Ed Lacy - Enter Without Desire

When I returned, Elma was listening to the radio. I sat in a chair and fell asleep—to my surprise. I suppose I was so nervous I was emotionally exhausted. I awoke to hear Elma calling, “Marsh, it's midnight. Come to bed. I must have kept you up all last night.”

When I got into bed, Elma dozed off and I lay there, afraid to fall asleep. Suppose I overslept? But I was too tightly wound up to sleep anyway. At four o'clock I got her pill, some water, gently shook Elma awake. “Honey, you forgot your pill.”

“What time is it?”

“Little after one. Now...”

“That all? Feel like I've slept for hours.”

“Now take your pill and go back to sleep.”

She took the pill, asked for the bedpan, and by 4:30 she was sleeping soundly. I dressed quickly, took a slug of whisky, then carried my stuff out to the car. The village was still asleep and I didn't see a soul as I drove off.

It was a dreary, dull-cold morning, the right atmosphere for killing, I guess, but it didn't help my nerves any. I'd put the gas pedal down, then reminded myself that all I needed was to be picked up for speeding, took it slow for a few miles. I came over the 59th Street Bridge at five to six, stopped for a cup of coffee. The crummy restaurant was full of sleepy-eyed men on their way to or from work. How I wished I was one of them, and not on my way to murder!

The coffee did what the whisky failed to do, steadied me. I had a second cup and a doughnut and felt okay. As I paid the toll and drove through the Tunnel, I wondered if I should tell Mac who I was before I plugged him? Gave me a hell of a satisfaction, but if by some chance he didn't die at once—he'd tell the cops.

One thing I'd overlooked—where to shoot him. The stomach was the largest target—I might miss his head, even at short range.

In New Jersey I drove off the highway at a spot I'd picked out the day before, parked in a wooded area. Glancing around to make sure I was alone, I quickly painted one of the fenders, made some mud and dirtied my license plates. I dressed in the padded suit, put on the shirt and tie, dyed my hair, and slapped the mole on my cheek. I hung the hook from my belt, put on my cap when my hair was dry. I stuffed cotton up my right nostril, stuck a wad in the right side of my face. My mouth felt full of cotton.

Double-checking my appearance, I drove toward Newark.

I reached the store by eight and of course it was shut. I'd made my first mistake—had a half hour to wait; I felt certain I had screwed myself up. I suddenly got the jitters, told myself the smart thing would be to go home, try again tomorrow....

But I was on top of the killing now, and tomorrow might be too late. I drove around and when I came past the store again it was 8:30 and the damn place was still shut. But some of the other stores were open.

I parked the car and waited—praying I didn't get the runs now.

At a quarter to nine I got out and strolled past the store. He'd just opened, was standing behind the counter, his hat and coat still on, reading the mail.

A few people were on the street. I didn't see any cops.

I waited, my knees doing a little dance. I waited and waited... then I boldly walked in, walking like a man on his way to the chair; wanting to get things over.

Mac gave me a practiced smile as he said, “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

He ran his eyes over my cheap clothes and his expression said I wasn't going to be much of a customer, even to break the ice for the day.

“You got lockets?” I heard my voice as if speaking from another world. I was talking with what I thought was an Italian accent. I don't know why I chose to be an Italian... put it on them.

“Yes, sir, a store full. About how much do you plan to spend?”

I was standing directly in front of him as I yanked out the Luger, my body hiding the gun from anybody in the street. “This is a stick-up!” I said hoarsely. “Keep your mitts on the counter—not up in the air! Keep still and you won't get hurt!”

“Of course,” he said, biting off the words, his whole face ashen. “A-all the money I-I have is in the cash register. Please don't h-hurt me.”

“Move over—with me—to the register.”

We both sidestepped toward the .cash register, moving like an awkward dance team. I motioned with the gun, “Open it!”

He pressed the button and the drawer shot open, making me jump. I took up a handful of bills with my left hand, asked for his wallet. I stuffed the money and wallet into my left pocket.

There was a tray of costume jewelry on the counter, I scooped that up, put the junk in my pockets. I told him, “Mister, don't call nobody for ten minutes. You hear, mister?”

“Y-yes.”

He was less than two feet from me and I had the Luger pointed at his heart. My own heart was beating like a hammer as I pulled the trigger....

... A tiny tear, a slit that became a hole, appeared in his coat. That was all.

Shocked surprise swept his face as he staggered a step backwards, eyes wide with disbelief... then he slowly and quietly slipped under the counter.

For a second the shop was still, then it seemed to be ringing with the thunder of the shot, the sound smothering me. Jamming the gun in my pocket, I walked out—forcing myself not to run.

The street looked normal. Two men were standing in the doorway of a haberdashery, three stores away, chewing the fat. They glanced at me as I passed, but that was all. There wasn't any sound of the gun on the street. I kept my hands out of my pockets, away from the security-feeling of the gun, as I turned the corner, got into my car and drove—smack into a red light!

The tension was terrible. I wanted to scream, yell my lungs out... having to sit in the car not thirty feet from his store. I looked about with a trapped feeling, noticed a parcel-post truck parked on the opposite side of the street. If they had a package for Mac... they'd find the body in a few minutes... maybe a few seconds... with the damn red light on, me sitting there, waiting for...

When the welcome green came on I drove away, forcing myself to drive at twenty per. I spat the cotton wad out of my mouth, took the plug from my nose, the wart off my cheek.

Glancing at the steering wheel I almost fainted— I didn't have any glove on my right hand!

Frantically I dug into my pockets for the other glove. It wasn't... then I saw it on the seat beside me. That was a relief... if I'd dropped it in the store.... But damn, I must have forgotten to put it on! They'd find fingerprints... store'd be lousy with prints! I tried to convince myself I hadn't touched anything with my right hand—only had used my gloved left... But had I?

I reached the highway, expecting to hear sirens following me any second, my brain in agony as I tried to recall every movement I'd made in the store. Did I push the door open with my right hand? Leave prints that could be easily checked with my army record? No, the door had been open... I think it was open... I'm almost sure it was open.

How about the counter... did I put my right hand on that? That goddamned ungloved right hand!... Maybe, but I had the right hand around the gun.... Yeah, I had my right hand in my pocket, all the time, holding the gun. No need to worry, my right hand was... But was it?... Oh Christ, had I left any prints...?

Turning off the road, I drove into the wooded area again and shut off the motor. I was sweating like a pig, with my padded suit on. For a second I studied the trees, the bushes, then quickly undressed, stuffed the clothes into two paper bags. The costume jewelry fell out of the pockets and I tossed that into the grass. I had taken thirty-three dollars from his cash register, and there was another fifteen bucks in his wallet. I shoved the money and wallet in my back pocket, put the gun and the freight hook under the car seat. I washed my hair, soaping it good. The dye came right off and I dried it with my shirt, then went to work on the car. It took more time than I expected to wash the paint off the fender. I should have had more water, but I finally got the blue off.