The room was about thirty by fifteen. There were six booths along each long side. At one end there was a door leading to a kind of kitchen and at the other end there was a door that led to steps down to the alley. There was a small radio on a table beside the door that led to the kitchen and there was a clock on the wall above the table. It was five minutes past nine. Kells and Granquist and Borg sat in the third booth on the right, coming in. There was no one in any of the other booths.
The cab driver went back to the door to the kitchen and called: “Jake.” Then he bent over the radio, snapped it on.
A man came out of the kitchen, said “Hi” to the driver, came up to the booth. He was a tall man, about fifty-five, with a long crooked nose, a three or four-day growth of gray beard. He wiped his hands on his dirty gray-white apron.
Kells asked: “Do you know how to make a whiskey sour?” The man grinned with one side of his mouth, nodded. “Oke — and put some whiskey in it.” Granquist was rubbing powder onto her nose, holding her head back and looking into a small mirror which she held in one hand, a little higher than her head.
She said: “Me too — an’ ham and eggs.”
Borg had slid low in the seat. His chin was on his chest and his eyes were closed. He asked, “Got any buttermilk?” without moving or opening his eyes.
The man shook his head.
Kells said: “Give him a whiskey sour, too — and give all of us ham and eggs. Fresh eggs.”
He raised his head, called to the driver: “Is that all right for you?”
A dance orchestra blared suddenly out of the radio. The driver turned his head, smiled, nodded.
Jake went back into the kitchen.
Granquist called to the driver: “See if you can get Louie Armstrong.”
Jake stuck his head through the door, said: “He don’t come on till eleven.” His head disappeared.
Kells grinned at Granquist.
She said: “Let’s dance.”
“Don’t be silly.” He glanced down at his leg.
“Oh, I’m sorry, darling.” Her face was suddenly serious, concerned. “How is it?”
He shook his head without looking at her, was silent; after a minute or so he watched Jake come in with four tall glasses on a scarred tin tray.
Jake put the tray on the table, spoke over his shoulder to the driver: “Turn ’er down to ten — that’s KGPL, the police reports to the radio cars.” He went back toward the kitchen. “Last night they held up the gas station down on the corner an’ we knew it here, right away. I went downstairs an’ saw the bandit car go by — sixty miles an hour.” He jerked his head violently up and to the left, an unspoken “By Crackey!”
The driver turned the dial, then came to the booth and took one of the tall glasses. He sat down on the table directly across the narrow room, said, “Here’s mud in your eye,” drank.
It was quiet a little while, except for the hiss of frying eggs in the kitchen.
Then the radio hummed slowly, buzzed to words:
“KGPL–Los Angeles Police Department... Calling car number one thirty-two — car number one three two... At Berkeley and Gaines streets — an ambulance follow-up... That is all... Gordon”
Granquist held her glass in both hands, her elbows on the table. She tipped the glass, drank, said: “Not bad. Not good, but not bad.”
Kells raised his head, called: “Bring out the bottle, Jake.”
Borg opened his eyes, stared gloomily at his drink.
The radio sputtered to sound: “KGPL... Attention all cars — attention all cars... Repeat as of eight-fifteen on Crotti killing... Persons wanted are: Number One — Gerard A Kells. Description: six foot one — a hundred an’ sixty pounds — about thirty-five — red hair — sallow complexion — wearing a dark blue suit, black soft hat — walks with a limp, recent leg wound...”
Jake came out of the kitchen carrying a bottle of whiskey by the neck. He put it on the table and Kells took out the cork and tipped the bottle, sweetened Granquist’s, Borg’s and his own drink. He waved the bottle at the driver. The driver slid off the table and came over and held out his glass and Kells poured whiskey into it. The driver went back and sat down on the table and Jake went back into the kitchen.
He said, “Ham an’ eggs coming up,” over his shoulder as he went through the door.
The radio droned on: “Number Two — a woman, thought to be Miss Granquist — first name unknown — also wanted in connection with Bellmann murder. Description: five eight — a hundred an’ twenty pounds — twenty-seven — blonde — high color... Number Three — Borg — Otto J. Description: five six — a hundred an’ ninety pounds — forty — sandy complexion... Particular attention cars on roads out of Los Angeles: these people are probably trying to get out of town... Don’t take any chances — they’re dangerous... That is all... Gordon.”
The driver put his glass down, slid off the table. He said, “I forgot to turn off my lights,” started toward the door.
Borg said: “Sit down.” He had not raised his head or straightened up in his feet. The heavy snub-nosed revolver glittered in his left hand.
Kells stood up slowly, squeezed out of the booth and limped back to the kitchen door. He stood in the doorway and said: “You can put that phone down and bring out our ham and eggs now.”
He continued to stand in the doorway until Jake came out past him with four orders of ham and eggs on a big tray. Jake’s nose and forehead were shiny with sweat. He put the tray on the table and stood wiping his hands on his apron.
The driver turned and went back and sat down on the table. He was very pale and there was a weak smile on his face. He picked up his drink.
Borg gestured with his head and Jake went over and sat down in the booth with the driver. Kells went into the kitchen.
Granquist’s eyes were hard, opaque. She took one of the plates of ham and eggs off the tray, sat staring down at it.
Kells’ voice came from the kitchen: “Madison two four five six... Hello — Chronicle?... City desk, please... Hello — is Shep Beery there?...” Then he lowered his voice and they could not hear. He called another indistinguishable number, talked a long time in a low voice.
Granquist ate mechanically. Borg finished his drink, got up and handed the driver’s plate across to him. The driver sat down beside Jake, sliced the fried ham into thin strips.
After a while Kells came in and sat down. He pushed his plate away, poured whiskey into the glasses on the table. He said quietly: “They’ve picked up Shep.”
No one said anything. Granquist tipped her glass and Borg stared expressionlessly at Kells.
“And they’ve been tipped to our reservations on the Chief tomorrow night — they’re watching all trains, all roads — they’ll ride that train to Albuquerque.” Kells drank. He looked at Granquist, then slowly turned his head and looked at Borg. “And they’ve tied us up with Abner here — or his bus.” He moved his head slightly toward the cab driver.
