Макс Коллинз - Road to Perdition

O’Sullivan seemed to be looking at nothing in particular, but he noted the way the newcomer was registering the farmer at the counter... and especially the cop. Right now O’Sullivan was the only other patron. Dark-haired but pale, the guy had a narrow, angular face — youthful, though O’Sullivan made him as around thirty.

But the oddest thing about him was the camera: he had a camera in his hands, as if he’d come to photograph this mundane diner. That was no tourist camera, either — O’Sullivan recognized it as one of those reflex-and-view cameras the news photogs used. Those babies went for over a hundred bucks...

The man with the camera took the booth next to O’Sullivan’s, but sat opposite him, the two men facing — and right now both were going out of their way not to look at each other.

Water and coffee in hand, Ruby approached the new customer, who said to her, “Pretty dead in here, huh?”

“You kiddin’? This is a stampede. Who has money for luxuries like eating, in these hard times.”

“Well, I do.”

“You look like it, handsome. What can I do you for?”

“What’s tonight’s special?”

“Honey, everything’s special.”

“Really?”

“Everything but the food.”

The guy laughed at that — giving the remark a little more reaction than it deserved. “Ruby, you oughta be on the radio.”

“Don’t I know it. I wrote to Amos and Andy, but they didn’t write back.”

Still chuckling, glancing at the menu, the man said, “Didn’t write back... Well, give me some of that honey-dipped fried chicken.”

“Duck soup. Need any sugar or cream for that coffee?”

“No. Black is fine.”

The cheerful waitress sauntered off, and the customer reached into his topcoat pocket and withdrew a roll of film. He began to load the camera, O’Sullivan noting all this, without seeming to.

Reaching in his own topcoat pocket, O’Sullivan withdrew his small silver flask. Putting a little weave into his actions, he poured whiskey into his coffee cup.

“Doesn’t bother me,” the man said.

O’Sullivan glanced up, seemingly unsteady, and — putting a tiny slur in his voice, not overdoing it — replied, “Bother what?”

The man leaned forward and whispered, as if keeping this conversation from the cop at the counter. “The hooch — used to be a free country. Man wants a little snort, no skin off my hindquarters.”

Eyes half-hooded, O’Sullivan smiled, poured more whiskey into the cup, hoping he was playing his role more convincingly than the fellow in the next booth was. Too friendly, way too friendly...

O’Sullivan raised the flask, in offering.

The man raised a hand in surrender. “No thank you, sir.” Then he returned to loading the camera, snapping it shut, fully loaded now.

“Profession?” O’Sullivan asked, voice wavering slightly, referring to the camera. “Or passion?”

“Little of both, I guess,” the guy said with a shrug. He had cold eyes that didn’t blink much; he’d probably worn that same smile, O’Sullivan thought, when he was a kid pulling the wings off flies.

“To be paid to do,” the man was saying, “what you love to do... Isn’t that the American dream?”

O’Sullivan lifted his shoulders, set them down, as if the action required both thought and effort. “Guess so.”

“And yourself?”

“Huh?”

“What’s your business?”

O’Sullivan blinked, thinking that over. “I’m in business.”

“I knew it!” the guy said. “When I saw that fancy Ford, I thought, ‘There goes a businessman.’ And what is your business?”

“Salesman. Machine parts.”

“Machine parts. The wheels that make the world go ’round — vital work. That’s wonderful.”

“Trus’ me,” O’Sullivan said, “it isn’t... So who do you work for?”

“Can you keep a secret?” He sat forward again, whispering: “I’m afraid I’m a tool of the yellow press... for which I humbly apologize.”

“No kidding? What paper?”

“Different ones. Also magazines. Ever read Startling Detective? Real Fact Crime ?”

“No... I’m the squeamish type.”

“Not me... I shoot the dead.”

O’Sullivan tilted his head. “What say?”

“Dead bodies, at crime scenes. The grislier the better, my editors say. What, did you think I killed them?”

With a laugh, O’Sullivan said, “Should hope not.”

Ruby came over to see if O’Sullivan needed more coffee. He said he didn’t. She asked if he wanted a slice of pie. He said not. Then she refilled the photographer’s cup and went back behind the counter.

The photographer picked up where he’d left off: “I know it probably sounds... sick. But death has always fascinated me. Dead bodies, particularly.”

O’Sullivan shivered. “Hey, I’m trying to keep a meal down, over here.”

“Now, friend, wait, think it over — the world needs people who aren’t afraid to look at unpleasantness. Where would we be without doctors? Without morticians?”

“I suppose.”

“The look of a person, right after life has left him — it’s fascinating. Ever see a dead body? I don’t mean in a coffin... I mean within minutes, seconds, of their last breath?”

O’Sullivan nodded.

“You have? Well, I’m sorry for you, friend, if it was a loved one or a friend... terrible thing, loss of life. But it sure does make you feel alive , doesn’t it?”

O’Sullivan raised his coffee cup. “I’ll drink to that.”

The man was eyeing the cop at the counter, who was finishing up, paying Ruby.

Then those unblinking eyes narrowed. “Funny — you’re sweating.”

O’Sullivan sipped the spiked coffee. “Am I?”

“Beads all over your forehead. Is a little warm in here. Funny, though, seein’ a guy sweating in the dead of winter. ’Course, the booze can make a man sweat.”

“And piss, too,” O’Sullivan said, scooching out of the booth.

“Hey, you need a hand, bud?”

“No — I’ll be fine,” O’Sullivan said, standing unsteadily. He began to make his way to the john, stumbling as he went.

“Take it easy, pal!” the man with the camera said.

“Thanks... watch my coffee for me.”

And O’Sullivan staggered into the men’s room.

Harlen Maguire sat, turned around in the booth, wondering if Mike O’Sullivan was as drunk as he seemed. Half a minute passed, and the bell over the door dinged — the cop going out.

Maguire reached in his jacket pocket, withdrew the.38 revolver, keeping it out of sight, beneath the counter. A car started up — pulled out. Good. With the cop gone, Maguire had no problem with what lay ahead of him — a farmer, a waitress, a cook. The gleaming tile of the diner, with its chrome fixtures, splashed with blood (red registering black on film), littered with corpses... what a picture. He wouldn’t even need a flash...

The bell over the door dinged — okay, one more customer, just another element of his composition... but it was the cop again!

Ambling in, the officer said to Ruby, “I’m sorry, ain’t got my head screwed on, tonight — I forgot your tip!”

And Maguire flew out of the booth, out of the diner, and the Ford was gone — he could hear it accelerating down the highway, roaring off.

Shit!

He ran to his own car — the Illinois plates screaming at him: idiot! — and found his tires slashed... four goddamn flats!

Cop inside or not, Maguire ran into the road, where O’Sullivan’s taillights receded into the distance, and slowly, steadily, he aimed the long-barreled revolver...

In the Ford, O’Sullivan — not drunk at all, though rolling down the window one-handed, to combat the whiskey he’d chugged for the sake of show — was yelling at his boy: “ Down! Get down — stay down!”