Part 27 (1/2)

”Take out the piece,” he said. ”Do it slow. Very slow. Don't point it at me. I'd just as soon shoot you now and find out later who the h.e.l.l you are.”

I took out the gun and I did it slowly. There was a warehouse across the street, dark and silent. On our side was a row of brownstones filled with people who didn't report gunshots to the police. I let the gun point at the ground.

”Drop it.”

I dropped it. It bounced once on the pavement and lay still.

”Kick it.”

”Where?”

”Just kick it.”

I kicked it. The .38 skidded twenty feet, bounced into the gutter. His gun was still on my ribs and he kept poking me as a reminder.

”Now we wait,” he said. ”It shouldn't be long.”

IT WASN'T LONG AT ALL. They came down the block from Livonia, walking fast but not quite running. They had their hands in their pockets and their hats down over their foreheads. They were in uniform. I stood there with Danny's gun in my ribs and waited for them. They came down the block from Livonia, walking fast but not quite running. They had their hands in their pockets and their hats down over their foreheads. They were in uniform. I stood there with Danny's gun in my ribs and waited for them.

”He's a cop,” one of them said.

Danny dug at me. ”A cop?”

”A private cop. His name is London and he's sticking his nose into things he shouldn't. They tried to buy him off but he wouldn't be bought.”

”It's good we checked.”

”Well,” the punk said. ”They said anybody comes nosing for Miltie, we should call. So I called.”

I looked at my gun. It was three miles away from me in the gutter. I wanted it in my hand.

”What's the word, man?”

”The word is we got a contract.”

”At what price?”

”Three yards apiece,” the punk said. He was thinner than Danny, maybe a year or two older. His face was pockmarked and his eyes bulged when he stared, as though he needed gla.s.ses but he was afraid they wouldn't fit the hard-guy image.

”Cheap,” Danny said.

”h.e.l.l, it's an easy hit. We just take him and dump him. Nothing to it, Danny.”

”Yeah.”

”It's three quick bills. And it sets us up, man. It makes us look good and it gives us an in.”

They would need all the ins they could get. Danny was sloppy, strictly an amateur. You don't stand next to a person when you're holding a gun on him. You get as far away as you can. The gun's advantage increases with distance. The closer you are, the less of an edge you've got.

”We take him for a ride,” Danny was saying. ”Take him the same place they gave it to Miltie. Ride him around Canarsie, hit him in the head, then drive back.”

”Sure, Danny.”

”We use his car,” he went on. ”Which is your car, buster?”

”The Chevy.”

”The red convertible?”

”That's the one.”

”Gimme the keys.”

He was much too close. He should have backed off four or five steps, more if he was a good enough shot. He was making my play too easy for me.

”The keys.”

The other two were in front of us. They both had their hands in their pockets. They were heeled, but one had his jacket b.u.t.toned and the other looked slow and stupid.

”The keys!”

I let him nudge me with the gun. I felt the muzzle poke into me, then relax.

I dropped. I fell down and I fell toward him, and I snapped his arm behind his back and took the gun right out of his hand. One punk was trying to reach through his jacket b.u.t.ton to his own gun. I gave the trigger a squeeze and the bullet hit him in the throat. He took two steps, clapped both hands to his neck, fell over, and died.

The other one-the slow-looking one-wasn't so slow after all. He drew in a hurry and he shot in a hurry, but he didn't stop to remember that I was using Danny as a s.h.i.+eld. He had time to get off two shots. One went wide. The other caught Danny in the chest. The punk was getting ready for a third shot when I snapped off a pair that caught him in the center of the chest. Danny's gun was a .45. The holes it made were big enough to step in.

I dropped Danny just as he was starting to bleed on me. He was still alive but didn't figure to last more than a few seconds. He blacked out immediately.

I wiped my prints off his .45 and tossed it next to him on the pavement. I ran over to the curb, scooped my .38 out of the gutter, and wedged it into my shoulder rig. That made it easy for the cops. Three punks had a fight and killed each other, and to h.e.l.l with all of them. n.o.body would shed tears for them. They weren't worth it.

The gunshots were still echoing in the empty streets. I looked at three corpses for a second or two, then ran like h.e.l.l. I kept going for two blocks, turned a corner, slowed down. I was digging a pipe out of a pocket when the sirens started up.

I filled the pipe, lit it. I walked down the street smoking and taking long breaths and telling my nerves they could unwind now.

But my nerves didn't believe it...I couldn't blame them.

Brooklyn was cool, quiet, and dark, with only the police siren cutting through the night. I got back on Livonia, skirted the diner, got into the Chevy.

Behind the wheel, I dumped out my pipe, put it away. Then I drove along, trying to remember the directions to Ashford Street. I got lost once, but I found the place-Klugsman's address.

The building was like all the others. He must have been small-time, I thought. Otherwise he would have found a better place to live. I walked into the front hallway. A kid, twelve or thirteen, was sprawled on the stairs with a Pepsi in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He watched me lean on Klugsman's bell.

”The bell don't work,” he said. ”You looking for Mrs. Klugsman?”

I hadn't known there was one, but I was looking for her now. I told the kid so.

”Upstairs,” he said. ”Just walk right up. Third floor, apartment three-C.”