Borg said: “Beery’s talked.”
“No.” Kells shook his head slowly. “No. I don’t think so.
Granquist put down her glass. “Don’t be a sap, Gerry,” she said — “he has.”
Kells leaned across the table and slapped her very sharply across the mouth.
She stared at him out of wide, startled eyes and put her hands up to her face, slowly. Kells looked at her mouth, and his face was very white, his eyes were almost closed.
Borg was sitting up very straight.
Kells’ hand was lying palm-up on the table. Granquist put out one hand slowly and touched his and then she said, “I’m sorry,” very softly.
Kells shook his head sharply, closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and looked down at the table. He said: “I’m sorry too, baby.” He patted the back of her hand.
He stood up and leaned against the back of the booth, stared a long minute at Jake and the driver.
The driver looked up from his plate, said: “Ain’t we goin’ on to San Berdoo?”
Kells didn’t show that he had heard. His eyes were blank, empty. He spoke sidewise to Borg: “I’m going back into town and find out what it’s all about.”
Granquist stood up swiftly. Her eyes were very bright and her face was set and determined. She said: “So am I.”
Kells bent his head a little to one side. “You’re going to stay here — and Fat is going to stay here. If I don’t make out, I’ll get a steer to you over the radio — or some way.” He moved his eyes to Borg. “You snag a car and take her to Las Vegas or some station on the UP where you can get a train.”
Borg nodded.
“I’m going to find out what happened to the immunity we were promised by Beery’s pal, the captain,” Kells went on. “He’s supposed to have the chief of police in his pocket — and the DA is his brother-in-law.” He poured a drink. “Now he puts the screws on us for knocking over Crotti. Public Enemy Number One.” He drank, smiled without mirth. “God! That’s a laugh.”
Kells glanced at Granquist, moved his head and shoulders slightly, turned and went out into the kitchen. She followed him. He was half sitting on a big table and she went to him and put one arm around his shoulders, one hand on his chest. She moved her head close to his.
He spoke very quietly, almost whispered: “I’ve got to go by myself, baby. It’s taking enough of a chance being spotted that way — it’d be a cinch if we were together.”
“Can’t we wait here till it cools off, or take a chance on getting away now?” Her eyes were hot and dry; her voice trembled a little.
Kells said: “No. That’d mean getting clear out of the country — and it’d mean being on the run wherever we were. I had that once before and I don’t want any more of it.”
He took a small package wrapped in brown paper out of his inside breast pocket and handed it to her. “There’s somewhere a hundred and ninety grand here,” he said. “Don’t let Borg know you’ve got it. I think he’s okay but that’s a lot of money.”
She took the package and put it in one of the big pockets of her long tweed topcoat.
Kells asked: “Have you got a gun?”
She nodded, patted her handbag. “I picked up the spick’s — the guy who was with Crotti.”
Kells kissed her. He said: “I’ll get word to you some way, or be back by tomorrow noon. Watch yourself.”
He limped to the door, through it into the other room.
Granquist followed him to the door, stood leaning against the frame; her face was dead white and she held her deep red lower lip between her teeth.
Kells spoke over his shoulder to the driver: “Come on.” The driver jumped up and followed him to the outer door. Kells turned at the door, said, “Be seeing you,” to Borg. He did not look at Granquist. He went out and the driver went out after him and closed the door.
On Kenmore near Beverly Boulevard Kells leaned forward and tapped on the glass. The cab swung to the curb and the driver slid the glass. Kells asked: “Are you married?”
The driver looked blank for a moment, then said: “Uh huh — only we don’t get along very well.”
Kells smiled faintly in the darkness. “Maybe you’d get along better if you took her for a little vacation down to Caliente — or Catalina.” He held out four crumpled bills and the driver reached back and took them. He held them in the dim light of the taxi meter and whistled, and then he stuck the bills hurriedly in his pocket and said: “Yes, sir.”
Kells said: “I want you to remember that you took us up to Lankershim and that we transferred to another car there and headed for Frisco. Is your memory that good?”
“Yes, sir.” The driver nodded emphatically.
“If it isn’t,” Kells went on — “I give you two days. My friends here would be awfully mad if anything happened to me on account of your memory slipping up.” He lowered his voice, spoke each word very distinctly: “Do you understand what I mean?”
The driver said: “Yes, sir — I understand.”
Kells got out and stood at the curb until the cab had turned down Beverly, disappeared. Then he went to the drugstore on the corner and called the taxi stand at the Ambassador, asked if Number Fifty-eight was in. He was on a short trip, was expected back soon. Kells left word for Fifty-eight to pick him up on Beverly near Normandie, went out of the drugstore, west.
His leg didn’t hurt so badly now. He wasn’t quite sure whether it was a great deal better or only momentarily numb. Anyway, it felt a lot better — he could walk fairly comfortably.
The cab detached itself from northbound traffic at the corner of Normandie, pulled into the curb. Fifty-eight stuck his head out and grinned at Kells.
Kells climbed into the cab, asked: “How are ya?”
Fifty-eight said: “Swell — an’ yourself? Where to?”
“Let’s go out to the apartment house on the corner of Yucca and Cahuenga first.” Kells leaned back.
They went over Normandie to Franklin, west on Franklin to Argyle, down the curve of Argyle and west two more blocks to Cahuenga. Kells got out, said, “I won’t be long,” and went into the apartment house on the corner. He asked at the desk for the number of Mister Beery’s apartment, went into the elevator and pressed the third-floor button.
Florence Beery was tall — almost as tall as Kells — slim. Her hair was very dark and her eyes were big, heavily shadowed. She stood in the doorway and looked at Kells, and her face was a hard, brittle mask.
She said slowly: “Well — what do you want?” Her voice was icy, bitter.
Kells put up one arm and leaned against the doorframe.
He asked: “May I come in?”
