Brain Guy: A gang killer meets his match in a TNT blonde Page 22

  His heart beat, his hands trembled, but he put a cagy knot in his necktie. By hell, he was getting tough. Time to decide, the events and thoughts of the elapsed months resolving into an invitation, a note to which one must answer yes or no. “It’s damn important to bring you here so early. You like to sleep late as well as the next. How’d you find out where I lived? Stanger tell you? Who?” His words clipped from his lips with stiff edges and hard corners. There was no warmth in him, not even the heat of fear. Stretching up through his flesh, gripping his eyeballs frozen hard, a coldness that was another self concentrated on the visitor.

  “It jus’ has to be tended to. It’s for your own good.”

  Bill guessed he was lying. How far can you trust a liar? Maybe this was to be the finish of himself, a scheme to wipe him. McMann wouldn’t excite suspicion that way. His brother was silent and youthful in his pyjamas. Joe studied him from the distance of their two minds thinking their different thoughts. His brother’s lips moved, his eyes said a definite thing, and that thing was: Don’t go, stay here, don’t go, for God’s sake.

  He was completely dressed. “I’ve half a mind to stay here.”

  “I don’t get you.” And he, too, spoke silently, as if saying: We’re partners, aren’t we? And not go when I call for you? …

  “I’ll be back later, Joe. Need any dough?”

  McMann offered his wallet. “I’ll loan ya some if you need any.”

  “No, I’ve got enough.”

  “Keep the mutt quiet,” said Bill, realizing he owned a barking wild dog, and the dog’s name was Spotty. It seemed to have created itself out of thin air like a devil’s dog. Again his brother, strong, yellow-haired, innocent as an archangel, seemed to plead with him. He thought: I may be leaving all that’s good and there’ll be no more chance or hope for me. Shutting the door, he followed his guide. The red hair shone beneath the felt down to the nape. The flights had never been so long. It was a descent into hell. McMann said how some bastard had almost killed him. Yeh, a guy with a knife and gat. Fool’s luck he was here today. The street swung its heavy stone at Bill, gasping. Yeh, it was no fooling. He’d almost been spotted, but he’d dragged the coke bastard bitch to his room, and the coke said it was Duffy sent him. Duffy had paid him and some other mugs to put them on the spot. Now, maybe, Bill guessed why he’d bust into his joint so early, getting him up from his beauty nap. Bill thought: And these are my feet climbing the metal stairs to Christopher El station as they have so many times before, and there is the El roaring. McMann’s voice thrummed, elaborated, thrummed again of the danger, of Duffy, danger, danger.

  “Where we going, McMann?”

  “Don’t ya know?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to.”

  “We’re returning Duff’s call.” They sat side by side, their knees touching. Sure he meant it; if he didn’t mean it, they might as well lay down and die. They were practically alone in the car. It was going on to nine and the traffic was going downtown to work. “I fixed the coke,” said McMann simply.

  “You expect to fix Duffy?”

  “Duffy gets up late. He’ll be home.”

  Bill looked as though he was going to rise and hop off the El. There was no getting off. There were no stations where one could. “Count me out, I’m not killing anybody.”

  “You’d rather get killed.” Lord, if he didn’t want to puke! So he didn’t want to get mixed up. Wasn’t he mixed up at Paddy’s? That was different, said Bill. Like the hell it was; maybe he’d like that coke poking a knife a foot long at him. His bewildered mind rolled over and over, the wheels of thought grinding and flashing like the steel wheels of the El, progressing to one thought, one destination. “What happened to the coke?”

  “I gave him back his knife.”

  “You did — ”

  “I got an idea to give Duffy back his gat.”

  “I’m out.”

  “You mean you’re yeller.” He frowned. “You dumb bastard. It’s Duffy or us. He’s been to bat, it’s our turn. You wanta die? We’ve grabbed his kids. He’s sore.”

  “I don’t want any blood on my hands. Give’m the damn kids back.”

