair's width. The deal with the parked squad car, letting me go into Betty's alone, knowing I was so steamed about the kid's murder I'd blast his partner on sight. Child-killer Doc really knew me. Doc's gunning Betty lined up. Oh, how everything fitted: the convenient hideaway, maybe even “finding” the baskets in the cellar.

  But those were merely trimmings. His smartest move was knowing me like a book, holding the hoops and having fool me jump through like a trained dog.

  Watching Doc gesturing to Lieutenant Smith, I knew the fall he was setting me up for, what clever-clever Doc had in mind for me from the start. He would be giving them a simple story, so simple it had to sound true: When we found the kidnapper, I had thrown a gun on Doc; then I'd forced him to come with me, held him captive. And Doc's story would hold; it rang “true” in too many places. My brain was working on all cylinders, but even a dope could see the whole damn frame in a flash.

  I'd made the last phone call to the squad room.

  I'd ditched the car.

  Doc's gun was busted—they could prove it was my rod that had killed Molly.

  They'd found Doc in the house, probably with his hands tied. I was the guy on the loose.


  And I was the jerk in disguise. Doc even looked as if he'd been held captive. Wise, dapper Doc, refusing to shave or take a bath.

  The fire—that was the neat final touch, his real out. Doc wanted to be a rich hero. I could almost hear the bag of lies he must be giving them about the money burning. Would he say it was an accident? Or would he be bold enough to claim he did it on purpose, to attract the police? One thing was for certain, he had $205,000 to burn and Doc would have made it look like all the ransom money had been burned. And with over two hundred thousand bucks with which to salt and pepper the burnt remains of the suitcases, Doc could make it stand up.

  It was such a complete frame I almost had to admire Doc, in a cockeyed way. Old careful Doc, not getting into the game unless he started with a pair back-to-back. Yeah, all the real and circumstantial evidence was stacked against me. Even if I was caught, it would only be my word against his. If I surrendered and tried to tell the truth, I was still guilty of killing Molly. It had been my gun. I would end up in the chair—even if Doc burned with me.

  But Doc must have figured that one too, would see to it I wasn't caught alive.

  Almost as if he was reading my mind, I saw Doc motioning up and down the street. Cops and detectives started to fan out, guns in hand. Smart Doc telling them I was due back any second, that I was armed, and ready to shoot on sight!

  Okay, so this was how it would finally add up. I'd been suckered in. Only Doc had been smarter than he thought, so clever he didn't take his own advice. What had he lectured me about punks who made so many plans they messed themselves up? Doc with all his careful plans, his months and months of figuring each move and twist—Doc had outsmarted himself! I wasn't quite the brainless muscle he'd figured. I'd caught an ace on fifth street that would ruin his little pair backed up.

  I couldn't stay where I was; the police were coming nearer to my doorway. I'd been dumb to turn the corner. I should have taken off the moment I saw something was wrong. Only I suppose he knew I'd stop, that I'd be concerned about him. Doc sure knew me. I was only one doorway from the corner, had to chance it.

  I stepped out and started sprinting around the corner. The silly blanket around my waist wasn't meant for running. It came loose. Also I had bum luck. I couldn't have been in sight over a second, but I heard Doc shout, “There he is!”

  I ran wildly up the avenue, looking for a car, my brain racing faster than my feet. If I could only get away I'd be set. But the goddamn blanket was half out, trying to trip me. My pants were slipping. I must have looked comical, lurching this way and that, trying to stay on my feet as I ran, like a burlesque drunk. I could hear footsteps crowding behind me.

  I heard a shot, the slim whistle of a bullet over my head. A car had slowed down to see what all the commotion was about. But the woman driver's face screwed up with panic as she saw me running toward her. She pressed on the gas pedal. The car shot away.

  I was standing in the middle of the street, looking around like crazy. I ran to the other side of the avenue and ducked into the alley of a crummy apartment house as guns began going off like firecrackers.

  It's a cluck move—the alley is a dead end. I've made a fatal error: I should have stayed in that doorway, forced the door, taken my chances on holing up with whoever lived there. I might have made it; I have a gun. Oh God, how well Doc knew me—had figured I'd be a sap and make a run for it.

  The lousy cellar door is locked. A crummy tenement and they have the door locked! No sense clawing and kicking at it, hoping I can make it to the roof. That would be silly, even if I went over a couple of roofs—they must have the area staked out.

  So now I know I can't make it. It's no shock. I'd gambled for such a long shot I suppose deep in my mind I never expected to nail it down.

  Anyway, no place to run and I can't open this door. Lieutenant Smith's tall frame and Ollie's square body are at the alley entrance. Smith yells, “Keep your hands up, Penn!”