She looked at him steadily for a moment, then she turned and went through the short hallway into the living room. He closed the door and followed her into the living room, sat down. She stood in the center of the room, staring at the wall, waiting.
Kells took off his hat and put it on the divan beside him. He said: “I’m sorry about Shep—”
“Sorry!” She turned her head toward him slowly. Her eyes were long upward-slanted slits. “Sorry! This is a hell of a time to be sorry!” She swayed a little forward.
Kells said: “Wait, Florence. Shep wouldn’t be in the can if he hadn’t thrown in with me. He wouldn’t be ten or twelve grand ahead, either. The dough hasn’t been so hard to take, has it?”
She stood staring at him with blank unseeing eyes, swaying a little. Then she sobbed and the sound was a dry, burnt rattle in her throat, took two steps toward him, blindly. She spoke and it was as if she were trying to scream — but her throat was too tight, her words were low, harsh, like coarse cloth tearing:
“God damn you! Don’t you know Shep is dead — dead!”
The word seemed to release some spring inside her — sight came to her eyes, swift motion to her body — she sprang at Kells, her clawed hands outstretched.
He half rose to meet her, caught one of her wrists, swung her down beside him. The nails of her free hand caught the flesh of his cheek, ripped downward. He threw his right arm around her shoulders, imprisoned her wrists in his two hands, then he took her wrists tightly in his right hand, pressed her head down on her breast with his left. She was panting sharply, raggedly. Then she relaxed suddenly, went limp against his arm — her shoulders went back and forth rhythmically, limply — she was sobbing and there was no sound except sharp intake of breath.
Kells released her gradually, gently, stood up. He walked once to the other side of the room, back. His eyes were wide open and his mouth hung a little open, black against the green pallor of his face. He sank down beside her, put his arm again around her shoulders, spoke very quietly: “Florence. For the love of Mary! — when? — how?”
After a little while she whispered without raising her head: “When they were taking him to the Station — from a car — they don’t know who it was...”
Kells was staring over her shoulder at a flashing electric sign through the window. His eyes were glazed, cold — his mouth twitched a little. He sat like that a little while and then he took his arm from around her shoulders, picked up his hat and put it on, stood up. He stood looking down at her for perhaps a minute, motionlessly. Then he turned and went out of the room.
It was ten-fifty when the cab swung in to the curb in front of a bungalow on South Gramercy.
Fifty-eight turned around, said: “You’d better be wiping the blood off your face before you go in, Mister Kells.”
Kells mechanically put the fingers of his left hand up to his cheek, took them away wet, sticky. He took out a handkerchief and pressed it against his cheek, got out of the cab and went toward the dark house.
After he had rung the bell four or five times, a light was switched on upstairs, he heard someone coming down. The lower part of the house remained dark, but a light above him — in the ceiling of the porch — snapped on. He stood with his chin on his chest, his hat pulled down over his eyes, watching the bottom of the door.
It opened and Captain Larson’s voice said: “Come in,” out of the darkness. Kells went in.
The light on the porch snapped off, the light in the room snapped on. The door was closed.
It was a rather large living room which, with the smaller dining room, ran across all the front of the house. The furniture was mostly Mission, mostly built-in. The wall paper was bright, bad.
Larson stood with his back to the door in a nightshirt, big, fleece-lined slippers. He held a Colt .38 revolver steadily in his right hand. He said: “Take a chair.”
Kells sat down in the most comfortable-looking chair, leaned back. Larson pulled another chair around and sat down on its edge, facing Kells. He leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees — he held the revolver in his right hand hanging down between his legs, said: “What’s on your mind?”
Kells tipped his hat back a little and stared at Larson sleepily.
“You gave me a free bill this afternoon,” he said, “in exchange for some stuff that would have split your administration — your whole political outfit — wide open.” He paused, changed his position slightly. “Now you clamp down on me because somebody gets the dumb idea I had something to do with the Crotti chill. What’s the answer?”
“Crotti’s the answer.” Larson spat far and accurately into the fireplace, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He leaned back and crossed his legs and held the revolver loosely in his lap. “There’s a lot of water been under the bridge since I seen you this afternoon,” he went on. “In the first place I didn’t give you no free bill, as you call it — I told you that you and your gal would probably be wanted for questioning in connection with a lot of things. An’ I hinted that if you wasn’t around when question time came we wouldn’t look too far for you.” He took a crumpled handkerchief from the pocket of his nightshirt, blew his nose gustily. “Crotti’s something else again.”
Kells smiled slowly. “Crotti was your Number One Gangster,” he said. “If I had something to do with his killing I ought to be getting a medal for it — not a rap.”
A woman’s cracked querulous voice came down the stairs: “What is it, Gus?”
Larson spat again into the fireplace, looked at the stairs. “Nothin”. Go back to bed.”
He turned back toward Kells and his big loose mouth split to a wide grin. “You’re way behind the times,” he said. “Crotti hooked up with my people this morning. They were tickled to death to get an organization like his behind them and they were plumb disappointed when you bumped him off. That’s one of the reasons there’s a tag out for you...”
Kells held his handkerchief to his bleeding cheek. He said: “What are the other reasons?”
“Jack Rose moved into Crotti’s place.”
Kells laughed soundlessly. “You’re kidding.”
“No.” Larson spun the revolver once around his big forefinger. “Rose made a deal with Crotti a couple of days ago. When Crotti was shot this evening, Rose didn’t lose any time putting the pressure on my people and they didn’t lose any time putting it on me. You’re it.”
“But Rose is wanted for the O’Donnell—”
“Not any more.” Larson chuckled. “I told you you wasn’t keeping in touch with things. For one thing, Lee Fenner shot himself about eight o’clock tonight. He was the only one there was to testify against Rose on the O’Donnell angle — so that’s out. And Rose says you killed O’Donnell, says he’ll swear to it — an’ he’s got another witness.”
Kells said wearily: “Is that all — I’m only wanted on two counts of murder?”
“That’s all for tonight. Matheson called me up a couple hours ago an’ said the Perry woman had phoned in, drunk, an’ said she wanted to repudiate her confession that Perry killed Doc Haardt.” Larson grinned broadly, stood up. “Maybe we can tie you up to that in the morning.”
