Lawrence Sanders - McNally's caper

‘Jack,’ I said.

He looked up.

‘I heard something,’ I said. ‘A low thud.’

‘A shutter banging,’ Garcia said, grinning. ‘That’s all.’

Donohue stared at him.

‘This place ain’t got shutters,’ he said.

Manuel Garcia shrugged. ‘A rat maybe. A big bird. A place like this, it’s got all kinds of noises. I think maybe you’re a little anxious — no?’

Donohue didn’t answer. He just stood there, his head cocked, listening. I looked again toward the road. Nothing moved there.

We all stood frozen, silent. Jack was still holding the papers.

Then we all heard it. Unmistakable now. A footfall on soft ground. I imagined I could hear the squish of the sodden earth.

‘You prick!’ Donohue screamed.

He threw the papers at Garcia’s face. But the other man was just as fast. He ducked. When he straightened up, miraculously there was a long knife in his hand. He held it flat, knuckles turned down. The blade glittered wickedly.

Jack started to reach into his pocket for his gun.

Garcia moved forward with little mincing steps. The knife point swung back and forth.

The passport forger gasped and dropped onto the filthy floor.

Garcia lunged.

Jack leaped backward.

‘Run!’ he yelled at me.

I fired through my raincoat pocket.

Garcia was suddenly slammed backward. He didn’t fall. He looked down at himself, not believing.

Jack had his gun out now.

He leaned toward Garcia, his arm out straight. He fired twice.

The man’s face swelled enormously. His mouth opened. His eyes popped. His tongue came lolling out. Then blood gushed from nose and ears. He melted down.

The paperman cowered on the floor. His arms were over his head.

Jack grabbed my arm. We ran.

I saw crouched figures coming across that dreary landscape. From the bay. From a boat on the bay. From the rotting dock.

Donohue yanked me back inside. We turned. Dashed to the other side. Climbed out a broken window. Jumped off the porch. Bolted toward our car.

Then I was alone. I stopped, turned. Jack was standing between me and the hotel. He had both his guns out. He was firing at men darting between pillars on the porch. Men racing to one side to cut us off. Men lying on the wet ground, aiming carefully, firing their weapons methodically.

I saw a familiar figure, short, heavyset, big shoulders, barrel chest. Wearing a black raincoat buttoned to the chin. A black fedora, the brim snapped low.

He came, around the corner of the hotel and walked slowly, purposefully toward us. His hands were in his pockets. He fired no guns. But that deliberate, implacable advance frightened me more than all the shouts, screams, the hard snaps and deep booms of the guns.

I had my pistol out now and emptied it toward that

advancing figure. Still he came. I heard the pistol click and flung it from me. I fumbled in my shoulder bag.

Then Jack turned and came dashing back. I saw the widened eyes, open mouth, the chest heaving.

‘Jan-’ he gasped.

Then something hit him. Punched him forward.

He went down on one knee. He reached slowly around behind him.

I was at his side. Grabbed his arm. Hauled him up. Staggering, stumbling, we made it to the fence. I pushed him through the cut. He fell flat on his face. I saw the bloodstain spreading over the back of his raincoat.

Sobbing, I wrenched him to his feet again. He couldn’t stand erect. He was doubled over. I heard gnats singing about us. A buzz. There were whispers in the air. Things spanged off the bodies of both cars.

I pushed Jack into the back of the Cutlass. Just threw him onto the floor. I doubled his legs, jammed them in, slammed the door.

I got behind the wheel, started the engine. I accelerated in a jackrabbit start, spun the wheels, slowed until I had traction. Then I pushed the pedal to the floor, swerving around the parked Cadillac.

I had a hazy impression of more shouts, curses, explosions of guns. Men running toward us.

And, from the corner of my eye, saw that black trundling figure coming on. Not running. Not firing a gun. But just coming on, coming on …

His first words were: ‘Are you all right?’

I tried to smile, bit my lower lip, blinked rapidly. I put a hand on his forehead. Fevered. I soaked a towel under the tap, wrung it out, draped it softly across his brow.

‘They came by boat,’ he breathed painfully. ‘We should have watched for that.’ It was an old man’s voice: faint, harsh, bubbling with phlegm.

I nodded. He was right; we had been outguessed.

‘Was Garcia in on it?’ I asked.

‘Sure.’ Speaking was an effort for him; I could hear it. ‘His price was probably the necklace. Or more. Did vou see him?’

I knew whom he meant.

‘I tried to kill him,’ I said. ‘I emptied my pistol at the bastard. But he just kept coming toward us.’

‘You did fine. Just fine. Real class. What happened after I caught it? Tell me everything.’

He closed his eyes. I hoped he was sleeping. But I kept talking.

‘I found Federal Highway,’ I said. ‘But I made a mistake; I turned south instead of north.’

Then I knew he was awake and listening. And understanding. But his eyes were still closed.

‘Road blocked?’

‘No. I thought it would be, but it wasn’t.’

‘They were so sure,’ he said. ‘So sure. Followed?’

‘No, Jack, we weren’t. I kept looking back to make certain. Garcia probably had the Cadillac keys. Anyway, I took a turnoff and went east to A1A. Then I came directly home.’ ‘Home,’ he repeated faintly. ‘Was I out?’

‘Half-and-half. I thought that I’d get you here and look in the back seat and you’d be — you know.’

Something like a cruel smile moved his mouth.

‘Not me. I’m too mean to die. How’d you get me in?’

‘You leaned on me,’ I told him. ‘Arm around my neck. We passed a couple coming in and I yelled at you about drinking too much. They smiled at me sympathetically. No one else saw us.’

‘Blood?’

‘Not as much as I thought. Very little in the car.’

That was a lie. There had been a flood.

‘How does it look?’

‘Okay. It looks fine. Just a small hole, kind of puffed up. I got a towel around you and tied it tight. Then I went out and found a drugstore that was still open. I bought pads and bandages and tape. Antiseptics. Things like that. I’ve got you all bandaged up now. I gave you some brandy and aspirin.’

‘A small hole? Where?’

‘Under your ribs. A few inches left of the spine. Above your waist.’

‘Did it come out?’ he asked in a low voice.

I was silent.

‘Did it come out?’ he repeated.

‘No. The bullet’s still in there. We’ve got to get you to a doctor, Jack. To a hospital.’

‘No. No doctor. No hospital. No need for that. I feel grand.’

He didn’t look grand. He was lying in bed, naked, covered with a sheet and a light blanket. Because frequently he would get the shakes. In spite of the fever his whole body would tremble, stricken with a sudden chill.

‘Jack,’ I said. ‘Let’s give it up. I’ll call the cops. We’ll get you to a hospital.’

He opened his eyes. He stared at me.

‘After what we’ve gone through? Give it up now? Don’t say that, Jan. I can take this. This isn’t so bad. I feel better already.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I’m not lying,’ he said patiently. ‘I really feel better.

Hardly any pain at all. Listen, one pill is nothing. It could heal by itself. It doesn’t have to come out.’

I didn’t say anything. He closed his eyes again.

‘Promise me,’ he said faintly.