CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I slept a long time, and knew it, in a broken-brained, vague sort of way. There were dreams, both waking and sleeping, and one was the same as the other. Shifting, formless shapes merged into one another and split apart like an amoebic conga line. Harsh, insistent voices urged me to idiotic efforts-like waking up. I couldn't have cared less.

  Later, my dark world stopped bubbling like the water in a furiously boiling coffeepot. The water steamed off and someone turned off the heat. I slept comfortably and quietly. In time, somewhere in the depths of my lethargy, I began to care again. I swam leisurely to the surface, shedding sleep as I rose. My world became progressively less comfortable as I awoke. I hadn't quite slept off a splitting headache. My sides ached as though I'd been kicked in half and sewn back together. My ankles were tied together. My wrists were bound behind my back.

  Before opening my eyes, I lay on my side and remembered what had happened to me. Hopefully, I thought back further. But my thoughts still halted at the same place: waking up in the river. The pounding my head had taken from Clef's bully boys hadn't jogged my memory back into place.

  I sighed audibly and opened my eyes. I was on the couch in Clef's office above the movie house. All the lights were on. My jacket was crumpled beside me. I could see by the flatness of its pocket that my gun was gone. My sigh attracted the attention of the lean, gray-suited man reading a comic book behind Clef's desk. He lowered the comic book and surveyed me with interest. It was the bully boy with the knife-edged face. His pants and jacket creases matched his general build.

  "Well, well," he rasped, his bloodless lips parting but his teeth remaining clenched against a stubby, unlit cigar. "You gonna wake up fo' you funeral after all? T'ought you was gonna sleep t'rough it and spoil de fun."

  I tried to speak. I surprised myself by succeeding. "How long have I been out?"

  He laughed. It was really a belly grunt that blossomed around his cigar. "Dis is tomorrow, boy. Almos' noon. Beauty nap you got."

  He dropped the comic book, open at his place, on the desk. He came around and shoved me over on my stomach and tested my wrist and ankle ropes. I could hardly feel the rope digging into my flesh. "Can't you loosen those ropes a little? They're cutting my circulation off." He laughed. He took the cigar out of his mouth this time to make it a good hearty one. "Dat's good. Dat's funny. Cut off da circulation. Ya worry. An' we gonna cut it off fa good soon. Dat ya should worry."

  I managed to sit up on the sofa and lower my numbed feet to the carpet. My head swam dizzily, then calmed.

  "What are you waiting for?" I asked him. "If you're going to kill me, why are you waiting?"

  "For da boss to give da say-so."

  "You mean Clef?"

  "Naw. Da boss. He's away, odder places. Hard to get on da phone. Clef's gotta get orders. Den we cool ya."

  He went back behind the desk and took up his comic book. I was not important to him for the time being. I stared at the gaudy comic cover that hid his face and began to sweat. In lurid colors, the cover depicted a horror scene. A white-bearded ghoul was dipping a nearly naked, screaming girl into a vat of boiling water. The cold-bloodedness of this well-pressed moron was a seal on my doom. I wished I was nice and safe in Mack Fisher's jail. Here they had me and there was no doubt that I was going to die, unless I began acting smarter than I had in the past days.

  My bound hands explored the depths behind the cushion I sat on. I felt a sharp metal edge and froze. It wasn't a sofa I was sitting on. It was one of those convertible beds. The sharp edge was die point of a solid spring end. With my eyes glued on Knife Edge, I tested my wrist ropes against the point of the spring. I worked carefully, so the point wouldn't slip into my skin. The point wedged its way slowly into the rope. I forced with steadily mounting pressure till the point emerged through the rope. I pulled the rope off the spring, then began shoving it in again. I felt some strands break.

  I worked against time, fighting fear, sweat oozing from my skin. I jabbed the spring point into the rope, yanked it out. Jabbed and yanked, jabbed and yanked, while time sped past me in the silence of that frightening office, each second carrying away a chance of my getting out of here alive.

  Knife Edge was a slow reader. I could follow his progress through the comic book by watching the slicked-down top of his head. It dwelled on each picture, then jerked over slightly like the abrupt movement of a type-writer carriage. Occasionally some part of his reading drew a grunt from his belly. Once he chuckled. He chewed methodically on his unlit cigar butt, pausing periodically to spit shreds of tobacco leaf on the carpet beside him.

