Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

As Reardon tried to extricate himself from the beanbag yet another time, the man brought his knee up and into his jaw, and then hit him over the bridge of his nose with the clenched fist, wielding it like a hammer, whap, blinding little arrows of light splintering up into his head, and whap again, he is going to kill me. Reardon thought, before I even get out of this fucking beanbag! The man was bigger than Reardon, and stronger than he was, and he had cold-cocked him in the fucking dumb amoeba-beanbag chair that kept trying to swallow him. and Reardon knew that if he didn’t do something fast — why did police work always get down to having to do something fast? — the big guy would stomp him into the floor and throw him into the fire or out the window because this was playing-for-keeps time. This Reardon knew with every gram of intelligence he possessed.

He abandoned trying to stand up, gave up any idea of shoving himself up out of the beanbag, rolled out of it instead, onto the floor and away from a kick the big guy aimed at his head, rolling, rolling, the big guy following him until finally his back hit the wall on the other side of the room, and the big guy reached down for him and grabbed him by the shirt, and yanked him to his feet, and Reardon brought his knee up into his groin, and the big guy yelled and let go of his shirt. Reardon knew he had to get to the gun. This guy would kill him. he was too big and too strong. Reardon desperately needed his pistol. But it was in the holster across the room, and the big guy was between him and the holster, bellowing now in rage because he’d been kneed in the balls, ready to tear Reardon apart in anger now.

The anger hadn’t been there earlier. Earlier there had been only the methodical pounding and kicking, the certainty that brute strength would prevail, but now there was anger, and Reardon figured the anger would work better for him than it would for the big guy. Anger had a great deal of energy going for it — you didn’t start up with a guy who was angry because he could easily kill you with the power of his rage — but that’s all it had going for it.

Anger made you dumb.

Anger made you reckless.

Anger made you lose.

“Come on, you dumb fuck,” Reardon said, playing into the anger, dropping his hands at his sides and sticking his chin out, and then side-stepping to the left, ducking away as the big guy threw another punch at him. “Missed, you asshole,” Reardon said, and opened himself up again, balancing himself on the balls of his feet, ready to dart left or right depending on where the next angry punch — there it was, a sharp left jab, he pulled his head to the right, danced away, and grabbed the nearest candlestick by its stem.

The candle fell from the socket, hitting the floor, the wax breaking, the wick holding the pieces like a spinal cord, the flame snuffing out at once. Reardon swung the candlestick toward the big guy’s head, the base aimed at his left temple. A big hefty arm came up, diverting the blow, the candlestick base catching him on the left cheek and opening a cut there, nothing serious, nothing to stop him from reacting with a short, sharp, right-handed jab to Reardon’s gut.

“Ooof!” Reardon went, and the big guy fell upon him in earnest.

Now I die, he thought, now the son of a bitch kills me. His punches were angry, more powerful because of the anger behind them. He stalked Reardon like a trained killer — Jesus, is he a pro? Reardon wondered — battering him, pounding him, knocking over chairs and tables to get at him, slamming him against the wall and punching him when he bounced off the wall again, anger, anger — and then the mistake that anger caused. Shoved out at him, and closed in on him, both fists bunched for the kill, but shoved him in the direction of the chair with the gun slung over it, momentarily letting his anger get between himself and his own good sense, letting Reardon at the same time get between him and the gun.

A second was all Reardon needed.

He knew this holster, knew this pistol, this holster and pistol were old friends, almost lovers, he knew them intimately. The left hand grabbed for the familiar leather, the right hand closed around the walnut grip, and pulled, and the pistol came up out of the holster and into his hand, and Reardon leveled it immediately at the fucking charging bull who was only three feet away from him now, and he said, “Freeze, shithead!” and the big guy kept coming for a moment, almost as if he hadn’t heard Reardon, and Reardon thought This one goes to the morgue, but he said, “Freeze!” again, louder this time, and the big guy stopped dead in his tracks.

His eyes looked suddenly bewildered.

Anger draining out of them.

Reason returning.

Run.

Get out of here.

Escape.

“No,” Reardon said, and waggled the gun at him. “Turn around. Now! Do it!”

The big guy turned.

“Hands behind your back,” Reardon said. “Fast!”

The big guy put his hands behind his back. Reardon cuffed them at once.

“All right, who are you?” he said.

“Am I bleeding?” he asked. “My cheek?”

“I hope you bleed to death, you cocksucker,” Reardon said. “Who are you?”

“Get an ambulance!” the big guy said. “I’m going to sue you, Reardon! I’ll sue the city! I’ll...”

“Oh, you know who I am, huh?” Reardon said. “Okay, let’s see who you are. Sit!” he said, and shoved the big guy into the chair over which his jacket and the empty holster were still draped.

“These handcuffs are too tight,” the big guy said.

“Aw, gee,” Reardon said, and patted him down till he found the pocket with his wallet. “You know what assaulting a police officer’s gonna net you?” he asked. “Attempted murder? Do you know? Huh?” He opened the wallet. “Here we go,” he said, and began flipping through the celluloid inserts. “Arizona driver’s li...” His eyes opened wide in surprise. “Robert Sargent Kidd, well, well!” He lifted Sarge’s chin with the barrel of the gun. “Who are you, Mr. Kidd? Her husband? Her brother? Were you there when I dropped in on her?”

“Get me something to put on my cheek.” Sarge said. “I’m bleeding, can’t you see I’m bleeding?”

“Yes, I see that,” Reardon said, “what a shame. Why’d you try to kill me?”

“I didn’t.”

“No? You sure coulda fooled me.” He lifted his chin again with the gun barrel. “How’d you find me here?”

No answer.

“Did you follow me here?”

No answer.

“From your sister’s place? Is she your sister?”

“Yes.”

“Were you there when we were talking?”

No answer.

“Okay, Mr. Kidd,” he said, “I guess I’m going to shoot you.”

“No, you’re not,” Sarge said.

“Yes, I am,” Reardon said. “And then I’m going to take those cuffs off you, and I’m going to tell all the friendly cops who come up here that you attacked me and tried to kill me and I had to shoot you in self-defense. Cops don’t like people who try to kill other cops. Neither do judges.” He smiled pleasantly. “What do you say, Mr. Kidd?”

“Go ahead, shoot me,” Sarge said.

“Happy to oblige,” Reardon said, and cocked the hammer.

“I’ll be better off dead,” Sarge said.

“Oh?” Reardon said. “Why? Is someone apt to be annoyed by your little goof, Mr. Kidd? Assaulting a police officer?” He put the gun under Sarge’s nose, just over his upper lip, centered on it. “Who sent you here after me?”

“I came on my own. It was my own idea. Go ahead, shoot me.”

“Don’t rush me.” Reardon said. “Why do you look so familiar?”