Росс Томас - Twilight at Mac’s Place

It was a few minutes after 10 A.M. when Warnock wandered over and stood beside McCorkle’s chair, looking not at him but at the hotel entrance. “I go off in ten minutes,” Warnock said.

“Who relieves you?” McCorkle asked.

“Mr. Coors. Remember him?”

“The big guy?”

“They’re all big,” Warnock said. “But he’s the one with the hint of human intelligence.”

“Now I remember him,” McCorkle said. “What happens if Granville Haynes leaves the hotel?”

“I’ve got a two-man team outside — aw, shit.”

McCorkle looked where Warnock was looking. The doors of one of the elevators had just opened and a man was hurrying across the lobby toward the Pennsylvania Avenue exit.

The hurrying man wore a dark gray suit, blue tie, white shirt and black wing tips. He was of average height, five-nine or — ten; average weight, around 155 pounds; and had fairly short hair the color of wet sand. He also had two small ears, two light gray eyes, a snub nose, an unremarkable mouth and appeared to be in his mid to late forties.

Harry Warnock turned away from McCorkle, stepped into the path of the hurrying man and said, “Hey, Purchase.”

The man called Purchase didn’t change expression or break stride. He was still twenty feet away from Warnock when his right hand darted across his stomach at belt level, vanished beneath his unbuttoned suitcoat in a cross-draw and reappeared a second later, holding a semiautomatic pistol. Still moving toward the exit, Purchase fired at Warnock. The round struck Warnock’s left side and knocked him halfway around.

Purchase broke into a trot that carried him past the still seated McCorkle. Without weighing the possible consequences, McCorkle stuck out his long right leg and tripped Purchase, who went into an awkward, stumbling fall. If he had dropped the pistol, he could have broken the fall with both hands. But he didn’t drop it and wound up sprawled on the marble floor, his right hand still clutching the gun.

McCorkle, now on his feet, slammed one heel down on the gun hand. Purchase grunted and released the pistol. McCorkle kicked it away, turned back and kicked Purchase in the face. The kick made Purchase grunt again.

McCorkle hurried toward Warnock, who, down on knees, was pressing his left side with his left hand just below the rib cage. His right hand held a revolver that McCorkle thought might be a five-shot Smith & Wesson.

McCorkle was ten feet away when Warnock roared, “Behind you, damnit!”

McCorkle spun around. Purchase was in a seated position and bleeding from his mouth and nose. His knees were up, as was his right pants leg, which revealed a black ribbed sock and an empty ankle holster. Purchase used both hands to aim a very small semiautomatic at McCorkle. Automatically classifying the small gun as a .22 caliber, McCorkle made a desperate side-hop to his right, alarmed and dismayed by the way the gun followed him, as if it were just waiting for him to land.

Purchase’s left eye disappeared with a bang. McCorkle, at the end of his hop and suffering from terror-induced detachment, tried to decide whether he had heard the gunshot before or after the left eye disappeared. He was still trying to decide when Purchase seemed to melt onto the marble floor of the lobby where he lay, dead or dying, in a small puddle of urine and blood.

Then the shouts began. One man cursed monotonously. A woman decided to scream. A pair of hotel security men, guns drawn, rushed up to the still kneeling Warnock, who snarled something that made them put away their guns, help him to his feet and into a chair. A few gawkers, mostly men, slowly circled the dead Purchase, staring down at him with morbid fascination.

Once seated in the chair, Warnock grimaced, looked around, located McCorkle and nodded toward the elevators. McCorkle hurried into one of them and, as its doors closed, lit a Pall Mall cigarette with hands that he suspected might never stop trembling.

McCorkle pounded on the door of Granville Haynes’s room until a man’s muffled voice demanded. “Who is it?”

“McCorkle.”

“You alone?”

“Christ, yes.”

“Prove it.”

“Open the door.”

“Not yet.”

“Then how the hell do I prove it?”

“Turn around and put your hands on your head,” Haynes said through the door. “After I open up, back in. If there’s a problem with you, he’ll have to go through you to get to me.”

“The problem’s down in the lobby — dead.”

There was a long silence before Haynes said, “We’ll still do it my way.”

McCorkle turned so that his back was to the room’s door. He held his cigarette between his lips and clasped his hands on top of his head. He heard the door open and Haynes say, “Back in.”

McCorkle backed in, hands still on his head. He lowered them and took the cigarette out of his mouth as Haynes closed the door, shot all of its bolts and fastened the chain lock. Haynes wore only boxer shorts. McCorkle thought his stomach was too flat.

Haynes turned, noticed McCorkle’s cigarette and said, “This is a nonsmoking room.”

McCorkle nodded politely and blew smoke at the ceiling.

Haynes said, “I had a visitor.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He came with a small bolt cutter for the door chain and a pass-card — one of those electronic gizmos you can stick in the slot to open any door in the hotel. You can buy them the way you used to buy passkeys, but they’re a lot more expensive.”

“What kept him out?” McCorkle said.

“Acting.”

“Acting?”

“He was working on the chain with the bolt cutter when I started playing two parts — myself and Tinker Burns. Tinker and I talked about what we’d do to the son of a bitch once we got him inside.”

Suddenly, an uncanny duplicate of Burns’s voice came out of Haynes’s mouth. “You hold him, Granny, and I’ll reach down his throat and yank his gizzard out.” Haynes paused and resumed speaking in his normal voice. “The guy left and I thought he might’ve stuck a piece in your face and made you come back with him. But you say he’s dead.”

“Shot dead,” McCorkle said and headed for the room’s small refrigerator. He removed a miniature bottle of Scotch whisky, poured its contents into a glass and drank half of it.

“Who was he?” Haynes asked.

“Harry Warnock called him Purchase.”

“And who’s Warnock?”

“The guy Padillo and I hired to look after us while we mind you till the auction’s over.”

“How’d it play out?”

“Purchase shot Warnock in the side. Then Warnock killed him.”

“Where were you?”

“After he shot Warnock. Purchase made a dash for the front entrance. I tripped him, stomped his gun hand and kicked his piece’ away.”

“Then turned your back on him, right?”

McCorkle nodded. “To see about Warnock.”

“Dumb move,” Haynes said. “You should’ve kicked his face in first.”

“I thought I had.”

“What were you doing in the lobby?”

“Making sure Harry was on the job.”

“He’s an ex-cop?”

“Ex-IRA. The Kuwaitis are said to dote on him.”

“But he got shot.”

“Right.”

“And let this guy Purchase make it up to my room.”

“When Harry gets better, maybe he’ll send you a nice little note of apology.”

“How hurt is he?”

“That’s what I have to find out,” McCorkle said. “But there’s no need to drag you into it.” He reached into a pants pocket, brought out a key case, removed a key and handed it to Haynes. “Know where I live?”

Haynes nodded.

“The key’ll get you in. You’d better get dressed, get out of here and find a cab not too close by. Once you’re inside my apartment, go down the hall to the last bedroom on the left. In the chiffonier, third drawer down underneath some sweaters, you’ll find a Chief’s Special.”