Ross Thomas - Backup Men

“How bad is it, Wanda?” Padillo said.

“Quite bad,” she said without looking up. “Bending over like this seems to help.”

“Did he rupture anything?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“Can you listen?”

“I can listen.”

And that’s what we did for nearly half an hour while Padillo outlined one of his getaway plans that sounded like a sure thing if one or two of us didn’t mind getting shot.

It took almost an hour to work the nail out of the desk. Padillo found it driven into one of the lower drawers. It had been used by someone who had grown tired of having the drawer come apart. Glue would have been better—more craftsmanlike—or even a small screw, but whoever had owned the desk hadn’t wanted to bother with either so he had nailed the drawer together with the first one he could find—a three-inch finishing nail.

When we finally got it out, Padillo lit a match and held it to the nail. “Do you think this really does any good?” he asked me.

“I don’t know, but everybody seems to do it.”

“Here,” he said, handing it to me. He bent down and rolled up his left trouser leg. I handed him back the nail and then Wanda Gothar and I watched as he drove it into the calf of his left leg.

He drove it for almost half an inch, biting hard on his lip, the rest of his face screwed up into pain that mingled with determination. I couldn’t have done it. He withdrew the nail and watched the wound bleed. For a puncture, it bled freely.

“All right, Wanda,” he said.

Wanda Gothar lay down on the desk. I went around to the other side of it. Padillo swung his left leg up over Wanda so that his calf was just below her throat. I held his foot. The blood dripped on to Wanda’s dress. We moved it around so that it dripped all over her front. She watched it for a while and then closed her eyes. When the puncture seemed to be coagulating, Padillo poked at it with the nail and it started to bleed again. After ten minutes or so he decided that there was enough blood.

He swung his leg back down, took out a handkerchief, and bound the puncture tightly. Wanda Gothar sat up and stared down at her bloodied dress. She shook her head and looked up and said, “Have either of you a cigarette?”

I handed her one and lit it. Then I offered one to Padillo, took one myself, and we sat there smoking silently until Wanda said, “What time is it?”

I looked at my watch. “Six thirty-five.”

“How do you feel?” Padillo asked her.

“Better. Much better.”

We had gone over it enough so that there was no reason to talk about it anymore. We sat there in silence, not looking at each other, not looking at anything, until we heard the metal bar being drawn. Wanda lay down on the desk. One arm dangled over its edge. Her head lolled back. She turned herself slightly on one side so that her blood-soaked front faced the door. She looked as if someone had dumped her dead on the desk which is just how we wanted her to look.

The door opened and Kragstein stood there with his revolver drawn. Gitner was at his side. Kragstein looked at Wanda, then at us, then back at Wanda.

“What’s wrong with her?” he said.

“You hit her too hard,” I said. “She started hemorrhaging about two hours ago. We couldn’t stop it. She’s dead.”

Kragstein didn’t seem to care. “You’ll have to carry her out,” he said.

Padillo and I rose and went to opposite sides of the desk. Each of us put an arm under Wanda’s knees and our other arm around her back. We picked her up. She made herself dead weight and let her head roll back. She was a good actress.

We carried her through the door. Kragstein was on our left pointing his revolver at Padillo. Gitner was on our right. Padillo murmured, “Now,” and we hurled Wanda at Gitner. She landed on him kicking and clawing. I dived at his legs, slamming into them with my shoulder, bowling him over. Wanda was still on top of him when I came up in a roll. Gitner tried to slam her head with his revolver. I kicked his hand and the gun sailed across the room. I grabbed Wanda’s arm and jerked her off Gitner. “Go,” I yelled and shoved her toward the stairs. She stumbled, recovered, and darted toward them. I aimed another kick at Gitner, but he rolled away. I spotted a door that looked at if it led somewhere and ran toward it. I looked back once. Padillo was locked with Kragstein. I couldn’t tell who was winning.

I went through the door, saw a narrow flight of stairs, and ran for them. I was halfway up when Gitner lunged for my left ankle, caught it, and gave it a hard yank. I fell forward and kicked back with my right leg. I hit something and my left ankle came free. I scrambled on up the stairs, puffing a bit now. Gitner was a few feet behind me. I doubt that he was puffing at all.

At the top of the stairs there was another door, a heavy, metal one. I pulled it open and went through. In front of me, across a wide expanse of wooden flooring, a sea of black and white faces stared up at me. There was a podium with a man standing behind it, his back to me. He turned quickly when a few members of his audience pointed in my direction. When he raised his arms in benediction and called, “Welcome, Brother,” I realized that I was onstage in the old Criterion Theater at the early morning session of Crists Own Home Gospil Misson.

I ran toward the man’s welcoming arms. But he was looking past me now. “You, too, Brother!” he called. “Jesus bids you welcome!”

I looked back. Gitner was racing across the stage at me. Some of the audience, those who were sober enough to see, gave a faint cheer. Gitner was grinning, as if he looked forward to what he was about to do.

Gitner was too good for me, Padillo had said. Too fast, too tricky. I backed into the man who had welcomed me. “Go away,” I said and he said, “Right you are, Brother,” and started moving stage left. Gitner wasn’t running anymore. He moved toward me slowly, his arms and hands almost chest high, all ready to maim or kill, whichever seemed more promising. He grinned as he came. Then he stopped grinning and said, “This is gonna be fun.”

I had backed into the podium. I moved to my left. I risked a glance at the podium, hoping there would be a heavy pitcher of water. There wasn’t. It contained only a large Bible. I snatched it up and threw it at Gitner and then dived in low after it, praying a little as I went.

His hands flew up to protect his face from the Bible and my head hit him hard just below the breastbone. It knocked him off balance, but not before he had brought his clenched hands down on my left shoulder. If he had hit my neck, he might have broken it. We fell and I landed on top of him and it was like landing on three wildcats. His left thumb found my right eye and he was digging into it and chopping at me with his right hand when I brought my knee up into his crotch. He screamed and I jumped up. He got up faster than he should, faster than anyone should, so I kicked him in the pit of the stomach. I kicked him hard and the audience yelled its approval. One man screamed, “Kill the son of a bitch!”

Gitner must have had a cast-iron stomach. He kept on coming. He even grinned a little. I aimed a left at his heart. It was a good left and I put everything I had into it. Gitner moved back half a step, turned sideways, caught my fist, pulled me over and down, and broke my arm.

I was on the floor looking up at him, looking up at death really, when Padillo landed on his back. There was nothing sportsmanlike about it. Padillo got his left forearm around Gitner’s neck, dug a knee into his back, and with the heel of his palm under Gitner’s nose forced his head back until the neck snapped. Gitner died on his way to the floor. The audience roared its delight.