He took two sidewise steps to a small stand and picked up the telephone receiver with one hand, squatted down until his mouth was near the transmitter. He held the revolver in his right hand, watched Kells closely while he spoke into the phone:
“Gimme Michigan six one one one, sister. Uh huh... Hello, Mike — this is Gus... Kells is out here — out at my house... Come on out an’ get him... Uh huh.”
He hung up the receiver, stood up and went back to the chair and sat down.
“You been mixed up in damn near every killing we had the past week,” he said. “It looks to me like you been our Number One Gunman — not Crotti.”
Kells leaned forward slowly.
Larson said: “Sit still.”
Kells asked: “What do you think my chances are of getting to the Station on my feet?”
“Wha’ d’you mean?” Larson was blowing his nose.
“I mean they got Beery on the way in after he’d been pinched tonight. I mean your desk sergeant has tipped Rose that I’m out here by now — he’ll be here by the time your coppers are-will be waiting outside. They’ll take me in to a slab.”
Larson said: “Aw, don’t talk that way.” He squinted his eyes as if he were trying to remember something, then said proudly: “You got a prosecution complex, that’s what you got — a prosecution complex.”
Kells stood up.
Larson jerked his head emphatically at the chair, snapped: “Sit down.”
Kells said slowly: “I work pretty fast, Gus. I’ll bet you can shoot me through the heart an’ I’ll have my gun out an’ have a couple slugs in your belly before I hit the floor.” He smiled a little. “Let’s try it.”
Larson said, “Sit down,” loudly.
“I’ll bet you can’t even hit my heart — I’ll bet you’re a lousy shot.” Kells took a short step forward, balanced himself evenly on both feet.
Larson was white. His big mouth hung a little open.
Kells said: “Let’s go.” His hand went swiftly to his side.
Larson’s shoulders moved convulsively, his right hand went forward, up, with the revolver. At the same time he threw his head forward and down, fell forward out of the chair. The revolver clattered on the floor.
Kells was standing on the balls of his feet, an automatic held crosswise against his chest. He stared down at Larson and his eyes were wide, surprised.
He said, “Well, I’ll be god-damned,” under his breath.
Larson was on his hands and knees; his big shoulders and thick neck were pulled in tightly, rigidly.
Kells stooped and picked up the revolver, stuck it into his overcoat pocket. Then he laughed quietly, said: “Copper yellow. That’s the first time my reputation ever did me any good.”
He went to the door swiftly, turned once to glance hurriedly at Larson. Larson had risen to his knees. He did not look at Kells; he looked at the wall — he was breathing heavily.
Kells opened the door and went out and closed it behind him.
Fifty-eight said: “There it is.”
They were parked in the deep shadow between two street lights in the next block to the one Larson’s house was in. A big touring car had come up quietly, without lights, stopped across the street from Larson’s.
Kells didn’t say anything. He sat huddled in a corner of the cab and although the night was fairly warm he shivered a little.
After a few minutes another car swung around the corner, pulled up in front of Larson’s. Kells leaned forward and watched through the glass. Three men got out and went into the house. In a little while they came out; one of them went across the street and stood beside the car that had come up first, the others got into the other car and drove away.
Then the man got into the second car, its lights were switched on and it too drove away.
Kells said: “Give ’em enough room.”
Fifty-eight waited until the other car was more than halfway down the long block, let the clutch in slowly. Kells felt in his pockets until he found the tin box of aspirin tablets, took two. The other car turned left on Third Street. Fifty-eight stepped on it, swung into Third; there were two taillights about a block and a half ahead. He followed the faster one north on Rossmore, got close enough to see that he’d guessed right, fell back.
They turned west again on Beverly, to La Brea.
Kells was sitting sideways on the seat looking through the rear window. He leaned forward suddenly, spoke rapidly to Fifty-eight: “Keep that car in sight — an’ you’ll have to do it by yourself. I’ve got something else to watch. We’re being tailed.
They turned off La Brea, west on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Then Kells was sure they were being followed. The car was a big blue or black coupe — shiny, powerful.
On Santa Monica, a little way beyond Gardner, Fifty-eight said over his shoulder: “They’re stopping.”
“Go on past ’em — slow.”
Kells squeezed back into the corner, saw four men get out of the touring car and start across the street. He thought one of them was Detective Lieutenant Reilly; wasn’t sure. He didn’t recognize any of the others.
Fifty-eight asked: “What’ll I do?”
“Go on — slow.” Kells took the automatic from its shoulder holster, balanced it across his hand. He watched the big coupe come up slowly.
It overtook them in the second block, stayed alongside.
Kells said: “Turn off right, at the next side street.” He was deep in the dark corner of the cab, watching the coupe narrowly. Then the driver of the coupe put up his hand and Kells saw that it was Borg. They turned together into the side street, drove up about a hundred yards to comparative darkness. Borg parked a little way ahead of the cab.
Kells got out and went up to the coupe. He said. “That’s the way people have accidents,” unpleasantly.
Borg was silent.
Granquist was sitting very low in the seat beside Borg. She straightened, said: “Your other driver spilled his guts an’ the tip went out on the joint we were at...”
Borg interrupted her: “That’s a swell invention, the radio. I don’t know what we would’ve done without it.”
“Then while we were getting out,” Granquist went on, “the call went out to the car in Larson’s neighborhood to go and pick you up — we got the address from that. Fat couldn’t find a car so we hired this one at a garage—”
“An’ damn near busted our necks getting to Larson’s,” Borg finished.
Kells asked: “Where did you pick me up?”
“We were turning off Third onto Gramercy when you turned into Third.” Borg lighted his stump of cigar. He bent his head toward Granquist. “Miss Eagle-eye here thought she spotted you in the cab — an’ I thought she was nuts. She wasn’t.”
“Did you know I was following another car?”
Granquist said: “Sure.”
