Lawrence Sanders - McNally's caper

‘What, Jack?’

‘You won’t call the cops or a doctor unless I say okay. Promise?’

‘I promise.’

He fell asleep smiling. I washed out the bloody towel and tried to rinse the stains from his shirt, jacket, and raincoat. There was blood on his pants, undershorts, socks. There was blood in his shoes. I didn’t want to think of that puddle caking on the back floor of the Oldsmobile.

I poured myself a brandy and sat in a chair alongside the bed. I watched him breathe: slow, almost lazy breathing. I told myself it was normal: no coughing, no gasping. Maybe the wound would heal by itself.

I know now that during that night and the day that followed, I wasn’t thinking. I couldn’t think. The outside fog Was inside me now. A thought would drift into my mind — doctor, hospital, police, escape — and then it would just fade into smoke and cobwebs. I couldn’t concentrate. I could not pin down a single rational idea. All I could do was float in the swirl, numbed, moving like a zombie.

I did what had to be done. I made food for myself and ate it. I made food for Jack and fed him. I bathed him and myself. I mixed drinks. I made certain the door was locked and the blinds drawn. I mean, I functioned. But all the time I wasn’t aware, either of myself or what I was doing. Those twenty-four hours were a mindless blank.

I think now it was nature’s way of protecting me. I think that somnambulism was a mechanism to preserve my sanity. I didn’t weep. No hysterics. I just felt divorced from what was happening. I was a stranger in a foreign world. I breathed, ate, slept, and never once did I ask, why ? I was Jannie Shean, the mechanical woman. Wind her up and away she goes.

That night, Thursday, I slept sitting up in an armchair. Jack woke me once, and I brought him more brandy and water and put another wet cloth across his forehead. He muttered something I couldn’t understand, then slept again. I thought his sleeping was a good sign. I thought everything was a good sign.

There was sunshine in the morning — another good sign. Not much brightness, but the clouds were breaking up and there were patches of blue. I locked Jack in and ran out to buy some food, orange juice, the Miami papers. There was nothing in the papers about the shootout at the deserted hotel on Dumfoundling Bay. And nothing on the TV news broadcast. I figured Antonio Rossi had cleaned up neatly behind him.

Jack woke about 10:00, and I fed him some hot beef broth with bits of bread soaked in it. He got a few spoonsful down, then turned his head away.

He didn’t look at all good. His face was waxen, sheened, white as the pillow. His features seemed to be shrinking, tightening. He was getting a hawk profile. I had to roll him over to change the dressing on the wound. The bleeding had stopped; the bullet hole was closing. It was a blue pucker. But his body was a shock: pale, flaccid, bones jutting. And there was a smell. Not just sweat and blood and soiled sheets. But something else. Something sweetish, curdled, and piercing.

He drowsed, fitfully, all that Friday. He had an enormous thirst, drank water, milk, coffee, brandy, orange juice. Four times I had to help him into the bathroom. He wouldn’t let me stay with him in there. I wanted to; it didn’t bother me. But he insisted on closing the door. Then I would assist him back to bed, half-carrying him, his arm around my shoulders.

Once he forgot to flush the toilet, and I saw he had been passing blood. Around 5:00 P.M., he awoke again and said, ‘Give me a cigarette.’

‘Jack,’ I said, ‘are you sure you should-’

He looked at me. I lighted a cigarette and put it between his lips. He caught my hand and kissed my fingers.

‘My mom,’ he said. ‘She run off. I never did know her.’

‘Don’t try to talk, Jack. Just finish your cigarette and get some more sleep.’

it wasn’t all bad,’ he said. ‘Most of it was, but not all of it.’

His hand fell limply. The lighted cigarette dropped to the

floor. I picked it up, snuffed it out. When I looked at him again, his eyes were closed. But the blanket across his chest was rising and falling steadily.

‘The mud crick,’ he said. ‘I told you?’

‘Yes, Jack. You told me.’

‘Dick,’ he said. ‘Dick Fleming. What a brain on that kid. Style. Real class.’

‘Yes, Jack.’

‘Where did Ernie go?’

‘Who?’

‘Ernie. He was here just a minute ago.’

‘He’ll be back.’

‘The track in the morning. When they were working the horses. The sun coming up. Dew on the grass. That was something.’

I was silent.

‘I cried,’ he said, ‘when I was a kid. But that don’t do no good. That fucking Rossi.’

‘Yes.’

‘Dick and I talked about you. He liked you dressed like a hooker. I liked you best when you were you, Jannie.’

‘Thank you,’ I said faintly.

‘Have you seen A1 lately?’

‘No, I haven’t seen Al.’

‘Peters is in town for the season,’ he said. ‘And the Carter boys. They’re all coming in. Shumsky was out on the Coast. Hit it big in Vegas — he says. But you know Shumsky.’

‘Shh,’ I said. ‘Try to sleep.’

‘I wonder where she went? I thought I’d bump in to her someday, but I never did. You want another drink, Alice?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘thanks. I’ve had enough.’

‘We’ll have to put that hound down. Too bad, but he’s hurting. I’m running a load to Athens tonight, Pop. We’ll do it when I get back.’

‘Okay, Jack.’

‘A sweet caper. The best — am I right?’

‘You’re right, Jack.’

‘Jesus, I’m tired. I’ve got to get to the track, but I think I’ll take a little nap first.’

‘You do that. Take a little nap.’

Then he slept, and I think I did, too. When I awoke, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet on the floor.

‘Jack,’ I said, ‘for God’s sake, lie down. Get under the blanket.’

‘I’m thirsty,’ he said in an aggrieved tone. ‘I want some orange juice.’

‘You finished the juice,’ I told him. ‘But there’s milk, beer, cola, coffee, brandy, water — whatever you want.’

‘Orange juice,’ he repeated.

I looked at the wall clockl. Almost 8:00.

‘Jack, where am I going to get orange juice this time of night?’

He looked at me steadily. When he spoke, he was perfectly rational, perfectly lucid.

‘There’s an all-night 7-11 Store right across the bridge. You can be there and back in fifteen minutes. I really would like some fresh, cold orange juice.’

‘If I go, will you get back in bed?’

‘Have I got a choice?’

He fell back into bed. I lifted up his legs. I covered him up to his chin. I leaned down to kiss his dry lips.

‘Be right back,’ I said. ‘I love you, Jack.’

‘Yeah,’ he breathed. ‘Say it again.’

‘I love you.’

‘Yeah.’

I looked back from the door just before I went out. His eyes were closed. He seemed to be breathing slowly, steadily. I locked the door behind me.

I bought three quarts of orange juice. I came speeding back. I wasn’t gone more than twenty minutes. The door to our motel room was wide open.

I knew then. Knew. But I went through the motions.

I went inside, put the juice in the refrigerator.

The note was on the drainboard of the sink. Written in a scrawled, wavery hand:

‘Babe, it’s no good. I’m filling up with blood. I can feel it. I think I’ll take a walk on the beach. Take everything. Do what you have to do. Get out. Keep moving. You got a chance. I’ll bet on it. I love you, Jan. Did I tell you? I love-’

The pencil line drooped, fell away.

I went outside. I walked down to the black sea. I thought I saw the dragging track he had made, but perhaps I was imagining it.