Уильям Макгиверн - Rogue Cop

Carmody felt a quiver of excitement go down his spine. It wasn’t over yet; not by a long sight. Ackerman was the man he had come closer to fearing than anyone else he had known in his life. And now Ackerman was waiting for him.

“There’s an alarm out for him,” Myers said. “He’s wanted for questioning. And he’s on the run.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I spotted your car down the block. That old mobster at my wife’s sanitarium gave me the tip on this guy.” He glanced down at Langley. “Someone in Chicago told him a guy named Joie Langley had come East to do a job on a cop. A pet stoolie of mine tipped me off he was staying here. I came out just to look around and then I saw your car. That scared me. So I decided to come in. That’s when I saw Ackerman and Schmidt pull up and stop across the street.”

“They’ve seen my car, too, then,” Carmody said. “We don’t have much time. They’ll either clear out or come in here shooting.”

“I got it all thought out,” Myers said, gripping his arm. “They don’t know me from Adam. To them I’m just a little guy who lives here or is hunting for a room. Well, look: I’ll walk out again and go down to the sidewalk. I take out cigarettes, pretend I need a match and cross the street to their car. When I get there I put my gun in their face. And that’s the end of it. You can cover me from here. Okay?”

Carmody hesitated. It was a good bold move but Myers wasn’t the man for it. “No,” he said.

“It will work.”

“What the devil are you trying to prove?”

Myers shook his head slowly. “They killed a cop, remember? I’m going to prove they can’t get away with it. That’s what’s important to me. Don’t you ever know what makes people tick, Mike?”

“No, I’m too dumb,” Carmody said wearily. Then he put his hand awkwardly on Myers’ shoulder. “Forgive me, will you? You’re a better cop than I could be in a thousand years. Go out and arrest those bastards.”

“You watch me.” Myers opened the door and went down the stone steps to the sidewalk. From the crack of the partially open door Carmody saw Ackerman’s long black car parked across the street, and the faces of the two men in the front seat, pale triangular blurs in the darkness. He watched Myers fumble through his pockets, bring out cigarettes and stick one in his mouth. Weaving slightly, Myers dug around again in his pockets for matches. Carmody felt perspiration starting on his forehead; the little detective was overdoing it, playing it like a drunk on a stage. But it was too late to drag him back. Myers had started across the street to Ackerman’s car, weaving on rubbery legs.

“You guys got a match?” Carmody heard him call.

“I think so.” It was Ackerman’s voice, carrying clearly across the silent street.

“Good guy,” Myers said, laughing cheerfully.

That was when Ackerman shot him, as he approached the car, doing his imitation of a drunk’s lurching walk. The report blasted the silence and sent shattering echoes racing along the dark blocks.

Carmody charged down to the sidewalk as he saw Myers fall, and heard his shrill incredulous cry of pain. His gun banged twice and the glass in Ackerman’s windshield shattered with a noisy crash. He saw Ackerman clearly then but before he could fire again something struck his shoulder and spun his body around in a full circle. There was no pain at first, only the incredible, sledge-hammer impact of the bullet. He was on his knees, feeling for his gun when the pain hit, driving into him like a white-hot needle. The breath left his body in a squeezing rush and he put a hand quickly on the pavement to keep himself from falling on his face. When he raised his head, Ackerman was standing above him, looking as tall as the buildings. “You rotten filthy dog,” he said, staring at Carmody with furious eyes. “You fixed me good. But you’re where you belong now, on your knees and ready to die.”

Carmody fought against a dizzying pain and nausea. “You’re through,” he grinned, and the effort stretched the skin whitely across his cheekbones. “It wasn’t a bad night’s work.”

“I’ll be alive when you’re dead,” Ackerman said, his voice trembling with passion.

Windows had gone up along the block and from a distance came the faint baying of a police siren.

“Boss, let’s go,” Hymie Schmidt shouted from inside the car.

“Just one more second,” Ackerman said, putting the cold muzzle of his gun against Carmody’s forehead. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, leaning forward and speaking slowly and clearly. “I’ve got judges and lawyers in every pocket. And shooting a crooked cop is an easy rap to beat.”

“Damn you!” Hymie Schmidt yelled, and let out the clutch with a snap. The car shot forward with a deep roar of power. Ackerman spun around, his face twisting with alarm. “Stop!” he shouted, and ran a few yards down the street, waving both arms in the air. Finally, he halted, cursing furiously at the fading tail-light.

When he turned around, Carmody was kneeling as he had left him, but Myers was sitting up in the street with a gun in his lap, his little face frozen and white with pain.

“You won’t kill any more cops,” he said weakly, and shot Ackerman through the head.

A police car took Carmody to St. David’s hospital where a doctor cut away his shirt, removed the bullet and dressed the wound in his shoulder. Afterward, Carmody sat on a bench in the starkly clean accident ward and smoked a cigarette. He felt empty and drained but in a little while strength began flowing sluggishly back into his body.

“Hell, man, you’re indestructible,” an intern said, as Carmody got slowly to his feet.

“Don’t bet on that,” Carmody said. The uniformed cop who was waiting to drive him to Headquarters put a coat gently over his bare shoulders. “Ready, Sarge?” he asked.

“We’ll wait until we hear about Myers,” Carmody said.

A nurse came down from the operating room a few minutes later. “How’s he making it?” he asked her.

The nurse was a pretty girl with soft warm eyes and something about Carmody made her feel like taking him in her arms. For all his size and toughness he seemed so bewildered and lost.

“He has a chance,” she said.

“How good?”

“Pretty good, I think.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the nurse said, and touched his arm timidly.

Carmody smiled at her, then glanced at the cop. “Let’s roll,” he said.

The record room at Homicide was jammed with police and reporters, and the noise of their excited, splintered conversations rumbled through the smoky air. There was an uproar when Carmody came in. Reporters on deadline tried to get to him for any kind of statement, but Abrams begged them to shut up and clear the hell out of the way. “You’ll get your stories,” he shouted, circling Carmody like an indignant hen. “But give us a break first, for the Lord’s sake.”

Over the heads of the crowd Carmody saw Karen and George Murphy standing against the wall. She stood on tiptoes, watching him anxiously, and Murphy was patting her shoulder with a big clumsy hand. Abrams took Carmody’s good arm and said, “They want you in Wilson’s office, Mike.”

“Just a second.” Carmody pushed through the ring of reporters and cops and walked over to Karen. “Can you stick around?” he asked her. “I’m going to be busy for a while.”

“Yes, I’ll wait. Are you all right?”

“What? Oh, sure.” He glanced down at the splint and sling on his arm. “It’s not bad.” He felt suddenly as if he were walking through a dream. “Did you identify Langley?”

She nodded and wet her lips. He saw that she was very pale. “The police took me to see him a few minutes ago.”