Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

He was approximately parallel now with the place where he had assumed the identity of Martin Lonsdale. The place where Martin Lonsdale had supposedly committed suicide. And out there in this fallow field was an abandoned produce shed.

From the highway, it appeared to be utterly dark, deserted. But as Mitch leaped the ditch and approached it, he caught a faint flicker of light. He came up on the building silently. He peered through a crack in the sagging door.

There was a small stack of groceries in one corner of the room, also a large desert-type water bag. Blankets were spread out in another corner. Well back from the door, a can of beans was warming over a Sterno stove. A man stood over it, looking impatiently at the food.

Mitch knew who he was, even without the sunglasses and cap. He also knew who he was not — for this man was bald and well under six feet tall.

Mitch kicked open the door and went in. The guy let out a startled ‘Gah!’ as he flung himself forward, swinging.

He shouldn’t have done it, of course. Mitch was sore enough at him, as it was. A full uppercut, and the guy soared towards the roof. He came down, horizontal, landing amidst the groceries.

Mitch snatched him to his feet, and slapped him back into consciousness. ‘All right. Let’s have the story. All of it and straight, get me? And don’t ask me what story or I’ll—’

‘I w-won’t... I mean, I’ll tell you!’ the man babbled frantically.

‘We — tied into Lonsdale at a motor-court. Figured he was carrying heavy, so Babe pulled the tears for a ride. We was just going to hold him up, you know. Honest to Gawd, that’s all! But... but—’

‘But he put up a fight and you had to bump him.’

‘Naw! No!’ the man protested. ‘He dropped dead on us! I swear he did! I’d just pulled a knife on him — hadn’t touched him at all — when he keeled over! Went out like a light. I guess maybe he must have had a bad ticker or something, but anyway...’

Mitch nodded judiciously. The Pig had indicated that Lonsdale was in bad health. ‘So okay. Keep singing.’

‘W-well, he didn’t have hardly any dough in cash like we thought he would. Just that mess of cheques. But we’d pumped him for a lot of info, and we figured if we could find the right kind of chump — excuse me, Mister — I mean, a guy that could pass for Lonsdale—’

‘So you did a little riding up and down the highway until you found him. And you just damned near got him killed!’

He gave the guy an irritated shake. The man whimpered apologetically. ‘We didn’t mean to, Mister. We really figured we was doing you a favour. Giving you a chance to make a piece of change.’

‘I’ll bet. But skip it. Where’s Babe?’

‘At the hotel.’

‘Nuts!’ Mitch slapped him. ‘You were going to hole up here until the heat was off! Now, where the hell is she?’

The man began to babble again. Babe hadn’t known how soon she could scram. There’d been no set time for joining him here. She had to be at the hotel. If she wasn’t, he didn’t know where she was.

‘Maybe run out on me,’ he added bitterly. ‘Never could trust her around the corner, I don’t see how she could get away, but—’

Mitch jerked a fist swiftly upward.

When the guy came to, he was naked and the room had been stripped of its food, water and other supplies. His clothes and everything else were bundled into one of the blankets, which Mitch was just lugging out the door.

‘Wait!’ The man looked at him fearfully. ‘What are you going to do?’

He departed. A mile or so back up the road, he threw the stuff into the ditch. He arrived at the hotel, parked and indulged in some very deep thinking.

Babe had to be inside the joint. This money-hungry outfit was hiding her for a price. But exactly where she might be — in which of its numerous rooms, the countless nooks and crannies, cellars and subcellars that a place like this had — there was no way of telling. Or finding out. The employees would know nothing. They’d simply hide themselves if they saw him coming. And naturally he couldn’t search the place from top to bottom. It would take too long. Deliverymen — possibly other guests — would be showing up. And then there was The Pig to contend with. Someone must have driven him out here, and he would not have planned to stay later than morning. So someone would be calling for him, and—

Well, never mind. He had to find Babe. He had to do it fast. And since he had no way of learning her hiding-place, there was only one thing to do. Force her out of it.

Leaving the hotel, Mitch walked around to the rear and located a rubbish pile. With no great difficulty, he found a five-gallon lard can and a quantity of rags. He returned to the parking lot. He shoved the can under the car’s gas tank and opened the petcock. While it was filling he knotted the rags into a rope. Then, having shut off the flow of gasoline, he went to the telephone booth and called the hotel’s switchboard.

The clerk-manager answered. He advised Mitch to beat it before he called the cops. ‘I know you’re not Lonsdale, understand? I know you’re a crook. And if you’re not gone from the premises in five minutes—’

‘Look who’s talking!’ Mitch jeered. ‘Go ahead arid call the cops! I’d like to see you do it, you liver-lipped, yellow-bellied—’

The manager hung up on him. Mitch called him back.

‘Now get this,’ he said harshly. ‘You said I was a crook. All right, I am one and I’m dangerous. I’m a crib man, an explosives expert. I’ve got plenty of stuff to work with. So send that dame out here and do it fast, or I’ll blow your damned shack apart!’

‘Really? My, my!’ The man laughed sneeringly, but somewhat shakily. ‘Just think of that!’

‘I’m telling you,’ Mitch said. ‘And this is the last time I’ll tell you. Get that dame out of the woodwork, or there won’t be any left.’

‘You wouldn’t dare! If you think you can bluff—’

‘In exactly five minutes,’ Mitch cut in, ‘the first charge will be set off, outside. If the dame doesn’t come out, your building goes up.’

He replaced the receiver, went back to the car. He picked up the rags and gasoline, moved down the hall to the red-and-white mailbox. It stood in the deep shadows of the porte-cochère and he was not observed. Also, the hotel employees apparently were keeping far back from the entrance.

Mitch soaked the rag rope in the gasoline and tucked a length of it down inside the mailbox. Then he lifted the can and trickled its entire contents through the letter slot. It practically filled the box to the brim. The fluid oozed through its seams and dripped down upon the ground.

Mitch carefully scrubbed his hands with his handkerchief. Then, he ignited a book of matches, dropped them on the end of the rope. And ran.

His flight was unnecessary. For the ‘bomb’ was an almost embarrassing failure. There was a weak rumble, a kind of a growl — a hungry man’s stomach, Mitch thought bitterly, would make a louder one. A few blasts of smoke, and the box jiggled a bit on its moorings. But that was the size of it. That was the ‘explosion’. It wouldn’t have startled a nervous baby. As for scaring those rats inside the joint, hell, they were probably laughing themselves sick.

Oh, sure, the box burned; it practically melted. And that would give them some trouble. But that didn’t help Mitch Allison any.

From far down the lawn, he looked dejectedly at the dying flames, wondering what to do now. He gasped, his eyes widening suddenly as two women burst through the entrance of El Ciudad.

One — the one in front — was Babe, barelegged, barefooted, dressed only in her bra and panties. She screamed as she ran, slapping and clawing wildly at her posterior. And it was easy to see why. For the woman chasing her was Bette, and Bette was clutching a blazing blowtorch.