Ed Lacy - Dead End

Crafty Doc, leaving nothing to chance, figuring every angle down to a split hair's width. The deal with the parked squad car, letting me go into Betty's alone, knowing I was so steamed about the kid's murder I'd blast his partner on sight. Child-killer Doc really knew me. Doc's gunning Betty lined up. Oh, how everything fitted: the convenient hideaway, maybe even “finding” the baskets in the cellar.

But those were merely trimmings. His smartest move was knowing me like a book, holding the hoops and having fool me jump through like a trained dog.

Watching Doc gesturing to Lieutenant Smith, I knew the fall he was setting me up for, what clever-clever Doc had in mind for me from the start. He would be giving them a simple story, so simple it had to sound true: When we found the kidnapper, I had thrown a gun on Doc; then I'd forced him to come with me, held him captive. And Doc's story would hold; it rang “true” in too many places. My brain was working on all cylinders, but even a dope could see the whole damn frame in a flash.

I'd made the last phone call to the squad room.

I'd ditched the car.

Doc's gun was busted—they could prove it was my rod that had killed Molly.

They'd found Doc in the house, probably with his hands tied. I was the guy on the loose.

And I was the jerk in disguise. Doc even looked as if he'd been held captive. Wise, dapper Doc, refusing to shave or take a bath.

The fire—that was the neat final touch, his real out. Doc wanted to be a rich hero. I could almost hear the bag of lies he must be giving them about the money burning. Would he say it was an accident? Or would he be bold enough to claim he did it on purpose, to attract the police? One thing was for certain, he had $205,000 to burn and Doc would have made it look like all the ransom money had been burned. And with over two hundred thousand bucks with which to salt and pepper the burnt remains of the suitcases, Doc could make it stand up.

It was such a complete frame I almost had to admire Doc, in a cockeyed way. Old careful Doc, not getting into the game unless he started with a pair back-to-back. Yeah, all the real and circumstantial evidence was stacked against me. Even if I was caught, it would only be my word against his. If I surrendered and tried to tell the truth, I was still guilty of killing Molly. It had been my gun. I would end up in the chair—even if Doc burned with me.

But Doc must have figured that one too, would see to it I wasn't caught alive.

Almost as if he was reading my mind, I saw Doc motioning up and down the street. Cops and detectives started to fan out, guns in hand. Smart Doc telling them I was due back any second, that I was armed, and ready to shoot on sight!

Okay, so this was how it would finally add up. I'd been suckered in. Only Doc had been smarter than he thought, so clever he didn't take his own advice. What had he lectured me about punks who made so many plans they messed themselves up? Doc with all his careful plans, his months and months of figuring each move and twist—Doc had outsmarted himself! I wasn't quite the brainless muscle he'd figured. I'd caught an ace on fifth street that would ruin his little pair backed up.

I couldn't stay where I was; the police were coming nearer to my doorway. I'd been dumb to turn the corner. I should have taken off the moment I saw something was wrong. Only I suppose he knew I'd stop, that I'd be concerned about him. Doc sure knew me. I was only one doorway from the corner, had to chance it.

I stepped out and started sprinting around the corner. The silly blanket around my waist wasn't meant for running. It came loose. Also I had bum luck. I couldn't have been in sight over a second, but I heard Doc shout, “There he is!”

I ran wildly up the avenue, looking for a car, my brain racing faster than my feet. If I could only get away I'd be set. But the goddamn blanket was half out, trying to trip me. My pants were slipping. I must have looked comical, lurching this way and that, trying to stay on my feet as I ran, like a burlesque drunk. I could hear footsteps crowding behind me.

I heard a shot, the slim whistle of a bullet over my head. A car had slowed down to see what all the commotion was about. But the woman driver's face screwed up with panic as she saw me running toward her. She pressed on the gas pedal. The car shot away.

I was standing in the middle of the street, looking around like crazy. I ran to the other side of the avenue and ducked into the alley of a crummy apartment house as guns began going off like firecrackers.

It's a cluck move—the alley is a dead end. I've made a fatal error: I should have stayed in that doorway, forced the door, taken my chances on holing up with whoever lived there. I might have made it; I have a gun. Oh God, how well Doc knew me—had figured I'd be a sap and make a run for it.

The lousy cellar door is locked. A crummy tenement and they have the door locked! No sense clawing and kicking at it, hoping I can make it to the roof. That would be silly, even if I went over a couple of roofs—they must have the area staked out.

So now I know I can't make it. It's no shock. I'd gambled for such a long shot I suppose deep in my mind I never expected to nail it down.

Anyway, no place to run and I can't open this door. Lieutenant Smith's tall frame and Ollie's square body are at the alley entrance. Smith yells, “Keep your hands up, Penn!”

Lousy Penn handle! I'll sure die with it.

Ollie calls out, “Bucky, you haven't a chance!”

But what chance do I have by giving up? I'll die anyway. True, I may take Doc with me. But I've already fixed Doc with my sleeve ace, thrown him a curve he'll never forget. Doc the great thinker, who overlooked one simple detail. Yeah, yeah, death is my only escape. Fancy Doc is counting on me doing just this, but Doc don't matter now.

I go for my gun.

Smith fires three times. Ollie lets one slug go. Crazy, I've counted the shots. Two of them have hit me. It's like being walloped over the guts with a night stick. Even through the half-out blanket and money belt. Ollie, did you aim to hit me?

I'm falling over backwards. Now I can sit up. Ollie, Smith, a lot of new faces fuzzy at the alley entrance. I don't feel much pain. Plant one shot... over their heads. I have to make sure I'm not taken alive. Nate, you'd want me to go out fighting....

Some uniformed slob empties his gun at me. Lousy shot. Only one slug hits me... in the leg. My stomach is starting to burn... Hey, another bullet has gone through the little bag of groceries I'm still holding in my left hand, for some stupid reason.

Doc's strawberries are dripping on the dirty cement floor of the alley. Or is that my blood? The uniformed jerk has the hero fever, bucking for detective... he's a few steps up the alley, firing again. The miserable dummy must see I'm trapped... why can't he let me die?

He's a blue blur. I fire twice. I'm lucky... there's a shrill scream.

Then a lull. I can't even see any foggy faces in the alley entrance. The fire is hurting like hell, reaching up to scorch my heart. I'm done. “Ollie,” I yell, “come in and I'll give you my gun.”

The alley is so peacefully quiet now. No sound came out of my mouth—it's full of hot cotton. Even if they can get me to the hospital, I'll never make it. “'Medics! Medics! Wounded man in this foxhole....”

Sitting here in my clown outfit, I'm losing focus. Barely hold up my head. I'm falling sideways... I'm against the tenement wall. All I can see through my straining eyes are some of Doc's frozen strawberries in a red pool between my spread legs. Hey, they're the funniest thing in the world. Those strawberries... fancy dumb Doc!

I have to laugh... Betty always wanted to see me laugh. Betty, look at me now! Only when I open my mouth more strawberries stream out. Me, a regular strawberry factory that... a blow on the shoulder... I'm flying backwards. That was a rifle shot.