William Haggard - The New Black Mask (No 5)

“Look it up, check it out, shoot the liquor to me, John Boy. Your General made Warren G. Harding look like Little Bo Peep.”

The powerful face is almost doing a loop-the-loop. And it is shrinking and wrinkled and twisted to one side. This is, frankly, quite difficult to observe, even though hugely sensational. It will surely produce a bark of admiration from Mr. Hayoko, and Mr. Ito dicks off six versions of the face to be absolutely certain.

Suddenly the equation changes. Sugar does the changing, the way the Sugar Rays came off the ropes. Swinging.

Face and head calm, controlled, he steps in swiftly on his one good leg, and quite amazingly and efficiently, on the little cat feet of Mr. Sandburg. As he does so he reaches into his back pocket. Dutch stares, then blinks, a crack in the smooth dike. But like so many of his class, he is only momentarily nonplussed; the heavy side of the equation does not readily throw in the towel in his world.

With extremely impressive dexterity, Dutch slides to his left, and with the same movement darts a hand into his shirt above the bulging basketball. His hand comes out of the shirt with a small, black object firmly cradled. In the following instant Mr. Ito hears a sharp sound, like a hard clap after a concert or a home run. And now Sugar is gazing at his erstwhile associate with some measure of surprise. Now he is clutching his right shoulder.

The picture is dutifully snapped, but even as it is, Sugar flicks a hand out to Dutch. A shining hand. No, correction, something shining in the hand. And now it is Dutch’s turn. He is staring, really quite stupidly for a man with so many smarts, at his right forearm. But in all fairness, with due cause. The arm is turning as red as a New Jersey sunset, and, like the sunset, the red reaches to the ground. Ah, is dripping to the ground.

The heartland couple have received a genuine kick in the pants. They scream. They spin about and run, hunched over, across the street, toward the sheltering arms of the International House. Click.

Back to the action.

Sugar. He also spins. With surprising skill and alacrity, despite the bad leg, or because he has learned so well how to live with it, he takes an extremely exciting powder. The flap on his heels is a great help, but so is his keenly developed coping ability. While the camera records the flight, he dashes down the incline to Riverside Drive. Dashes across the Drive. Once Sugar is safely there, Mr. Ito turns with great coolness to Dutch. He raises the camera and zooms into a mug that makes L. Lepke look like Little Bo Peep. With terrific speed, emotion replaces emotion, and astonishment, disgust, bitterness possess the face that finally hardens into neutral resolve. Mr. Ito captures that decisive moment and then finds himself framing a raised, pointing arm and hand. He suddenly hears a voice: “Danger, danger, take care.” He realizes, with a tiny jolt, that it is his voice. And that it is too little, too late. For he again hears the clapping sound, and, as Sugar glances back — a basic error, for when you split, you split — as he glances back, he clutches behind the knee of his good leg. Filled with gameness, however, he turns and hobbles south on the sidewalk.

Mr. Ito is focusing on the red, dripping arm and on the neutral, unblinking face above it. The small, black rod seems to be touching his camera, but of course it is the excellent lens doing its job. Mr. Ito snaps, suddenly wises up. He ducks and darts down the incline, and as he does he hears the clap, a zinnnng over his head. Perhaps he does not have wings on his heels, but soon he, too, is across the Drive.

He straightens up, looks south. Ah, there, grasping the back of the good leg. Sugar. Run-hopping along the busy sidewalk that curves beside the Drive and swoops down into the park. Mr. Ito follows with cool quickness, weaving through the strollers and joggers who are somewhat perturbed by the excitement in their midst but do not make it a federal deal.

Sliding the camera into its case, zipping the case, Mr. Ito glances across the Drive. The Dutchman, a genuine bulldog, has started, albeit heavily, down the incline. Unzip the case, get the picture? No. When in doubt, bug out.

Excusing himself, Mr. Ito continues to weave through the natives until he reaches the steps that dip into the park. He veers to his right and starts down.

As he skims easily along the sweeping curve, he presses the camera case to his side and briefly thanks President Fukashu for requiring daily physical education in the linen factory. Breathing properly, from the diaphragm, he feels quite strong, with excellent reserves of power, which, instead of overtime, may be called into play for grimmer purposes. In and out he glides, like a jitterbug cutting a slippery rug, avoiding the stream of people who are ascending and descending in their own matinee dance. Down, down, chasing after the principled little fellow who must by now resemble Mr. L. Diamond minus the Legs.

He finds him. Sitting against a tree, near a sharply eroded hill that at its bottom runs into the busy highway. Beyond the highway, the great river laps with complete neutrality at its stone banks. Mr. Ito kneels down.

“Can you move?”

With hugely dilated eyes, Sugar Man slowly shakes his head.

“Would you care to try?”

Once again he shakes his head, slowly, heavily. Then, with equal slowness and heaviness, he opens his mouth. His throat begins to work. The process seems incredibly difficult, and it occurs to Mr. Ito that he might well be observing a bucket being kicked. Well, then, at such a time it is vital to keep the patient in touch with worldly matters.

“Would you know,” Mr. Ito says, “who is currently stomping at the Savoy?”

Sugar Man sighs. His eyes flutter. Ah, finally some reaction. Mr. Ito leans forward.

“Frip… Mama… never… Vic…”

Mr. Ito sits back on his haunches. Gently he thrusts the Savoy to one side. He considers. Yes, Sugar has kept his faith. He smiles. “Who can tell?” he says. “Perhaps one day you will get there.”

“Whafor… never… Vic…”

“At the moment it does seem difficult,” Mr. Ito agrees. “Perhaps if you attempt more optimism…”

“Ah frammit…

“Frame it?”

“Frammit…

“Of course… Are you quite certain?”

Breathing heavily, Sugar whispers, “Goddam frammit…”

“Yes, certainly.”

Mr. Ito removes the camera from its case. He rises to one knee, frames the little man against the river, focuses, snaps. Sugar smiles weakly, the camera is replaced. Mr. Ito resumes the kneeling position. Sugar’s head moves slowly, as if it were filled with lead; he gazes downriver. Is he searching for the tough guys of the Waterfront? Mr. J. Friendly, with his thick, foul cigar? No. Softly, he is rasping, “Leekum…”

“Leekum?” Mr. Ito says.

“Leekum…”

Mr. Ito ponders. “Lincoln?” he says.

Sigh. “Leekum…”

“Ah,” Mr. Ito says. “Lee come?”

Briefly, Sugar closes his eyes, then opens them halfway.

Mr. Ito touches his shoulder. “Do not fear.” He shakes his head firmly. “Lee does not come.”

Another sigh, the eyes flutter. He seems composed, but his breathing is quite shallow. “I really must assist you,” Mr. Ito says. Receiving no response, he reaches over and attempts to lift the little man. He is amazingly heavy. Mr. Ito eases him softly back to the reclining position against the tree. The eyes flutter shut. Mr. Ito feels a shock of alarm. He stands, looks about. Some forty yards to his left he sees a splash of green-topped tennis courts. Players of all shapes and colors are prancing, darting, plunging over the surface. However, beside a small brick house, near the closest court, a group is lounging, chatting, observing. “Excuse me,” Mr. Ito says and rises and runs to a point several feet from the wounded man. He jumps up and down in the classic side-straddle-hop and waves his arms.