  He was worrying his way through the last pages when the office doorknob turned. He dropped the comic book and glanced over at the door. I yanked my bound hands out from behind the cushion and felt the ropes with my fingers. Half through. I had broken the rope only half through. As the door swung open, I pitted all my strength against the ropes, straining till my eyes bulged. The ropes didn't budge. I relaxed and prayed for more time.

  Clef came through the door with Brutal. The door closed behind them. Clef and Brutal looked at Knife Edge. Then all three of them looked at me.

  "Has he been behaving?" Clef asked over his shoulder, keeping his worried gaze on me.

  "Like a angel," Knife Edge told him.

  "That's good." Clef came across the room and stood over me. I could see a long blue bruise across his temple where the barrel of my gun had clouted him. "Ginger," he said, "I told you to clear out. Now you're going to die."

  "So you did kill Jeff, after all," I said. "And the others."

  Clef's face creased with annoyance that halted in a wince of pain. He reached up a forefinger and touched the bruise on his white temple. "No. We didn't and we don't give a damn who did. No skin off us either way. But we aren't playing kids' games here. And you pushed us too hard for comfort last night. Taking our books and muscling us. Next thing you'd be hauling Fisher up here. You've just committed suicide."

  The nerves of my stomach tightened. But I couldn't believe I was really about to die. I talked to prevent myself from believing it. "So you got the word from your boss, eh?"

  Clef swiveled angrily to face Knife Edge. "Your big mouth! I told you to keep it shut."

  "Ah, Clef, what da hell? We gonna cool him anyway, ain't we? So what da hell's it matta?"

  "I'd call up your boss again, if I were you," I bluffed at Clef. "Kill me and it's sure to be pinned on you and ruin your play in this county."

  Clef seated himself casually on a chair and eyed me. "Tell me more, Ginger," he said. He didn't seem more worried than he had. I knew I'd have to make it good.

  "First of all," I pointed out, "Grace Stewart was in here with me last night. She'll wonder what happened to me. If I don't show up, she'll tell Fisher where she last saw me and he'll bust in here like a ton of bricks."

  Clef sneered. Knife Edge took his cue and sputtered a nasty laugh. Brutal leaned his tremendous back against the door and grunted at me, his eyes remembering that I'd knocked him out last night. "Ginger," Clef rasped, "you're way off. You're going to die and no amount of talking is going to get you out of that. First of all, Miss Stewart was asking for you right after we carried you into this office last night. We told her you left and didn't come back. So she thinks you just walked out on your date with her."

  I nodded wisely at him, as though I knew things he hadn't thought of. I carefully twisted my wrists in the tight ropes and tugged. The rope loosened a fraction of an inch. I looked slowly around the room. None of them seemed to notice.

  "She may think that now," I told Clef, "but when I don't show up she'll get other ideas and tell them to Fisher."

  "I don't think so." Clef smiled widely for the first time since he entered the room. "You see, we've found out about you being wanted for those Bridesport murders. She'll just figure you've skipped out."

  "She'll tell Fisher this was the last place she saw me." Clef dropped his smile and got worried again. "Maybe. And maybe Fisher will barge in here. But all that'll mean is we'll have to move someplace else again. And just for a while. There's a local election coming up in a week. And our outfit has money in it that says Fisher'll be out on his ear when it's over. Then we take over this county and stop worrying. And nobody finds you; if they do it won't be much trouble. You'll be just a murderer that persons unknown caught up with."

  The rope had slackened to the point where my wrists could swivel inside them. Now if they'd only leave me alone for a few minutes so I could get my hands free, I'd…

  "Clef," I wheedled, "call up your boss and tell him I can be more valuable to you alive than dead."

  "Yeah? How do you mean?"

  "Look. You want in over in Bridesport. Even if you do win this election, you're going to have to find some local boy to front for you. Someone the people there know. This murder business is a phony. I'll clear myself. And then you can just move into the setup I've got over my bar. Move stuff in. We've got a lot of room."