  “You can’t welsh. He’s out to wipe us. He’ll do it unless we wipe him.” The train stopped. It was Fiftieth and Ninth Avenue. Farther east in the Broadway sector Duffy had a suite. They legged down the long bright morning blocks. “You sap,” cried McMann, “thinkin’ I’d kill a guy. What for? Who wantsa burn? I gotta proposition to make Duff, and this is the time. He can’t doublecross us. No, sir.”

  “You’re a liar,” Bill said heavily, hypnotized by McMann’s will, matching stride for stride. What should he do? Still time to welsh, to backscuttle? Still time to fade into the crowds. There flowed the bright vague faces gleaming like coins in the sun, the thousands of them. Broadway shone under blue sky, spring was nearing. April Fool’s Day. Soon, soon, the clubhouse’d open. The dust flew and time was leaving him stranded on this hard marble moment. Always time to begin over, time to begin, not to heel along like a fool, time to get out of murder, let time’s washing wave drag him out to life again.

  “Here’s the facts straight. Duffy’s after us. Honest to God he is. Almost got me last night. Ya can’t hide. You’ll be got no matter where ya go. Run from town. Sure. You’ll be safe, and what’ll you do? Starve. Here we got a good biz, a livin’n all. Wanta chuck it back to Duffy? Gwan. But not me. I sweated too long to swipe his kids, and jus’ with the big dough near, I ain’t nuts.”

  Isolated in a dream, he followed McMann into the lobby, and they rode in the elevator to the tenth floor. Two things he recalled. He hadn’t any breakfast, and Duffy lived on the eighth. While he watched, McMann, in a corner, loaded the gun. If anybody’d ask, well, they’d got off at the tenth. It was a gun. Yes. They walked down two flights. The hotel was still asleep, the only things alive the sunbeams searing through the windows hot and yellow. Bill bit his thumb. McMann never looked back, engrossed in his mission, careless of Bill, or seeming so. He thought: I want Duffy murdered; that’s why I’m heeling along; no use making believe I want Duffy to live. I want him murdered so we can be through with him and because I want my life to be safe. I do not want to be attacked like McMann. He shivered. Life, the good sweet life, oh, life, he’d hold on to it even if other lives must go. For yourself. Watch, guard yourself, no one else will. The thoughts fermented out of his hesitation. He debated as the thoughts circled his head in the imminent aura of that doing morning, like drunken things on wings. His body was host to many disputing beings, walking drunken as if he were striding down some nebulous stairway of dream on queer missions, inevitable, sadistic. His head whirled and it wasn’t fresh morning but late night, his brain sick from wildness, now, suddenly lucid, or regretful, by turns melancholy, exalted, mournful, stolid. And all these moods knew one union, the walking forward of the body containing them.

  McMann’s fist knocked on Duffy’s door, so bright, calm, reassuring, that he felt he was in the hands of a trustworthy guide. Sullen, sleepy, Duffy answered: “Who the hell?”

  “Telegram,” said McMann. “Telegram for Mr. Duffy.”

  Bill wallowed in inane admiration. McMann was the enchanter, producing the necessary magics for each crisis. Oh, he could be trusted. You fool, he thought, you’re another heel like Spat. And then he was hurrying in and McMann had shut the door, Duffy, horrified, retreating before them. McMann turned the key in the lock. “Don’t holler, Duff. The walls’ soundproof, ain’t they?” He gripped the collar of the purple gown, holding the splendor of the cloth and the miserable man in it.

  “What the hell you want?” cried Duffy, trying to smile. He’d forgotten long ago. Even when happy he never smiled, and this terrified contorting of his lips seemed a memory from childhood, pathetic, wistful, begging.

  “Jus’ to say hello.”

  “What you want?” said Duffy.

  “Nex’ time don’ open doors like that. Ya didn’t think I’d be after ya so quick.” He scowled
at the false smile, and the more his face wrinkled blood-red with hate, the more Duffy smiled as if that were his one mechanical reaction. “Sit down,” pleaded Duffy. “Sit down, Bill. Let’s talk it over like reg’lar guys.” And he squirmed within the silken shroud of his dressing-gown, writhing against the wall, careful even now not to move against McMann, his eyes dark and remote from the slanting sunlight. His ankles were small as a girl’s, he wasn’t very strong.

