Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left

“I see, you robbed a bank.”

“Technically, yes. But who suffered? The bank was insured and as for the insurance companies, perhaps this caused them to raise their rates one-hundredth of one per cent. Being a smart man Wales didn't do anything to arouse suspicion. By that I mean he never put the money in his regular account, nor did he start living big. He played strictly by our rules.”

“Is that why he's dead?”

“A mistake. I keep telling you that! A man doesn't reach the top by being soft. I have a family, an industry, a position, to protect. I frankly told Wales he was in a position to keep forging my name. After the lawsuit with the bank I could hardly protest another forgery without giving Wales away, involving myself. I impressed upon him that I had carried out my end of the deal, and if he ever tried blackmailing me in the future, killing would be the only answer. For over seven years I never heard from Wales. Then, several days ago when I received my monthly bank statement and canceled checks I found—”

“A forged check for $4000.75 made out to a Francis Parker,” I said getting the complete picture fast. “Wales must have kept things a secret from Owens—till a couple months ago. Wales probably blabbered while juiced and Owens decided to try his luck.”

“Precisely, except I was certain it was Wales tapping me again. I can hardly be blamed for assuming that. And the only real answer to blackmail is a bullet. Actually I didn't even read about Owens' death until after I shot Wales and the papers played up both killings. I didn't know a thing about Owens' death but I felt it would benefit me by throwing off any possible suspicion on me.”

“You had a wrongo hunch on that.”

“Perhaps. It wasn't until you came into my office and said Owens had the money that I realized Owens had got into the game. Undoubtedly Wales killed Owens in the alley to make it look like a robbery. Must have told him to stop and Owens wanted another crack at my jackpot. You can see Wales had to kill him, to protect himself. Just as I thought I had to kill Wales. I blundered. I shot him while he was in a drunken sleep. He died without pain but I never gave him a chance to explain. I admit it was a terrible blunder, but that's over, nothing we do now can ever bring Wales back to Me.”

“What's there to do?” I asked, keeping my eyes on his thick mustache.

“That's the point of our talk. I want to live, Wintino. I want to avoid a scandal that will haunt my wife and children forever. Your young, life is ahead of you. I'm in a position to offer you $35,000 in cash. If you spend it wisely and slowly and keep your job it means a comfortable nest egg for the rest of your years and some immediate small pleasures—a new car, a house. Naturally you'll have to keep the money in a safe deposit vault, spend it carefully. Even your wife must never know. If you have children, their education is—”

I sat up straight, pressed the crease in my pants. “No dice.”

“Think of something except your pants, damn you. Think! Don't say no before you mull it over. You can quit the department and live like a king in Europe. Or you can hold on to your job, secretly secure, without a money worry. How many young fellows have a chance at life without money worries? Think hard!”

“I'm not buying, Bird. A couple of ex-cops are killed and nobody gives a damn—but I do. You've confessed a murder, I'm going to take you in. If you kill me they'll collar you because I did make a report about my visit to you.”

“Boy, don't make me kill you!” Wren said. “Even if you really did make such a report, I can cover the Owens check with the yarn I gave you this afternoon. I've been thinking it over. Even though I did make it up on the spur of the moment, it's good, it will hold. And I have an alibi for every second of the day Wales was killed. If I have to make a run for it, killing you will give me time and as the old saying goes, they can only hang me once. Please think about—”

“There's nothing to think about. You killed Wales. I'm a cop. I have to arrest you.” I leaned forward slightly, slowly, wondering if Wren would be amateur enough to try for the head instead of the body.

“God, if only you were older, more mature...! Wintino, listen to me, laws were made not as a punishment but to prevent crimes. I killed Wales but I'm not a killer, a criminal. I had to kill, so would you to protect yourself, your family. I'll never kill again, nor commit a crime, so what's the point in arresting me? Can't you understand? It would be your duty to arrest me if you thought that by letting me go you were endangering society. There never will be any reason, any need for me to kill again. If we act intelligently we can both live in peace.”

“And when will I get it like Wales did?” I raised my right hand slowly to my head, pretended to scratch my hair.