  Lousy Penn handle! I'll sure die with it.

  Ollie calls out, “Bucky, you haven't a chance!”

  But what chance do I have by giving up? I'll die anyway. True, I may take Doc with me. But I've already fixed Doc with my sleeve ace, thrown him a curve he'll never forget. Doc the great thinker, who overlooked one simple detail. Yeah, yeah, death is my only escape. Fancy Doc is counting on me doing just this, but Doc don't matter now.

  I go for my gun.

  Smith fires three times. Ollie lets one slug go. Crazy, I've counted the shots. Two of them have hit me. It's like being walloped over the guts with a night stick. Even through the half-out blanket and money belt. Ollie, did you aim to hit me?

  I'm falling over backwards. Now I can sit up. Ollie, Smith, a lot of new faces fuzzy at the alley entrance. I don't feel much pain. Plant one shot... over their heads. I have to make sure I'm not taken alive. Nate, you'd want me to go out fighting....

  Some uniformed slob empties his gun at me. Lousy shot. Only one slug hits me... in the leg. My stomach is starting to burn... Hey, another bullet has gone through the little bag of groceries I'm still holding in my left hand, for some stupid reason.

  Doc's strawberries are dripping on the dirty cement floor of the alley. Or is that my blood? The uniformed jerk has the hero fever, bucking for detective... he's a few steps up the alley, firing again. The miserable dummy must see I'm trapped... why can't he let me die?

  He's a blue blur. I fire twice. I'm lucky... there's a shrill scream.

  Then a lull. I can't even see any foggy faces in the alley entrance. The fire is hurting like hell, reaching up to scorch my heart. I'm done. “Ollie,” I yell, “come in and I'll give you my gun.”

  The alley is so peacefully quiet now. No sound came out of my mouth—it's full of hot cotton. Even if they can get me to the hospital, I'll never make it. “'Medics! Medics! Wounded man in this foxhole....”

  Sitting here in my clown outfit, I'm losing focus. Barely hold up my head. I'm falling sideways... I'm against the tenement wall. All I can see through my straining eyes are some of Doc's frozen strawberries in a red pool between my spread legs. Hey, they're the funniest thing in the world. Those strawberries... fancy dumb Doc!

  I have to laugh... Betty always wanted to see me laugh. Betty, look at me now! Only when I open my mouth more strawberries stream out. Me, a regular strawberry factory that... a blow on the shoulder... I'm flying backwards. That was a rifle shot.

  Flat on my back... nobody ever did that in the ring. Why is the sky so dark? I'll squeeze the trigger... can't aim, not trying to... Got to keep them off... Be sure I die. I want to die alone, just... Must be a lot of slugs hitting me. So this is dying? They don't hurt. Like mosquito bites when Nate and I are on a picnic. Like to be on one now. “Sure, I'll find some firewood....”

  It don't hurt but my body is jerking with each bullet. Must weigh a ton... What's the bad joke about the guy full of lead and... Oh! the pain... Damn fire, almost reached my brain that time. Ah, that's a little better. I always could take it. Can I take much more of this?

  How much...? Hey, the sky is no longer dark, it's bright red now. What is this, a sunset? Where is Doc... shooting at me? I'm still laughing at Doc... only it sounds like a rattle.

  If I could be sure they can't patch me up, I'd let them take me just so I could laugh right in Doc's fox-face. Old superior Doc with his big talk and bigger words... Must be thinking right this second how his plans are going like clockwork. In a day or two, when he's off on sick leave, he'll quietly take a plane, or drive like mad for Syracuse, to pick up the dough. Or has he got somebody there waiting for it? Somebody that will end up like me, full of bullets? It's a laugh.

  I don't know if I'm hysterical with pain or laughter. The... Through everything I can feel the vibration of steps on the cement floor. I squeeze the trigger once.... How many shells have I left?... The steps stop. My trigger finger is sticky... those damn strawberries.

  I want to shout. I yell, “Doc! Doc! It's the joke of the year... how sure you were
of me. Dumb Bucky! And... and now you won't get dollar one....”

  Yeah, I damn near pulled it off, despite Doc. Did I push my luck too far? Why did I have to return to the house, play the game out to the last card?... For the hundred grand.... When I had all the money for my...

  The steps are coming again. Where's the trigger? Where's... Is this death? I don't feel a thing, not even the dull pain... only the thin pumping of my stuttering heart.

  I want to die... Only, ah... if I could just see the look on Doc's face when he reaches that hotel... If I could tell him to his sharp face how I've switched labels on the packages... was going to head for California... where I'd sent all the money to myself. The old switcheroo, Doc. To Bucky Laspiza... my real self... care of Nate out on the... Coast.