  It was soundproof construction sure enough. On three sides, the rooms to right and left and from beyond the corridor, they heard no sound, seeming as if there could never be sound of rescue. Only through the open window, on the fourth, precipice side, was there a voice, the low voice of the city, the sound of traffic, the sound of human lives in narrow spaces, the voice of a god seeing all, never interfering. To this voice the three men listened gravely.

  “I’m not sittin’ down,” said McMann. “Your mouth stinks. You ain’t washed it.” He called to Bill. “Get the gat in the inside pocket.” Duffy’s mouth widened to holler. McMann uppercut him. Duffy moaned, not screaming. Bill fumbled, the three together in a stricken fatal knot, and there was the gun in his hand, holding onto it while Duffy glared blind with unbelief. McMann socked him twice, Duffy’s knees sagged. He couldn’t holler much.

  “Hell,” cried Bill, tormented, “what you gonna do? Hell, Red, what the hell? You aren’t dragging me into this. I won’t help. Damn. I’ll kill you first.”

  “Want the rat to kill ya, you dumb bastard? You wanta die? You wanta die?”

  No, to live. Life. He dropped the gun on the chair, disowning McMann and everything connected with him.

  “You’re crazy,” cried Duffy, his thin hands resting on the clenched red fist. “You’re tipped wrong. Bill, don’t let’m.”

  “Soundproof walls. Shut up. Radio’n all. Bill, some jazz. Loud. Duff’s gonna be harda hearin’. N’ shut the winders.” There was no voice now, not even the city’s. There was no music, but an aggressive personality bellowed something political. How like the time, the time at Paddy’s, how like; time repeats itself, does history and time. Nobody listened to the speaker the dial had ushered in, whipping harsh, warlike, chanting like a medicine man in a croaking tongue.

  Duffy lunged at McMann, who, gripping the lapels of the robe like an envelope in which he’d captured a pallid bug, smacked his free fist into Duffy’s face. “No rough-house,” he muttered. Duffy was breathing hard, a man who’d lost a bitter fight, the sweat on his brow, his lungs empty of air.

  “You’re going to kill an innocent man. Honest, Bill, I don’t know why he’s picking on me. Why?”

  McMann hurled him against the wall. “Don’t know about a dopey ginzo with a knife and gat? The ginzo knows you. Duffy sent him round. Never hearda the bastard wop, did ya?”

  “I never did.”

  “You bastard liar.”

  “No. No. I ain’t. Pete’s sake, Bill. Bill, Bill, you ain’t gonna let him. Bill.” Bill glanced away, the drift of unreality of dream lifting from about him. The room was a hotel room, not a vision. He stared the stark horrible truth in the face. They were killers. Duffy was nix. McMann, implacable, wolfish. Duffy the image of fear, coughing and coughing. He thought: Is he coughing to get my sympathy? Duffy’s eyes weren’t human, nor the eyes of a beast in a trap, nor the eyes of anything living, but the glassy orbs of a corpse with a strange cold haunting light of their own, the meat of his face pickled and creased in the acid of fear. Bill swallowed, a pity for himself almost bursting his heart. He was here at the death of a human. He didn’t want blood on his hands. “Mac,” he mumbled, “how ya know it’s him?”

  “The coke told me. What would a coke come after me? Cokes got nothin’ against me. This bastard.”

  “No, no.” His voice was weak as if he’d lost interest defending himself, speaking out of habit, twisting, his hands shaking. He opened his throat to shout. McMann’s free hand leeched tight to his throat and yet he seemed to shout, as the radio speaker blared big words and little words. The blare spoke for Duffy. For a second they listened to the sound of the speaker as if to the voice of a second god, coequal to the city. The radio spoke of what concerned it, not giving a damn for any of them, or for the fact that a man was about to be murdered. Bill bleated: “Don’t be hasty, Red,” realizing he was speaking above the radio like a man shouting against the sea roar. Even if his voice sounded listless, he was shouting. The blood flooded his veins. He saw clearer, as if he’d been bled, weak in body, but stronger in sight.

  “Gimme the gat.” His fingers dug into Duffy’s throat like grapnels as if he’d tear the heart out of voice.