“That was one of Rose’s cars.” Kells put one foot on the running board, leaned on the door. “It was planted across from Larson’s to smack me down when the cops brought me out.” He hesitated a moment. “That’s what happened to Shep when they were taking him in.”
Borg swallowed, started to speak: “They...”
Granquist said: “Gerry — for God’s sake get in and let’s get out of here.” Her voice was low; she spoke very rapidly. “Please, Gerry, let’s go now — we can make the Border by three o’clock.”
“Sure. In a little while.” Kells was looking at the black and yellow sky.
It began to rain a little.
Borg said: “So what?”
“That car stopped at Ansel’s.” Kells jerked his head back toward Santa Monica Boulevard. “Ansel runs a cheap crap game that’s backed by Rose — I’ve been there. It’s a pretty safe bet that Rose is there, and his carload of rods went back there to report to him.”
Borg said: “Uh huh. So, what?”
Kells stared at Borg vacantly. “So I’m going up an’ tell Rose about Beery — about Beery’s wife.”
Granquist opened the door suddenly, got out on the sidewalk on the other side of the car. She held her arms stiff at her sides and her hands were clenched; she was trembling violently. She walked up the sidewalk about thirty feet — walked as if she were making a tremendous effort to walk slowly. Then she turned and leaned against a telephone pole and looked back at the car.
Kells watched her; he could not see her face in the darkness, only the dim outline of her body. He turned slowly to Borg.
“You can wait here,” he said. “Or maybe you’d better wait down at the first corner this side of Ansel’s. And stay with the car — both of you.”
Borg said: “All right.”
Kells walked up to Granquist. He stood looking down at her a little while, asked: “What’s the matter, baby?”
Her voice, when she finally answered, was elaborately sarcastic. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” Then her tone changed abruptly — she put one trembling hand on his arm. “Gerry — don’t do this,” she said. “Let it go — please this time...”
He was smiling a little. He shook his head slightly.
She took her hand from his arm and her voice was suddenly acid, metallic. “You — and your pride! Your long chances — your little tin-horn revenge!” She laughed shrilly, hysterically. “You’ve seen too many gangster pictures — that’s what’s wrong with you...”
Kells was staring at her expressionlessly. He turned abruptly, strode back toward the car.
She was behind him, sobbing, trying to hold his arm.
“Gerry!” Her words, were blurred, broken. “Gerry — can’t you think of me a little — can’t you let this one thing go — for me? For us?”
He shook her hand off, spoke briefly to Borg: “An’ stay with the car this time — I’ll be wanting it in a hurry, when I want it.”
Borg said: “Oke. First corner this side of the joint.”
Kells went back to the, cab, got in, said: “Take me down to Gardner, about a half-block the other side of the Boulevard.
Fifty-eight grunted affirmatively and swung the cab around in the narrow street.
Kells glanced back through the rear window. Granquist was standing motionlessly in the middle of the street, silhouetted against the glow of a street light on the far corner.
It began raining harder, pounded on the roof of the cab. Fifty-eight started the windshield wiper and it swished rhythmically in a wide arc across the glass.
They stopped in the shelter of a big palm on Gardner and Kells got out.
Fifty-eight asked: “Can I help, Mister Kells?”
Kells shook his head. “I’ll make out.” He peeled two bills off the roll in his pocket, handed them to the little Irishman. He turned swiftly and went into the darkness between two houses, heard Fifty-eight’s “Thank you, sir,” behind him.
The driveway ended in a small garage; there was a gate at one side leading to a kind of narrow alley. Kells crossed the alley and walked north along a five-foot board fence for about a hundred feet. Then he climbed over the fence and went across a vacant weed-grown lot toward the rear end of the building that housed Ansel’s.
Its three stories were dark and forbidding in the rain; no light came from the rear, and the side that Kells could see seemed entirely windowless. It was raining hard by now — he rolled his coat collar up, pulled the brim of his soft hat down.
He slipped once in the mud, almost fell. In righting himself he remembered his wounded leg suddenly, sharply. It was throbbing steadily, swollen and hot with pain.
He went close to the building. It was very dark there, but looking up he could see the vague outline of a fire escape against the yellow glow of the sky. He smiled to himself in the darkness, put the back of his hand against his forehead. It was hot, dry.
He felt his way along the wall of the building until he was under the free-swinging end of the fire escape. It was almost four feet beyond his reach. He went back the way he had come to the fence, went along it until, in the corner the fence made with a squat outbuilding, he found a fairly large packing case. He stood on it and found that it would hold his weight; he balanced it on his shoulder and carried it back into the shadow of the building.
Standing on the box, he could just reach the end of the fire escape; he put his weight on it, slowly. It creaked a little, came slowly down.
When the bottom step was resting on the packing case he crawled slowly, carefully up to the first landing. He lay on his side, held the free-swinging part so that it would come up quietly. Then he stood up.
Two windows gave on the second landing. One was boarded up snugly, no light came through. Kells put his ear to it, could hear only a confused hum of voices. The other window had been painted black on the inside but a long scratch ran diagonally across one of the panes. He took off his hat, put his eye close to the scratch.
He was looking into the office that ran almost the width of the building, was partitioned off from the big upstairs room by a wall of rough, unpainted pine boards.
The first person he saw was a woman whom he had never seen before. She-was sitting on a broad desk, talking to two men. One of the men, in ill-fitting dinner clothes, was unfamiliar — the other man turned as he watched, and Kells recognized Lieutenant Reilly.
Reilly was heavy, shapeless. A cast in one eye gave his bloated, florid face a shrewdly evil quality. He was holding a tall glass of beer in-one hand; he lifted it, drank deeply.
There were two large washtubs full of bottled beer and ice on the floor near the desk.
Another woman, in a bright orange evening gown, crossed Kells’ line of vision, stooped and took two bottles from one of the tubs, disappeared.
Kells’ lips framed the word. “Party.” He was grinning.
Then he saw Ruth Perry. She was sitting on a dilapidated couch at one side of the room, swaying drunkenly back and forth, talking loudly to the man beside her. Kells put his ear to the pane but couldn’t quite make out the words.