Wren's gun hand followed my right as he said, “Never, unless you try to blackmail me. Or if I tried to blackmail you, I would expect you to kill me. Wintino, this isn't something to haggle about. I'll go the limit—$45,000 and you get it all by Tuesday.”

“Bribing an officer of the law is an additional—”

“Bribing? You stupid ass of a kid! You must realize what big money means in this world, what—“

I set my feet and raised my right hand toward my head again. As his eyes and my gun followed, I threw myself forward, on my right shoulder, bringing up as hard a left hook as I could.

The tiny room came alive with thunder and the stink of gunpowder. I felt the punch up to my elbow, my fist ramming into his fat belly. A gut punch is a paralyzer. I saw him sinking to the floor, nothing moving except his mouth, which seemed open in a wide scream of fear.

I reached out and grabbed his right hand, digging my nails into his wrist till he dropped my gun. I picked it up and got to my feet. He hadn't hit me!

I wanted to shout a prayer of thanks, and as I stood up a hot wire ripped across my stomach like a burning knife. Everything was pain, searing pain that made me sink to my knees beside him and scream and scream and scream.

I pressed my stomach to hold down the burning and felt blood. The bastard had shot me. The first time my gun was used on a man it had to be me.

I was on my knees, trying not to keel over, almost on top of Wren who lay there, crumpled, not moving, mouth open as far as he could get it. His glasses had half-fallen off his nose and one eye was enlarged by a lens and bright with pain; the other was a small glitter in the dim light. He wasn't out, just stunned by the gut belt.

I tried to move and pain went through my body like a million knives and I screamed again and again... and heard only silence. The store was full of the same old dusty stillness. My mouth was open but I wasn't making a sound. The silence of the empty store had absorbed the brief bark of the gun. It was crazy, nothing had changed—except I'd be dead in another ten minutes, an hour at the longest. And in a few minutes Wren would be able to walk away.

His eyes were mocking me now, at least the one eye covered by his glasses. I looked away, at my gun in my hand, was damn glad I was going out like a real cop. When I raised my gun Wren's eye grew so big with fear I thought it would pop through the thick glass.

I said, “I'm not going to kill you,” but the words slid all around my mouth and I chewed on them as the pain throbbed deep in me like a long piston needle going up and down in my guts.

I sent a bullet through his knee cap to anchor him. There wasn't any thunder this time, merely a sharp clear bark and a flash of orange, both swallowed by the darkness of the store, never heard outside.

Wren was on his back, out cold, fainted. I took a deep breath that seemed to smother the pointed burning within me; I pulled his gun out of his pocket, crawled over him. The crawling put my blood on fire and when I reached the archway that opened on the store, I had to let go, sink into the pain.

When I came to, the pain was still throbbing steadily in my stomach, stabbing at my heart and brain now and then. Everything about me seemed wet with blood. There was a dull sound behind me. I had to listen for many seconds before I realized it was Wren moaning, calling for help. I got up on my knees, it was easier to move on my knees than to crawl. I made the left wall of the store, the fire within me soaring higher each time I moved. Resting my shoulder against the wall I tried to see the store-front window. I couldn't focus, things were blurred. I figured I was ten feet away. It didn't matter, I couldn't move another inch. I'd had it.

Holding my gun in my left hand, I took out Wren's. I tried a deep breath: it didn't work, the air came rushing down my throat hot and dry. I had to rest for a few seconds, then pivoting on my left shoulder I heaved Wren's gun in the direction of the window. I heard myself scream this time all right, heard it over the crash of glass. I don't know, but it was me and I was screaming, “Dad! Dad!”

I slumped against the wall and waited, each breath tearing my lungs apart with strain and fire. The broken window was a foggy square and for a long long time nothing happened. I had to let go again, fall into the fire inside me.

Opening my eyes was a big job. The window was still foggy... with the pale blur of a face looking in.

Aiming at the ceiling I fired my gun fast as I could. On the third shot it jumped out of my hand. I'd lost my gun again but I had to let go. I had to let go of everything. No flames this time, nothing... I was falling over and over into nothing.

Saturday Afternoon

There was a vase with red roses on the metal table in one corner of the hospital room. The roses were very-red. Not many and the cheapest kind—a few dumpy roses with petals open in a big grin. I knew who'd sent them.

