Paul Cain - Fast One

There was the sound of a shot suddenly, some place below and to Kells’ left.

Borg said: “That’s him now — what a boy!”

Kells sat up.

Borg went on: “He was carrying on about smelling trouble up at some kind of barn an’ he wanted a gun. I wouldn’t give him mine, so he said he was going back to the boat an’ bust open a locker or something where he thought there was one. He—”

There was another shot.

Kells said: “What the hell’s that all about?” He jerked his head toward the sound, immediately wished he hadn’t.

“That’s him — he’s all right. Wait’ll I tell you...” Borg shifted his position a little, went on: “I went on up the path an’ I’ll be damned if that navigator didn’t catch up with me, an’ he had the dirtiest-looking shotgun I ever saw. When we got to the house, he said. ‘You go in the front way an’ I’ll go in the back,’ so I waited for him to get around to the back — an’ about that time there was two shots inside.”

Kells lay down again on his stomach. Borg twisted around lay beside him.

“I went in and you was doing a cartwheel downstairs with three or four guys on your neck. There was another guy there an’ he made a pass at me and I shot him right between the eyes...”

Borg leaned close to Kells, tapped his own head between the eyes with a stubby forefinger.

Kells said: “Hurry up.”

“I’m hurrying. They was tearing hell out of you an’ I was trying to pick one of ’em off when the navigator came in the back way and started waving that shotgun around. He yelled so much they had to see him. Then another guy came out on the balcony and I took a shot at him, but I guess I missed — he ducked back in the upstairs room.”

Borg sighed, shook his head. There was another shot below, then two more, close together.

“Well — I got off to one side to give the navigator a chance,” Borg went on, “but he had a better idea — he came over on my side and we jockeyed around till I could get a hold of you, and then we backed out the front — me dragging you, and the navigator telling the boys what a swell lot of hash they’d make if he let go with that meat grinder. When we got outside I drug you a little to one side—”

Kells interrupted: “Didn’t I have my coat?”

“Hell, no! You was lucky to have pants the way those guys was working you over. We tried to carry you between us but we couldn’t make any headway that way — it was so dark and foggy we kept falling down. So the navigator fanned tail for the boat and I drug you through a lot of brush and we got up here after a while. A half a dozen more guys went by on the way to the house — the island’s lousy with ’em. If it hadn’t been for the fog...”

Kells asked: “Bernie’s at the boat, now?”

“Sure — and a swell spot. The fog’s not quite so heavy down there and he can pick ’em off as soon as they show at the head of the wharf. Only I thought he’d shove off before this...”

“He’s waiting for us, sap.” Kells rose to his knees.

“Oh yeah? Maybe you can figure out a way for us to get there.”

Kells asked: “Which direction should the side of the cove be?”

“I haven’t the slightest.”

Kells got shakily to his feet, rubbed his head, started down a shale bank to his left. He said: “Come on — we’ll have to take a chance.”

Borg got up and they went down the bank to a shallow draw. An occasional shot sounded on the far side of a low ridge to their right. The fog wasn’t quite so thick at the bottom of the draw; they went on, came out in a little while-on to a narrow beach. There was a jagged spit of rock running out across the sand from one side of the draw. The fog was thinning.

They waited for the next shot; then Kells, calculating direction from the sound, said, “Come on” — they ran out along the rocks to the edge of the water.

Kells kicked off his shoes, waded in; Borg followed. The fog was heavy over the water — they swam blindly in the direction — Kells figured the Comet to be.

After a little while the end of the wharf took form ahead, a bit to the right. They circled toward it, came up to the bow of the big cruiser. They swam around the cruiser, under the wharf and up to the Comet’s stern.

Kells grabbed the gunwale, pulled himself up a little way and called to Bernie. Bernie was crouched in the forward end of the cockpit, behind the raised forward deck. He whirled and swung the gun toward Kells, and then he grinned broadly, put down the gun, crawled over and helped Kells climb aboard. He muttered, “Good huntin’,” went back and picked up the gun; Kells helped Borg.

Borg was winded — he lay at full length on the deck, gasping for breath. Kells started toward Bernie, and then his bad leg gave way, he fell down, crawled the rest of the way.

He said: “Get the engine started — I’ll take that for a minute.”

Bernie gave him the gun and a handful of shells, went down to the engine. Kells called to Borg, told him to work his way to the after line, cut it. There was a shot at the head of the wharf, a piece of wood was torn from the edge of the cowling, fell in splinters.

Borg rolled over slowly, got to his knees. He was still panting. He looked reproachfully at Kells, fumbled in his pocket and took out a small jackknife, started worming his way aft.

The engine went over with a roar.

There was an answering roar of shots from the shore.

Bernie came galloping up to the wheel. Kells glanced back at Borg, saw him sawing at the stern line; he took a bead on the bow line, pulled the trigger. The line frayed; Kells aimed again, gave it the other barrel.

Bernie said: “That’s enough — I can part it now...” He slid the clutch in, threw the wheel over.

Kells was hastily reloading. He glanced back at Borg, saw the stern line fall, saw Borg sink down exhausted, so flat that he was safe.

The bow line snapped. They skipped in a fast shallow arc toward the head of the wharf. There was a rattle of gunfire. Kells pushed the shotgun across the cowling, sighted. Two puffs of smoke grew over an overturned dinghy on the beach; he swung the barrel toward the smoke, pulled the trigger.

Then they straightened out, headed through the mouth of the cove toward the open sea. Bernie kicked the throttle. A few desultory shots popped behind them.

Kells put down the gun, sat down on the deck and rolled up his wet trouser leg. The leg wasn’t very nice to look at — Doc Janis’s dressing was hanging by a thin strip of adhesive tape. Kells called Borg.

Borg got up slowly. He came forward, squatted beside Kells.

Bernie yelled: “There’s some peroxide and stuff in the for’d locker on the port side — I busted it open.”

Borg went into the cabin.

Kells fished in his trouser pockets, brought out a wad of wet bills and some silver, spread it out on the deck beside him. There was a thousand-dollar note and the eight hundreds which Brand’s friend had paid off with after the fights. There was another wad of fifty- and hundred-dollar and smaller bills. Fenner’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar check, Brand’s for a thousand, and around eight thousand in cash had been in the coat. And Fenner’s confession.

Kells looked up; Bernie was looking at him, grinned. “Wet as usual,” he said. “You better take off your clothes an’ get in a bunk.”

Kells said: “Step on it. I’ve got to call up a friend of mine.”

He picked up several of the wet bills, folded them, put a half dollar inside the fold to give them weight, slid them across the deck to Bernie.

“That ought to cover damages on the boat, too,” he said.

Borg came out of the cabin with absorbent cotton and adhesive and peroxide.

Kells picked up some more bills, rolled them into a ball and shoved them into Borg’s free hand, said: “Try to buy yourself a yacht with that...” He counted what was left.