The man beside her was MacAlmon.
Then the rough pine door in the middle of the far wall opened and two men came in. In the moment the door was open, Kells saw a swirl of people around one of the crap tables in the big gambling room. Then the door closed; Kells looked at the two men.
One of them was a short-bodied, long-armed man whom Kells remembered vaguely from somewhere. His face was broad and bland and child-like.
The other was Jack Rose.
Kells slid the big automatic out of its holster.
Rose’s long, tanned, good-looking face was cheerful; his thin red mouth was curved to a smile. He crossed the room and sat down beside Ruth Perry, spoke across her to MacAlmon.
Kells looked thoughtfully down at the dark slippery steps beneath him. Looking down made him suddenly dizzy — he blinked, shook his head sharply, put one hand on the railing for support. He thought he was going to be sick for a moment, but the feeling passed. He was hot and the rain felt terribly cold on his head.
Then he looked up again, at the door. There was a big, planed two-by-four up and down its middle that could be swung sideways into two iron slots — one on each side of the door.
As he watched, the woman and Reilly and the other man whom he had seen first took up their glasses, went out of the room. That left — as nearly as he could judge — six or seven people. Rose, Ruth Perry, MacAlmon, the short man who had come in with Rose, the woman in the orange dress; perhaps two or three more whom he hadn’t seen.
He looked at the crosspieces between the four panes of the window, felt their thickness with his fingers. Then he stood up and braced himself against the railing, released the safety on the automatic, put one foot against the crosspieces and pushed suddenly with all his weight. They gave way with a small splintering noise, glass tinkled on the floor. Kells stumbled on the lower part of the window frame, almost fell. He saved himself; by grabbing the upper edge, felt a long sharp splinter of glass sink into the flesh of his hand. He held the automatic low, put one foot slowly down to the floor.
The woman in the orange dress looked as if she were going to scream; the man beside her took her arm suddenly, roughly — she put her free hand up to her mouth, was silent.
Rose had stood up; one hand was behind him. Kells jerked the automatic up in a savage gesture — Rose put his hands up slowly. Ruth Perry and MacAlmon were still sitting on the couch, and the short man was standing near them with his back to Kells, looking at Kells over his shoulder. The short man and MacAlmon put their hands up slowly.
Kells went swiftly sideways to the door, swung the bar. A great deal of noise came through the wall from the outer room and it occurred to him that perhaps the crashing of the window hadn’t been heard outside.
Ruth Perry was staring Wearily at Kells. She said: “Shay — whatch ish all about?”
MacAlmon put down one hand and put it over her mouth, said: “Shut up.” MacAlmon was dead white.
Kells looked at the other man — the one he hadn’t seen before, the one with the woman in the orange dress. He, too, put his hands up, rather more rapidly than the others had.
Someone pounded on the door, a voice shouted: “What’s the matter in there?”
Kells looked at Rose. The automatic was rigid in his hand, focused squarely on Rose’s chest. Rose looked at the gun, swallowed.
MacAlmon said: “Nothing...”
Rose swallowed again. He smiled weakly, licked his lips. “We’re playing games.” There was laughter outside the door — a man’s laughter and a woman’s. The voice asked: “Post office?”
The woman in the orange dress giggled. Then her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped down softly to the floor.
Ruth Perry pushed MacAlmon’s hand away, stood up. She swayed, stared drunkenly at Kells; she shook her head sharply and staggered forward, said: “Well, I’m a dirty name — ish Gerry — good ol’ son of a bitch, Gerry. Lesh have a drink.” She stooped over one of the tubs, almost fell.
Kells was standing with his back to the door. His face was bloody and blood dripped from his cut left hand. He took a handkerchief out of his overcoat, held it to his face.
He said: “We’ll take a walk, Jakie.”
Rose moved his shoulders a little, half nodded. Ruth Perry lost her balance, sprawled down on the floor. She sat up slowly and leaned against the wall. Kells was staring at Rose. His eyes were bright and cold and his mouth curved upward at the corners, ever so little. He said: “Come here.”
Rose came across the room slowly. When he was close enough, Kells put his left hand on his shoulder suddenly, spun him around, slid his hand down to jerk a small caliber automatic out of Rose’s hip pocket.
Kells said: “We’re going out of here now. You’re going to walk a little ahead of me, on my right. If we have any trouble, or if any of these gentlemen” — he jerked his head toward MacAlmon and the short man and the other man — “forget to sit still, I’m going to let your insides out on the floor.”
He swung the bar up straight, took the key out of the door. “Do you understand?”
Rose nodded.
Ruth Perry staggered clumsily to her feet. She had picked up an ice pick that was laying by one of the tubs; she waved it at Kells. She said: “Don’ go, Gerry — ’s a swell party.” She weaved unsteadily toward him.
Kells dropped Rose’s gun into his left coat pocket, shifted his own gun to his left hand and shoved Ruth Perry away gently with his right.
She ducked suddenly under his outstretched arm, straightened up and brought her right hand around in a long arc hard against his back. The ice pick went in deep between his shoulder blades.
Kells stood very still for perhaps five seconds. Then he moved his head down slowly, looked at her.
Rose half turned and Kells straightened the automatic suddenly, viciously against his side. Rose put his hands a little higher, slowly lowered his head.
Ruth Perry was clinging to Kells with both arms. She had taken her hand away from the handle of the ice pick and her arms were around his waist, her face was pressed against his shoulder.
He moved the fingers of his right hand up into her hair and jerked her head back. She opened her eyes and looked up into his face; she was pale, white-lipped. Then she opened her mouth and threw her head back against his hand and laughed.
He smiled a little and took his hand from her hair, took his arm slowly from around her shoulder. He put his hand against her breast, pushed her gently away. She staggered back against the wall and slid slowly down to the floor; she lay there laughing and there was no sound but the sound of her laughter and the low buzz of voices outside.
Kells reached back with his right hand, pulled the ice pick halfway out. He swayed, leaned against the door a moment, jerked it the rest of the way out. It fell and stuck in the floor, the handle quivering.
