Paul Cain - Fast One

Kells dropped Rose’s gun into his left coat pocket, shifted his own gun to his left hand and shoved Ruth Perry away gently with his right.

She ducked suddenly under his outstretched arm, straightened up and brought her right hand around in a long arc hard against his back. The ice pick went in deep between his shoulder blades.

Kells stood very still for perhaps five seconds. Then he moved his head down slowly, looked at her.

Rose half turned and Kells straightened the automatic suddenly, viciously against his side. Rose put his hands a little higher, slowly lowered his head.

Ruth Perry was clinging to Kells with both arms. She had taken her hand away from the handle of the ice pick and her arms were around his waist, her face was pressed against his shoulder.

He moved the fingers of his right hand up into her hair and jerked her head back. She opened her eyes and looked up into his face; she was pale, white-lipped. Then she opened her mouth and threw her head back against his hand and laughed.

He smiled a little and took his hand from her hair, took his arm slowly from around her shoulder. He put his hand against her breast, pushed her gently away. She staggered back against the wall and slid slowly down to the floor; she lay there laughing and there was no sound but the sound of her laughter and the low buzz of voices outside.

Kells reached back with his right hand, pulled the ice pick halfway out. He swayed, leaned against the door a moment, jerked it the rest of the way out. It fell and stuck in the floor, the handle quivering.

He straightened then, swung the door partly open, stuck the automatic in his big overcoat pocket and said: “Let’s go.”

Rose put his hands down. He opened the door the rest of the way and went out of the room; Kells went out behind him and closed the door, said: “Wait a second.”

Rose half turned, looked down at Kells’ overcoat pocket. The muzzle of the automatic bulged the cloth.

Kells watched Rose, locked the door quickly with his left hand. They started down the long room together; Rose a pace to the right, a pace ahead.

There were perhaps thirty or thirty-five people — mostly men — in the room; most of them around the two crap tables, several at two small green-covered tables, drinking.

The lighting was as Kells remembered it: Two powerful shaded globes over the big tables lighting all the rear end of the room. Toward the front of the room — the street — the light faded to partial darkness, black in the far corners.

Kells said, “Talk to me, Jakie,” out of the side of his mouth.

Rose turned his head and twisted his mouth to a terribly forced grin. His eyes were wide, frightened. “What’ll I talk about?”

Several people turned to look at them.

Kells said: “The weather — an’ walk faster.”

Then someone crashed against the locked door behind them.

In the same moment Kells saw Reilly. He had risen from one of the smaller tables, was staring at Rose. He said: “Jack — what the hell?...” Then he looked at Kells, his hand dipped toward his hip. Kells shot from his pocket — twice.

Reilly put his two hands against the middle of his chest, slowly. He sat down on the edge of the table, slid slowly down — as his knees buckled, fell backward, half under the table.

Another gun roared and Kells felt the shoulder of his coat lift, tear; felt a hot stab in the muscle of his upper arm.

Rose was running toward the other end of the room, zigzagging a little, swiftly.

Kells started after him, stumbled, almost fell. He jerked the big automatic out of his pocket, swung it toward Rose. Then the door beyond Rose opened and someone came in. Kells couldn’t see who it was; he staggered on after Rose, stopped suddenly as Rose stopped.

Borg said, “Cinch,” out of the darkness.

Kells’ gun roared and almost simultaneously another roared, flashed yellow out of the darkness near the door.

Rose’s hands were together high in the air. He spun as though suspended by his hands from the ceiling, fell down to his knees, bent slowly forward.

Kells went to him swiftly and put the muzzle of the automatic against the back of his head and fired three times. He grunted, “Compliments Flo Beery,” straightened and watched Rose topple forward, crush his dead face against the floor.

He turned to look toward the rear of the room and in that instant the two big lights went out, it was entirely black.

Borg’s voice whispered beside him: “Oh, boy! Did I have a swell hunch when I turned off the lights in the little room outside — they could pick us off going out if I hadn’t.”

Borg led him to the door and they went across the little room in the darkness. Kells stumbled over something soft — Borg said: “I had to sap the doorman — he wasn’t going to let me in.”

Borg swung the heavy outer door wide and they went through to the stairs.

About halfway down Kells put his hand out suddenly and groped for the banister — his body pivoted slowly on one foot, crashed against the wall. He slid to his knees, still holding the banister tightly.

Borg put his hands under Kells’ arms and locked them on his chest, tried to lift him.

Kells muttered something that sounded like, “Wait — minute,” coughed.

Borg pried his hand off the banister, half dragged; half carried him the rest of the way downstairs.

It was raining very hard.

Kells straightened suddenly and pushed Borg away, said: “I’m all right.” Then he leaned against the building and coughed, and the cough was a harsh, tearing sound deep inside him. He stood there coughing terribly until Borg dragged him away, shoved him into the car that had come swiftly to the curb.

Granquist was at the wheel. She said, “Well — hero!” sarcastically, as if she had been wanting to say that, thinking about saying that for a long time.

Kells’ head sagged to her shoulder. There was blood on his mouth and his eyes were closed.

Borg climbed in behind him, closed the door. “Granquist threw her arms around Kells suddenly and pressed his head close against her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, stricken; her lower lip was caught between her teeth — she almost screamed: “Gerry — darling — for God’s sake, say something!”

Borg was looking back through the side window at the dark archway that led to the stairs.

He said: “Let’s get going.”

Kells raised his head and opened his eyes. He waved an arm in the general direction of the car across the street — the car they had followed from Larson’s.

Borg said: “We ain’t got time to jim it up — besides, they got a flock of cars.” He reached in front of Kells, shook Granquist, shouted: “Let’s go.”

She looked up blankly, then mechanically took her left arm from around Kells and grasped the wheel. She let the clutch in and the big coupe slid away from the curb.

“Duck down Gardner.” Borg snapped on the dashlight, pulled Kells’ overcoat and suit coat off his shoulder, ripped his shirt open and looked at the wound on the outer muscle of his left arm. “Crease,” he said. Then he glanced through the rear window, went on: “Turn right, here — no — the next one. This one’s full of holes.”

Granquist was bent over the wheel, staring intently through the dripping windshield. She jerked her head at Kells, asked: “Why’s he coughing blood?” She spoke in a small, harsh, breathless voice.

Borg shrugged, went on examining Kells. He glanced again through the rear window, said: “Here they come — give it everything.”

They swung around a corner and the car leaped ahead, the engine throbbed, thundered. When Borg looked back again the headlights that marked the pursuing car were almost three blocks behind them.