  I stopped talking because Clef was shaking his white head from side to side. "Ginger, you can stop talking. You aren't beating any murder rap." He stood up, shoving his chair back. "And we don't need you any more."

  I felt chilly. I knew my efforts to talk my way out had petered into nothing. A waste of breath. But I asked him, anyhow: "Why?"

  Clef came over and stuck a forefinger against my chest. He pulled it away and jabbed me again. "Because, wise guy, we got somebody else-and your crumby joint, too." I wanted to spit in his sneering face. "Who?" I asked, the word coming hard out of my constricted throat.

  Clef leaned over me and touched his injured temple. His lips drew away from his teeth in a snarl. He hated my guts. I smelled the toilet water on him and hated him back. And then the phone on the desk rang.

  Both of us jumped and looked at the phone. He walked over and picked it up. "Yeah?… Yeah, it's Clef… O.K., I'll be right over." He hung up and turned to me.

  "I've got an errand to run. You might as well relax, Ginger. You've got till tonight." He walked back toward me and put his hands on his hips. "You know what's going to happen then?"

  I kept quiet, letting him see all of my hate in my face. He flinched, then remembered I was tied securely. "Wabash, downstairs, is going to give you a little injection with his needle. You're going to be a dope for your last hour on earth, Ginger. We're going to untie you, and you're going to walk out of here under your own steam when it gets dark. We won't even have to keep a gun on you. You'll be doped to the eyelids. You'll get into my car out front. And when we get you to a nice, secluded spot, I'm going to wait till the dope wears off. Then I'm going to shoot you myself, personally, in the stomach."

  I felt an idiotic desire to laugh at him. He was almost drooling. He didn't look like a smooth old man any more. He looked crazy.

  "Ginger," he mouthed, squinting at me, "I don't like people hitting me. You're going to die slow." He motioned to the big man against the door. "You watch him till I come back." He grabbed Knife Edge by the arm. "Shiv, you come with me."

  Brutal came across the room at me. Clef and his thin lieutenant went to the door. Clef paused with his hand on the knob. He glanced back at me and Brutal. He saw something in my face that bothered him.

  "See if he's still tied O.K.," he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I cringed involuntarily as Brutal reached for my shoulder. He shoved me on my side and reached for my wrist ropes. I lay there, the nap of the couch against my cheek, and I ceased to care. I was through.

  Brutal yelled, "Hey, Clef! Lookadis!"

  Clef came over and swore viciously. I let myself go limp as Brutal's hand lifted me by the shoulder. His other hand slammed against the side of my face, knocking me clear off the couch and onto the floor. I lay face down on the rug and felt Brutal's shoe thud into the muscles of my thigh, it didn't even try to roll away from him. It didn't matter. I was cold meat for the butcher.

  "You dirty sonofabitch!" That was Clef's voice. He gave orders I hardly heard. My thinking box was turned off for the day. For good. I thought, I might as well be dead. I should have been dead when I woke up in the river. Fate slipped that night. Now it was catching up with me.

  Brutal's massive hands seized the ropes around my wrists, snapped them with one pull. Then Brutal knelt beside my head. He took a .45 automatic from a shoulder holster under his jacket and poked it in my face. "Just don' move!"

  Skinny fingers retied the rope around my wrists, pulling them deep into the flesh. I stared into the muzzle of the .45 and lay still, my heart pounding sluggishly, trying to rouse me from my lethargy.

  "O.K." It was Clef's voice. "Roll him over."

  Brutal stood up, kicked me over onto my back. I looked up at their faces, outlined against the ceiling. My executioners.

  "Check the rope around his ankles."

  Brutal tugged at the rope. "She's O.K."

  "All right," Clef said. "Keep him on the floor, out of trouble. Shiv and I are going to show them where to put the new wheel."

  Clef and Knife Edge left. Brutal sat heavily on the sofa and folded his beefy hands on his lap, like a boy at school. His beady little eyes watched me. His face was blank. He looked invincible. I looked away from him, up at the ceiling.

  I began to think again, despite my effort not to. I thought of my wife, Pat. Of her beautiful face and body, mine for so short a time. Mine no more. She'd be waiting for me, wondering, worrying. Maybe she was crying, like the first night I came back to her from the dead. It wasn't good to think of Pat. I felt the urge to live stir in me again.