He straightened then, swung the door partly open, stuck the automatic in his big overcoat pocket and said: “Let’s go.”
Rose put his hands down. He opened the door the rest of the way and went out of the room; Kells went out behind him and closed the door, said: “Wait a second.”
Rose half turned, looked down at Kells’ overcoat pocket. The muzzle of the automatic bulged the cloth.
Kells watched Rose, locked the door quickly with his left hand. They started down the long room together; Rose a pace to the right, a pace ahead.
There were perhaps thirty or thirty-five people — mostly men — in the room; most of them around the two crap tables, several at two small green-covered tables, drinking.
The lighting was as Kells remembered it: Two powerful shaded globes over the big tables lighting all the rear end of the room. Toward the front of the room — the street — the light faded to partial darkness, black in the far corners.
Kells said, “Talk to me, Jakie,” out of the side of his mouth.
Rose turned his head and twisted his mouth to a terribly forced grin. His eyes were wide, frightened. “What’ll I talk about?”
Several people turned to look at them.
Kells said: “The weather — an’ walk faster.”
Then someone crashed against the locked door behind them.
In the same moment Kells saw Reilly. He had risen from one of the smaller tables, was staring at Rose. He said: “Jack — what the hell?...” Then he looked at Kells, his hand dipped toward his hip. Kells shot from his pocket — twice.
Reilly put his two hands against the middle of his chest, slowly. He sat down on the edge of the table, slid slowly down — as his knees buckled, fell backward, half under the table.
Another gun roared and Kells felt the shoulder of his coat lift, tear; felt a hot stab in the muscle of his upper arm.
Rose was running toward the other end of the room, zigzagging a little, swiftly.
Kells started after him, stumbled, almost fell. He jerked the big automatic out of his pocket, swung it toward Rose. Then the door beyond Rose opened and someone came in. Kells couldn’t see who it was; he staggered on after Rose, stopped suddenly as Rose stopped.
Borg said, “Cinch,” out of the darkness.
Kells’ gun roared and almost simultaneously another roared, flashed yellow out of the darkness near the door.
Rose’s hands were together high in the air. He spun as though suspended by his hands from the ceiling, fell down to his knees, bent slowly forward.
Kells went to him swiftly and put the muzzle of the automatic against the back of his head and fired three times. He grunted, “Compliments Flo Beery,” straightened and watched Rose topple forward, crush his dead face against the floor.
He turned to look toward the rear of the room and in that instant the two big lights went out, it was entirely black.
Borg’s voice whispered beside him: “Oh, boy! Did I have a swell hunch when I turned off the lights in the little room outside — they could pick us off going out if I hadn’t.”
Borg led him to the door and they went across the little room in the darkness. Kells stumbled over something soft — Borg said: “I had to sap the doorman — he wasn’t going to let me in.”
Borg swung the heavy outer door wide and they went through to the stairs.
About halfway down Kells put his hand out suddenly and groped for the banister — his body pivoted slowly on one foot, crashed against the wall. He slid to his knees, still holding the banister tightly.
Borg put his hands under Kells’ arms and locked them on his chest, tried to lift him.
Kells muttered something that sounded like, “Wait — minute,” coughed.
Borg pried his hand off the banister, half dragged; half carried him the rest of the way downstairs.
It was raining very hard.
Kells straightened suddenly and pushed Borg away, said: “I’m all right.” Then he leaned against the building and coughed, and the cough was a harsh, tearing sound deep inside him. He stood there coughing terribly until Borg dragged him away, shoved him into the car that had come swiftly to the curb.
Granquist was at the wheel. She said, “Well — hero!” sarcastically, as if she had been wanting to say that, thinking about saying that for a long time.
Kells’ head sagged to her shoulder. There was blood on his mouth and his eyes were closed.
Borg climbed in behind him, closed the door. “Granquist threw her arms around Kells suddenly and pressed his head close against her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, stricken; her lower lip was caught between her teeth — she almost screamed: “Gerry — darling — for God’s sake, say something!”
Borg was looking back through the side window at the dark archway that led to the stairs.
He said: “Let’s get going.”
Kells raised his head and opened his eyes. He waved an arm in the general direction of the car across the street — the car they had followed from Larson’s.
Borg said: “We ain’t got time to jim it up — besides, they got a flock of cars.” He reached in front of Kells, shook Granquist, shouted: “Let’s go.”
She looked up blankly, then mechanically took her left arm from around Kells and grasped the wheel. She let the clutch in and the big coupe slid away from the curb.
“Duck down Gardner.” Borg snapped on the dashlight, pulled Kells’ overcoat and suit coat off his shoulder, ripped his shirt open and looked at the wound on the outer muscle of his left arm. “Crease,” he said. Then he glanced through the rear window, went on: “Turn right, here — no — the next one. This one’s full of holes.”
Granquist was bent over the wheel, staring intently through the dripping windshield. She jerked her head at Kells, asked: “Why’s he coughing blood?” She spoke in a small, harsh, breathless voice.
Borg shrugged, went on examining Kells. He glanced again through the rear window, said: “Here they come — give it everything.”
They swung around a corner and the car leaped ahead, the engine throbbed, thundered. When Borg looked back again the headlights that marked the pursuing car were almost three blocks behind them.
He had bent Kells forward, was examining his back. He said: “He’s bleeding like a stuck pig from a little hole in his back. Wha’ d’ya suppose done that?”
Kells straightened suddenly, sat up, struggled into his coat. He looked at Granquist, smiled faintly and put up one hand and rubbed it down his face. He said: “I guess I passed out — where we going?”
“Doctor’s.”
Kells said: “Don’t be silly. We’re going north — fast.” He started coughing again, took out a handkerchief and held it to his mouth.
Borg said slowly: “I thought south — I guess I’m a lousy guesser.”
“I told the cab driver who turned us in, north — they’ll probably figure us for south — the Border.” Kells spoke hoarsely, with a curious halting lisp. He leaned forward and began coughing again.