The hospital room was small and efficient and crummy, like all hospitals. I shut my eyes again. I'd never felt so pooped. Of course I knew where I was. I'd been semiconscious when the beat cop had knelt beside me, took his gun off me when he found my badge. I'd passed out in the ambulance but came to when a nurse was cutting my clothes off, ruining my suit, just before they gave me a shot that put me to sleep. I awoke for a few seconds when I was getting a transfusion, then dropped off for a long sleep. I vaguely recalled talking to Lieutenant Reed and some hatchet-faced inspector from downtown, the two of them hovering over my bed like a couple of ugly birds. I gave them the dope on Wren and Wales.

I opened my eyes and moved my head. The shade was down but it was bright outside. Looking made me tired and I kept staring straight ahead at the roses—roses from Rose and as red as her mouth. I was probably all over the papers and Rose had come soon as she read about it.

A nurse came in, a long gawky babe who had to look better when out of the white dress, the horrible stockings and white shoes. Over a standard smile she asked, “How do you feel, Mr. Wintino?”

“Okay.” Her fingers were firm and cool as she took my pulse. “When did the flowers come?”

“Must have come this morning, before I came on. Shall I find out who they're from?”

“Do that and see if there was any message.” The nurse slipped me what was supposed to be a wise smile. “Your wife is waiting. Feel up to seeing her, for a little while?”

“Sure. Got a mirror and comb?”

“Not yet. You mustn't attempt to sit up or move about.”

“Am I going to be stuck in bed long?”

“You ask the doctor about that. I'll send Mrs. Wintino in.

The moment you feel tired, stop talking, tell your wife to leave. Sleep is the best medicine you can get at the moment.”

The nurse left and my eyelids weighed a ton. I don't know, I thought I opened them a second later but it must have been longer. Mary was sitting beside my bed, looked as if she'd been sitting there a long time. She looked pretty bad, blond hair uncombed, eyes red, face strained, a tired stoop to her shoulders. And the roses on the table behind her seemed to frame her head.

I'd never seen her look so bad. I stared at her face, and the red of the roses, and thought how silly it was for us to keep knocking each other out. This was the right time to settle things. I said, “Hello, Babes.”

She must have been daydreaming, she jumped a little. “Dave, Dave, how are you feeling?” She began to cry gently.

“A bit tired. Why the tears? I'm okay. Understand they had to stitch up my guts and I know there's a drain sticking in me someplace.... But in a few days I'll be up and around, out of here.”

“Of course you will. I'll try to get a week off at the office, and well go someplace in the country and rest.”

“You need a rest. Sure, we'll have a whole week to rest and talk about it.”

“Talk about what?”

“Come on, honey, I know you too well, it's all over your face: you can't wait to talk.”

“Dave, all I want is for you to get well.”

“And then we'll talk?”

“Dave, you're in a hospital, just take it easy and—''

“No, honey, let's talk this out now. I feel like it.”

“Dave, you're getting excited, tired. You need sleep and—”

“Babes, I'll be more excited if we don't talk, get things straight. Go ahead, spill it.”

“Really, Dave, I don't know what you mean. You go back to sleep and I'll—”

“Mary, let's get this settled. Go ahead, I'll let you know when I'm tired.”

“What do you want me to say?” Her voice was a whine.

“All the words you've been saving up for me. Let them go, be the best thing for both of us.”

“Well...” She hesitated, her red eyes staring at me. “All right, we'll talk, if you wish.”

“That's what I wish.”

“Dave, you sound so... I don't know.” Her voice became high and thin. “Dave, Dave, listen to me: I can't take this any longer. I can't stand waiting around for my husband to come home, worry myself crazy till the middle of the morning when I'm informed you're in a hospital, nearly dead. That's no way for us to live.... Oh, Dave! this isn't the time or place, I can't talk about it now.”

“Yes, you can, say it.” The roses seemed to be laughing at her.

“Dave...” The tears really rolled. “Well, Dave, you either have to give up being a cop or we're done. Dave, I can't take it. I can't!”

“Don't cry, Mary. You want me to be a glorified goon for Uncle Frank at forty a week?”

“Please, Dave, we don't have to talk about this now? We—”