  The gorilla on the couch sat and stared at me without a sound, without moving. I remembered the way the flashlight had smashed against his thick skull. That gave me a short flush of pleasure. Till I looked at him. There wasn't a mark on his head. I wondered if a truck could kill him.

  The door opened and the doped-up punk kid slithered in.

  "Hey," he breathed, "Clef wants you to help him break open the crate the wheel's in. He says I should stay here with Ginger."

  Brutal grunted and got off the couch. From my position on the floor his towering hulk seemed to reach to the ceiling. He went out, closing the door softly behind him.

  The gray-faced kid jittered over and stared down at ma He breathed jerkily through his open mouth, his glassy eyes blinking, his purplish lips quivering. A surge of hope flowed through me. Here was no invincible hulk of a gorilla. Here was something I might be able to handle.

  I forced a contemptuous grin.

  "What the matter?" I taunted. "Your keepers rationing your needle?"

  "Huh?"

  "I said, you stink. Even from down here I can smell you. Why don't you breathe through your nose like you were five years old instead of two?"

  His lips clamped shut. For an instant he glared, breathing hoarsely through his nostrils. Then his lips burst apart with a bubbling cough. "You bastard!" he screamed. "I'll cut you apart!"

  He brought a knife out of his pocket, pressing its button. The blade snicked out, long and evil. He leaned down, pointing the blade at my throat. I constricted my body like a spring and catapulted my bound feet at him with all my strength. The heels of my shoes hit his stomach, doubled him over, and slammed him back against the desk. The knife fell from his nerveless hand.

  With one frantic, continued movement, I threw my legs high into the air, shoved my bound wrists past my buttocks, under my legs and past my feet. I snapped forward onto my feet, my tied hands in front of me now. I wavered for an instant, then fell forward on top of the kid just as he pulled the automatic from his shoulder holster.

  My numbed hands caught at the gun, swung its muzzle away from my body, ripped it from his hand. He squirmed furiously, trying to get out from under me. I dropped the gun and grabbed his throat in my eager fingers. He had the strength of a baby. Even with my hands and feet tied, he was no match for me. I tightened my grip on his throat, squeezing with all the power of my hands, arms, and shoulders. He managed to break the grip just long enough to let out a high-pitched scream. Then my thumbs dug deep into his neck. I raised off the floor and leaned all my weight behind my thumbs. Something inside his throat broke with an audible snap. His head fell back and lolled against the floor. His jugular vein ceased to pulse against the balls of my thumbs.

  I dropped his head and rolled away, toward the knife he had dropped. I found it and hacked at the ropes that held my ankles. My feet fell away from each other. I reversed the knife and sawed awkwardly at the rope securing my wrists. I was bathed in perspiration. Someone must have heard him scream.

  The office door banged open as the rope fell away from my wrists. I dropped the knife and dived for the kid's automatic. Knife Edge took one step into the room with his gun out. It roared behind me like a clap of thunder. A bullet seared a white-hot groove along my ribs. I caught up the gun on the floor in my right hand, rolled over on my back, and fired simultaneously with Knife Edge's second shot. His hit the floor beside me. Mine caught him in the chest, driving him back against the wall.

  His face fell apart as though his brain had forgotten about holding it together. But his finger kept squeezing the trigger of his gun. Three of his bullets went way wild before I shot him again. His gun thudded to the floor. He turned slowly and faced the wall, leaning against it with tired hands. He fell over backward without bending and hit the floor with his shoulders. He lay dead and stared up at the ceiling.

  I staggered to my feet and pointed the automatic at the open doorway. Clef came through it, his gun blasting at me. The flat reports of the automatic in my hand echoed against his. One of my shots hit his forehead, high above his left eye. A round, dark hole appeared. A drop of blood trickled out of it. His eyes rolled up in his head, showing all white.

  He didn't get a chance to fall. Brutal, coming from behind him, shoved him out of the way. He was thrown like a heap of clothes onto the red-stained carpet beside Knife Edge. Brutal walked in like a slow-footed metal monster, the .45 a childish squirt gun in his massive grip. Only this squirt gun squirted lead. I felt a bullet tug my sleeve. I aimed and fired twice.

 

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