Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

‘Maybe I’ll stay the night. I’ve got to get on to Los Angeles.’

‘Good luck to you, too.’

‘Thanks.’

They were close to El Portal now. The girl saw the familiar ragged line of hills to the north and smiled. They had left the desert and the lavender mountains behind.

George said: ‘All right, Red. You take the wheel — we’re getting in close.’

Johnny slowed down as they passed through a little village on the outskirts. Red started over the seat and Johnny, still holding the wheel and keeping his foot on the accelerator, moved over out of his way. The girl made room for them.

Just as Red took the wheel, they heard the roar of motors. Turning, Johnny saw a couple of squad cars skidding into the main highway from a side road.

‘It’s a trap,’ yelled George. ‘Give her the gun, Red.’

The girl screamed. George was knocking the glass out of the back window with the butt of an automatic. Gasping, Johnny pushed the girl into a kneeling position on the floor.

‘Stay there, honey,’ he cried. ‘We’re in for it.’

They were getting into the suburbs. Cars swerved to the side of the road as the huge sedan bore down on them at eighty miles an hour. Red had his jaw set and the accelerator to the floorboard; with a slight twist of the wheel he miraculously avoided car after car. Behind them the sirens were going full blast.

George pulled up the back seat and took out a sub-machine gun; then, kneeling, he poked it through the back window.

‘Where does this next road go, baby?’ yelled Red, reaching down and slapping the girl.

She looked up.

‘I...’

‘You’re a great help. If we don’t get off this main highway we’ll be right in the centre of town.’

The girl looked over the car door.

‘Turn right, next road,’ she said. ‘It’s a straight shoot to San Diego.’

‘Atta girl.’

Scarcely slacking speed, Red whipped the car around in a wide turn; the tyres shrieked wildly and the car careened and skidded, but righted itself. George was thrown violently to the floor.

‘Call your shots, you lug!’ he cried, getting up groggily.

Looking back, Johnny saw one of the squad cars go over as it tried to make the turn, saw a man thrown clear and into a field at the side of the road. But the second car came on. George began to fire out the back window with the machine gun.

‘Guy shooting with a rifle,’ said George calmly.

A bullet whined past them, then another. Suddenly they heard a loud metallic ping; then there was a terrific explosion.

‘Good night,’ said George. ‘Church is out.’

The man with the long-range rifle had hit a rear tyre. The car turned half round, careened wildly, then jumped the road and rolled over into a field.

When Johnny came to they were carrying him into the county jail on a stretcher. Looking up, he saw Red, handcuffed, walking beside him. Red grinned.

‘Nice party, eh?’

Johnny saw the stem faces of the deputy sheriffs. An old man with a tobacco-stained moustache was staring down at him.

‘Okay, sonny?’ he asked, smiling.

‘I guess so. Where’s the girl?’

‘They just took her in. What she’s doing with you, I don’t know. She used to be a mighty nice girl. Knew her father.’

Johnny sat up.

‘Listen here...’

‘Never mind, son,’ said the sheriff. ‘It’ll all come out later.’

Red and Johnny had been put into the first cell in the corridor and, pressing their faces against the bars, they could see what was going on in the sheriff’s office at the front of the jail. George was in the cell next to them. Beyond George was the tank, where some drunks were shouting and laughing. The girl had been put into a cell at the far end of the L-shaped cell block and they could not see her.

The sheriff’s office was jammed all afternoon: lawyers, deputies, city officials of all kinds, newspapermen and photographers milled about, and there was so much noise that George got up from time to time and yelled to them to be quiet, as he was trying to rest.

The cell block was not partitioned off from the sheriff’s office but was a continuation with a low railing dividing it from the front hallway. All afternoon men crowded to the railing to stare in at the famous bank robbers: Red Hammond and George (Gloomy) Cooke.

Johnny sat on his bunk, staring at the floor.

‘Red,’ he said, ‘why don’t they let the girl and me go? You told them all about us.’

‘Fat chance,’ said Red. ‘They’re all scared. Two to one you both stand trial. ’Course I’ll testify for you; I like to testify. So will George and he can make any prosecuting attorney look like a deuce. He’s smart, that guy. You’ll get off, don’t worry. But you may stand trial.’

‘I’m surprised the girl’s boy friend hasn’t turned up.’

‘How’d you like it, if she was your girl, not knowing all the facts?’

Johnny said nothing.

Red turned from the bars and came over to the bunk.

‘What’s up?’ asked Johnny.

‘Nothing. I thought it was the chief of police again. It’s just one of the process servers. Didn’t you get a bang out of that chief of police? Boy, we got friends in this place. All the big shots want us to come and stay with them. The chief sure would’ve liked to get us in his new escape-proof jail. Boy, didn’t the old whittler swell up, though? We was his prisoners. Hot-cha!’

‘Pipe down, Red,’ called George.

‘Okay.’ Red sat down and lit a cigarette.

‘That sheriff’s all right,’ said Johnny. ‘He doesn’t treat you like you were dirt, like all the others.’

‘No, he’s friendly,’ said Red with a laugh; then he added: ‘God bless his dear old heart of gold.’

Johnny said nothing.

‘I told you to pipe down. That mouth of yours will get you in trouble some day,’ called George.

Red jumped up.

‘Look here—’ he said.

A matron was coming down the corridor with the girl. Johnny ran up to the front of the cell. He saw a tall, thin, light-haired young man standing at the railing, waiting for the girl.

‘Her boy friend,’ said Johnny.

‘I lose,’ said Red.

The girl turned and smiled wanly at Johnny. Then she went up to the young man. His face was stem. He began shouting at her. She started back, bewildered, then lowered her head. Johnny and Red strained their ears, trying to hear. From time to time they caught a phrase: ‘...You weren’t satisfied to stay here... all the way to Texas... mixed up with gangsters... what will everybody say?... how do I know you were hitch-hiking... getting in with three strange men... I’d have sent you the money... no, I can’t help you now... you asked for it, now you’ve got it... disgracing all my people...’

Red laughed and shouted:

‘What a baboon you turned out to be! Say, that gal’s on the square.’

‘Some of your friends, I see,’ said the young man, then he turned and went out.

The girl followed the matron back along the corridor.

‘Stiff upper lip,’ Johnny called after her.

‘You got yourself a girl,’ said Red. ‘Right on the good old bounce. See? She’s right in your lap?

Johnny sat down on the bunk. He felt better now, much better. After a while, without realising it, he began to whistle.

After they had eaten and the turnkey had taken the tin plates away, the sheriff came down the corridor and stopped before the first cell.

‘How you doing, boys?’ he asked, smiling at them. He had his coat off, as it was a rather hot evening, and they saw that he had a big revolver in a shoulder holster in addition to the automatic on his hip.

‘Two-gun man, eh, sheriff?’ said Red, grinning.

‘Used to be,’ she sheriff replied. ‘I can remember the days of the gun-fanners. Well, boys, sleep tight. Food okay? We aim to please.’