James Chase: He Won't Need It Now

Twisting and doubling, he felt that he had shaken off pursuit for the moment. The cop in the car hadn’t much chance, with Schultz blazing away at him, to spot the Buick’s plates. Anyway, that was what Duffy hoped. He came to McGuire’s apartment round the back, pulling up in the narrow alley that skirted the fire-escapes from the block.

He felt strangely hot and weak, sitting there, and he wondered how the hell he was going to get up to the apartment. His wound seemed to have stopped bleeding now, and he looked down at his blood-caked suit with a little grimace. Then he reached over the back of the car and pulled his light dust-coat off the back seat. The effort made the sweat start out all over him, and he had to shut his eyes, as the building reeled drunkenly before him. He sat like that for several moments, then he began to cough again. Deep, tearing coughs that hurt.

It took him a long time to open the heavy door. He was surprised to find how weak he was. Then he stepped to the ground and immediately fell on his knees. He pulled himself up by the door, swearing softly. Obscene words, lodged deep in his subconscious, came tumbling from his lips. He steadied himself and put on the coat, hiding his bloodstained suit. Then he began to walk with uneven, hurried steps round the front.

He had to stop three times before he made it, but he got into the automatic elevator, shut the gates, pressed the button, and folded up on the floor.

The cage groaned and creaked on its upward journey. Duffy just sat there on the floor, breathing with little short gasps, frightened of the pain when he breathed normally. The elevator came to rest after an interminable time. He pulled himself to his feet by hooking his fingers in the grille. He stayed there, hanging on, like a man uncertain of his strength, breasting a gale. Then he balanced himself on the balls of his feet and took away his hands. Pulling open the grille, he lurched into the corridor.

Across the way was MacGuire’s apartment. He shuffled over and rapped on the door. Almost immediately Alice came. Her face lit up when she saw who it was, but almost at once her expression changed to alarm. “Bill, what is it?”

Before he could speak, the cough caught him again, and he folded up, his shoulder against the door.

She said, “O God,” very softly, and put her arm round him, pulling him inside. She thrust the door to with her foot, and supported him through the sitting-room, into the bedroom.

He said thickly, “The flowers look good.”

She lowered him to the bed, putting a pillow under his head. “What is it?” she asked.

“Get me a drink, honey,” he mumbled, his mouth suddenly very dry.

Unsteadily, she ran into the other room, and returned with a bottle and glass. She poured him a stiff whisky, and held his head while he drank. The spirit knitted his will, and he managed to grin.

“Get my things off, baby,” he said. “I ran into a handful of slugs.”

Undressing him took time. She had to let him rest every now and then, but she finally got down to his shirt, and the caked blood nearly made her faint.

Duffy said, “Don’t get scared.” He felt a lot stronger. “I don’t think it’s bad. It just hurts a lot.”

She ran into the bathroom and came back with dressing, water and towels. She had to cut away his shirt. He had six pellet-holes down his right side. They had ceased to bleed. She stood looking at them, her eyes big and scared.

He said, “Listen, baby. You gotta get them out.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know how.”

“Got some tweezers? You fix your eyebrows, don’t you?” His mouth twisted into a little grin. “Try with those.”

She looked at him, and shook her head.

He said, “It’s important, baby.”

When he said that, she drew a sharp breath and went over to the dressing-table. He reached for the bottle and gave himself a long pull.

She came back, holding the tweezers.

He said, “Burn a match round ’em.”

While she was doing that, he drank some more whisky. By the time she started on him, he was pretty high.

Wires of pain clutched him, and sweat ran down his face. But he lay quite still, with his eyes shut, giving no sign that she hurt him.

He heard her say at last, “I’ve got them all.” She sounded so far away that he turned his head slowly and looked at her. She was white, her large eyes sunk far in her head. Holding on to the edge of the small table, she seemed to sway before his eyes.

He said, “Get a grip on yourself.” He tried to speak sharply, but just couldn’t make it. “Have a quick drink, you’re going to faint or something.”

She sat down on the floor. “I’ll… be… all right,” she said, forcing her head down. “Don’t worry. Just… give me a minute.”

With a shaking hand he slopped some whisky into the glass and thrust it at her. “Go on, drink it,” he said. The effort made his head swim.

He heard the glass rattle against her teeth as she drank. Then she got up unsteadily and put the glass on the table. “I’m all right now,” she said.

Duffy said, “Put some dressing on this, and let me lie easy.”

She sat down on the bed. “Would it be safe to get a doctor?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m on the run now, baby.”

She began cutting a pad, biting her lips to stop her tears. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, slightly dazed by the alcohol.

She said, “I’ll fix it with tape.”

Duffy said, “You’re swell.”

With inexperienced hands, she strapped him, making a fair job of it. He lay watching her, and when she was done, he said, “Get me one of Sam’s suits.”

Her eyes opened. “What do you mean?”

“I’m getting out of here.”

“Oh no, you’re not,” she said; “you’re staying.”

He shook his head impatiently. “I ain’t getting you mixed up in this. There’s a rap for you, if they find me here.”

She said, with determination, “Don’t get tough. You’re staying.”

He shut his eyes. “Okay,” he said weakly. “Just for a little while.”

She bent over and kissed his hot forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

He lifted his lids with an effort. “I started this… I guess it had to finish like this.” Then, remembering, he said urgently, “Look in my coat. There ought to be some dough there.”

She went over and gingerly examined the coat’. “Nothing here,” she said.

His mouth twisted. “Schultz got it,” he said. The effort to worry was too much for him, and he closed his eyes.

She said, “Try and sleep.”

“My right shoe. There’s three grand hidden in it. It’s for you.”

She said, “Never mind that.”

He raised his head, his eyes feverishly on her face.

“Take my shoe off and get the dough,” he said urgently. “It’s all I got out of this mess… it’s for you.”

She undid his shoes and took them off. She found the crumpled notes wedged in one of them. Holding the little ball of money in her hand, she stood there, tears running down her face.

He dropped his head back on the pillow again. “You’re right, baby,” he said slowly. “Money don’t mean a thing.”

She said, keeping her voice steady, “I’ll leave you now. You must sleep. If you want me, call. I’ll be right outside.”

He said drowsily, “Sure, don’t get Sam. I’m going to be okay. I’m feeling fine, only tired.”

She pulled a light blanket over him, and he reached out and took her cool hand. “I’ve been a mug,” he said.

Alice clenched her teeth hard to stop the sob that rose in her throat. She looked down at his white, drawn face, and forced her trembling lips into a smile. “You… you’re okay now,” she said. “Forget about it. You see, it’s going to be all right.”