Ed Lacy - Dead End

     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.

     Flat on my back... nobody ever did that in the ring. Why is the sky so dark? I'll squeeze the trigger... can't aim, not trying to... Got to keep them off... Be sure I die. I want to die alone, just... Must be a lot of slugs hitting me. So this is dying? They don't hurt. Like mosquito bites when Nate and I are on a picnic. Like to be on one now. “Sure, I'll find some firewood....”

     It don't hurt but my body is jerking with each bullet. Must weigh a ton... What's the bad joke about the guy full of lead and... Oh! the pain... Damn fire, almost reached my brain that time. Ah, that's a little better. I always could take it. Can I take much more of this?

     How much...? Hey, the sky is no longer dark, it's bright red now. What is this, a sunset? Where is Doc... shooting at me? I'm still laughing at Doc... only it sounds like a rattle.

     If I could be sure they can't patch me up, I'd let them take me just so I could laugh right in Doc's fox-face. Old superior Doc with his big talk and bigger words... Must be thinking right this second how his plans are going like clockwork. In a day or two, when he's off on sick leave, he'll quietly take a plane, or drive like mad for Syracuse, to pick up the dough. Or has he got somebody there waiting for it? Somebody that will end up like me, full of bullets? It's a laugh.

     I don't know if I'm hysterical with pain or laughter. The... Through everything I can feel the vibration of steps on the cement floor. I squeeze the trigger once.... How many shells have I left?... The steps stop. My trigger finger is sticky... those damn strawberries.

     I want to shout. I yell, “Doc! Doc! It's the joke of the year... how sure you were of me. Dumb Bucky! And... and now you won't get dollar one....”

     Yeah, I damn near pulled it off, despite Doc. Did I push my luck too far? Why did I have to return to the house, play the game out to the last card?... For the hundred grand.... When I had all the money for my...

     The steps are coming again. Where's the trigger? Where's... Is this death? I don't feel a thing, not even the dull pain... only the thin pumping of my stuttering heart.

     I want to die... Only, ah... if I could just see the look on Doc's face when he reaches that hotel... If I could tell him to his sharp face how I've switched labels on the packages... was going to head for California... where I'd sent all the money to myself. The old switcheroo, Doc. To Bucky Laspiza... my real self... care of Nate out on the... Coast.

     Who the... hell... will get the money now? Nate? No, he'll turn it... But Doc... sure won't get any....

     Oh God. Oh Mom.... Nate! Nate! I'm... so... so tired. Dad, I can't... even laugh... no moree....