Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

Across the clearing, I could hear Carrera’s feet scraping against the rocks as he clambered to a standing position. Linda heard the sound, too. Her eyes flicked briefly to the right and then snapped back.

“I’m surprised,” I said. I kept my voice low, a bare whisper that only she could hear. From the comer of my eye, I watched Carrera’s progress.

“You should learn to expect surprises, señor, ” she answered.

“I thought last night meant a little more than...”

I stopped and shook my head.

She was interested. I could see the way her brows pulled together slightly, a small V appearing between them.

“Never mind,” I said. “We’ll just forget it.”

“What is there to forget?” she asked.

She wanted me to go on. She tried to keep her voice light but there was something behind her question, an uncertain probing. Carrera was halfway across the clearing now. I saw the .45 in his pudgy fist and I began to sweat more heavily. I had to hurry.

“There’s you to forget,” I said. “You and last night.”

“Oh, stop it,” she said. “Last night meant nothing. Not to you, not to me.”

“It meant everything to me,” I said, and took a step closer to her.

“That’s too bad,” she said. “I’m Carrera’s woman.”

He was no more than fifty feet away now. I could feel the sun on my shoulders and head, could hear the steady crunch of his feet against the pebbles.

“Is that who you want?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Look at him, Linda,” I said, my voice a husky whisper now. “Take a look at the fat slobbering pig you’re doing this for.”

“Don’t,” she said.

“Take a look at your boyfriend!” I said. “Is that who you really want?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said.

He was almost upon us. I could see his features plainly, could see the sweat dripping off his forehead. I took another step toward Linda.

“He’s my husband,” she said.

She lowered the .45 for an instant, and that was when I sprang. I didn’t bother with preliminaries. I brought back my fist and hit her hard, just as the gun went off into the ground. She was screaming when my fist caught her, but she stopped instantly, dropping the gun, crumpling against the ground.

Carrera was running toward us now.

I picked up the gun and fired at once. He wasn’t hard to hit. Something that big never is. I fired two shots that sprouted on his shoulder like red blossoms across his white cotton shirt. He clutched at the blossoms as if he wanted to pick them for a bouquet, and then he changed his mind and dropped the gun, and fell forward onto his face.

I looked over my shoulder at Linda. She was still sprawled on the ground. I climbed over the rocks and walked to where Carrera was lying, breathing hard, bleeding. I rolled him over and unfastened the money belt. Carefully, slowly, I counted the money. It was all there, ten thousand bucks worth. I picked up his .45 and tucked it in my waistband. Overhead, the vultures were already beginning a slow spiral.

I walked back to the rocks, the .45 cocked in my right hand.

She was just sitting up when I got there: Her knees were raised, her skirt pulled back over them. She brushed a lock of hair away from her face, looked up at me.

Her voice caught in her throat.

“Carrera?” she asked.

“He’s hurt bad,” I said. “But he isn’t dead.”

She nodded, stared at the ground for a moment. She got to her feet then, dusted off her skirt, glanced up at the vultures.

“Do you have the money?” she asked.

“I have the money.”

“Did you mean what you said about last night?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Then let’s go,” she said, and nodded.

“Just what I plan to do,” I said. “Alone.”

A puzzled look crossed her face.

“You’re Carrera’s woman,” I said. “Remember? Go back to him.”

I turned away from her then, and started walking down the twisting path, the sky a brilliant blue above, except where the vultures hung against it, circling.

In 1955, when I began writing the first of the 87th Precinct novels, I thought it would be a good idea to make Steve Carella’s girlfriend (and later wife) a deaf mute who would get into all sorts of trouble because she could neither hear nor speak. The ultimate Woman in Jeopardy, so to speak. Over the years, Teddy Carella has developed into a strong and independent woman and no one in his right mind would ever consider her vulnerable — but that was the notion back then. Perhaps I’d forgotten that in that very same year, 1955, a magazine called Real published a story titled “The Big Scream” by Evan Hunter. It follows under my original derogatory title, which I like much better.

The gulls were making a hell of a racket out over the bay, mostly because the boats were coming back and they all had fairly good hauls. Falco was standing knee-deep in the stink of mackerel when the blonde walked down the dock and stood looking out over the water. He didn’t notice her at first because he was busy with the fish, and then he looked up and she was standing there silhouetted against the reddish-gold sky, with her hair blowing back loose over her shoulders.

There was a strong wind that day. It molded the silk dress against her, outlining her body. He was holding a mackerel in his big, hair-covered hands, and his fingers tightened unconsciously on the cold fish, and his mouth fell open, and he kept looking at the girl.

She didn’t seem to notice him at all. She just kept staring out over the water, and Falco kept watching her, his palms beginning to sweat, a funny kind of warmth starting at the pit of his stomach and spreading up to his throat where it almost choked him. The wind kept pressing the dress to her body, and he studied every curve of her, thanking the wind because she might have been standing there without a stitch on. Her long blonde hair kept dancing around her shoulders, rising and falling, almost as if it had a life of its own. She had an oval face with high cheekbones burned dark from the sun, and he could see the startling blue of her eyes even from where he stood.

The gulls kept screaming out there, and Donato’s boat pulled up to the dock, and then DiAngelo, the kid he had working for him, threw the lines over and hopped ashore.

“Ho, Falco!” Donato yelled. “You in early today?”

“Nice catch today,” Falco yelled back, but he did not take his eyes from the girl. An upcurrent of wind caught the hem of her dress, flapped it back wildly over the long curve of her leg. She didn’t seem to notice the wind for a moment, and then she reached down and spread her dress flat again, as if she were spreading a tablecloth. Falco wet his lips, and tightened his hands. He had never seen anything like this girl before, had never felt this way before, either. He heard boots clomping on the wooden dock but he didn’t pay any attention to them until he heard Donato’s voice again.

“Ho, Falco! Wake up, hah, boy?”

He looked up as Donato jumped into his boat, and then he said, “You do all right today?”

“Every day should be like this one, Falco. Then I retire a rich man. When the fish run like—”

He stopped because he saw that Falco wasn’t listening to him, and then his eyes followed Falco’s to where the blonde stood on the dock. He appraised her silently, and then he said, “Nice, hah, Falco?”

Falco didn’t answer. His eyes were riveted to the blonde’s body, and there was a tight, grim set to his mouth.

“That’s Panza’s daughter,” Donato said.

“Whose?”

“Panza. You know Panza?”

“The fat one? Panza? With the crooked teeth and the mustache? You’re kidding me.”