Granquist swung the car right, around another corner. Borg was looking back. After a couple of blocks, he said: “I think we’ve lost ’em.”
Kells sat up again as Granquist turned east on Sunset Boulevard. He said: “The other way, baby — the other way.”
“We’re going to a doctor’s.” She was almost crying. Kells put his two hands forward and pulled the emergency brake back hard. The car skidded, turned half around, stopped.
Kells said, “Drive, Fat,” wearily. He looked down at Granquist, went on patiently: “Listen. We’ve got one chance in a hundred of getting away. Every police car and highway patrol in the county is looking for us by now...”
Borg had opened the door, jumped-out. He ran around the car and opened the other door and climbed in. Granquist and Kells moved over to make room for him.
Then, before Borg could close the door, a car bore down on them on Borg’s side — a car without lights. Yellow-orange flame spurted from its side as it swerved sharply to avoid hitting them — Borg sank slowly forward over the wheel, sank slowly sideways, fell outline door into the street. The car was going too fast to stop suddenly — it went on toward the next corner, slowing. Flame spurted from its rear window; the windshield shattered, showered Kells and Granquist with glass.
Kells moved very swiftly. He crawled across Granquist, slammed the door shut, had flipped off the emergency and was headed west, in second, before the other car had turned around. He shifted to high, pressed the throttle to the floor. Granquist was slumped low in the seat. Kells glanced at her, asked: “You all right, baby?”
“Uh huh.” She pressed close against him.
They went out Sunset at around seventy miles an hour, went on through Beverly Hills, on. At the ocean they turned north. The road was being repaired for a half-mile or so; Kells slowed to thirty-five.
Granquist had been watching through the rear window, had seen no sign of the other car. She was close against Kells and her arm was around his shoulders. Her eyes were wide, excited. She kept saying: “Maybe we’ll make it, darling — maybe we’ll make it.”
Kells started coughing again — Granquist held the wheel while he leaned against the door, coughed terribly, as if his lungs were being torn apart. Rain swept in through the broken windshield. Kells took the wheel again, said in a choked whisper: “I’ll get a doctor in Ventura — if we get through.” He stepped on the throttle until the needle of the speedometer quivered around seventy again.
There were very few cars on the road. A little way beyond Topanga Canyon, Kells threw the car out of gear, jerked back the brake. He said: “I guess you’d better drive...” Granquist helped him slide over in the seat, crawled across him to the wheel — they started again. Kells leaned back in the corner, was silent. As they neared the bridge south of Malibu, Granquist slowed a little. There was someone swinging a red lantern in the middle of the road. Then she pressed the throttle far down, veered sharply to the left past a car that was parked across the road.
She glanced back in a little while and saw its lights behind her, pressed the throttle to the floor.
The road curved a great deal. Granquist was bent forward over the wheel — the rain beat against her face; her eyes were narrowed to slits against the wind and the rain.
There was the faint sound of a shot, two, behind them, a metallic thud as a bullet buried itself somewhere in the body of the car. Kells opened his eyes, turned to look back. He grinned at Granquist and his face was whiter than anything she had ever seen. He glanced ahead, said: “Give it hell, baby.”
Then he groped in his pocket, pulled out the big automatic. He smashed the glass of the rear window with the muzzle and rested the barrel on his forearm, sighted, fired.
He said, “Missed,” swore softly.
He fired again, and as the car behind them swerved crazily off the road and stopped, said, “Bull’s-eye,” laughed soundlessly.
They passed two cars going the other way. Kells, looking back, saw one of them stop and start to turn around. Then they went around a curve and he couldn’t see the car any more.
He glanced at the speedometer. “You’ll have to do a little better. I think there’s a fast one on our tail now.”
She said: “The curves...”
“I know, baby — you’re doing beautifully. Only a little faster.” He smiled.
Granquist asked: “How’s the cough?”
“Swell — I can’t feel it any more.” He patted his chest. “I feel a lot better.”
She braced herself and used the brake hard as they went around a sharp curve.
“There’s a pint of Bourbon in the side pocket. We got it from Jake back at the trick speakeasy...”
Kells said: “My God! Why didn’t you tell me about it before?” He reached for the bottle.
“I forgot—”
She jerked the wheel suddenly, hard, screamed between clenched teeth.
Kells felt the beginning of the skid; he looked outward, forward into blackness. They were in space, falling sidewise into blackness; there was grinding, tearing, crashing sound. Falling.
Black.
There was a light somewhere. There was a voice.
Kells moved his arm an inch or so, dug his fingers deep in mud. The rain beat hard, cold on his face.
The voice come from somewhere above him, kept talking about light.
“I can’t get down any farther,” it said. “We got to have more light.”
Kells tried to roll over on his side. There was something heavy on his legs, he couldn’t move them, couldn’t feel them. But he twisted his body a little and opened his eyes. It was entirely dark.
He twisted his body the other way and saw the narrow beam of a flashlight high above him in the darkness. The rain looked like snow in the light.
He pushed himself up slowly, leaned on one elbow, saw something white a little distance away. He got his legs, somehow, out of the dark sharp metal that imprisoned them and crawled slowly, painfully toward the whiteness.
The whiteness was Granquist. She was dead.
Kells lay there awhile in the mud, on his belly, with his face close to Granquist’s face.
He could not think. He could feel the awful, barbed pain in his body; after a while, fear. He looked up at the light and a wave of panic swept suddenly over him, twisted his heart. He wanted to go into the darkness, away from the light. He wanted the darkness very much.
He kissed Granquist’s cold mouth and turned and crawled through the mud away from the light, away from the voices.
He wanted to be alone in the darkness; he wanted the light to please go away.
He whispered, “Please go away,” to himself, over and over.
The ground was rough; great rocks jutted out of the mud, and there were little gullies that the rain had made.
After a while he stopped and turned and looked back and he could not see the light any more. Still he crawled on, dragged his torn body over the broken earth.
In the partial shelter of a steep sloping rock he stopped, sank forward, down.
There, after a little while, life went away from him.