  Slowly Bill picked up the pistol, obeying McMann, who was as godly or evil as the radio or the city noise shut out behind the window. He didn’t look at Duffy. His ears banged with sound, with the high-climbing city’s voice of brick and steel, the sound of the machines clicking out, lives and machines that were unlives, with fury of words and foreign tongues, with the power of the unknown radio speaker. In this din, his own heart missed a beat, hammering into consciousness so that he heard his heart, his inner self beating. McMann dominated all the sounds. “Dumb bastard. Want’m to live?” McMann’s voice was the saddest of all, the most human, for none of the other voices were of any interest. The city didn’t care nor the radio nor Bill’s own blind heart. He surrendered the gun. One sound more. Duffy lay on the floor, a mean persistent thing to be avoided. His gaze lowered, and now it filled his gaze, and his eyes were with tears. Duffy lay on his face, the purple gown spread about him aspirant like wings.

  The radio clamored. Its voice of the dead speaking unintelligibly of matters the living had no concern for. McMann put on his gloves, carefully rubbing barrel and hilt with a handkerchief, then placing the pistol near Duffy’s hand. He whispered very respectably: “Let’s beat it, huh?” Bill admired his decorum in the presence of the dead.

  They went up two flights, buzzed for the lift. The lobby was full of living folk, the streets so crowded death seemed the biggest rarity. Bill thought: McMann’s a ghost, a magician, someone you can’t harm. As in all their crimes, they appeared to be wearing invisible rings. Nobody ever saw them, nobody was the wiser.

  “The kids is ourn,” said McMann.

  “If I didn’t hand you the gun?”

  “Why not? Don’t I know I kin depend on ya?”

  It was exciting from a gangster movie into bright sunlight. He felt sorry for Duffy. Good God, Duffy wasn’t Cagney or Robinson or Raft. Duffy had been real, Duffy wouldn’t ever come to life like the movie fellows when the film was over. “What’d you do with the coke?”

  “I tolya, him, I give back his knife. Duff got his gun. I don’ feel so hot. Too much excitement. I’ve gotta get drunk this minute. Come ‘long.”

  “I suppose so. I feel sorry, yeh, sorry, I feel punchdrunk, groggy, sick, I don’t know how I feel.”

  McMann grimaced. “Quit bitchin’. Think I had a grand time? Le’s get soused’n forget it.”

  “Sure,” said Bill. “I meant I was going to say I was sorry for the both of us. For you and me, not for them.”

  “I don’t make you outa all.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  JOE dressed rapidly after his brother left with McMann. No wonder Bill was the way he was, pals with such an egg. The hell with them. He couldn’t be worrying about his brother. He had no effect on him. After breakfast he left the house. March was burning itself out in sun, the sky a blue promise, the wind the one force remembering winter, a little harsh and chilly. He spent an hour at the Library, idling up Fifth to Central Park. He opened his coat to the wind, repeatedly wiping a slight sweat from his upper lip. The world was on the move, no time for lagging steps. He was alive, he was in love. The Park was empty.

  There was no getting away from it. He was in love with Cathy. He wanted her, and why not? She was only a woman like everybody else. He had had dreams at night, warm before-dropping-asleep images of Cathy being courted by him man-fa
shion. But why feel so paralyzing stifling hot today? Why this day with Bill running off God alone knew where? There was a crisis in his brother’s affairs, he might be in danger, and yet he didn’t really give a damn. He’d tried his best, failing, and now reverting to the stone basis of his being, the passion slowly accreted in the months. There was a crisis in his body. The flesh and youth of him were demanding. No use waiting. Gazing on the women passing by, their trim legs, the coats tight about their bodies, he was battered again by the beastly fecundity in him that didn’t give a damn about anything, wanting only to slake itself. Oh, to be lying down with Cathy on a June shore! Cathy, I love you.

  All that wandering morning in the city, with his halts at the Library, at a cafeteria for a bite, conjured up his fever. Was it him, Joe Trent, approaching the desk at a hotel and asking for a room? He didn’t focus the clerk, just knew it was somebody in charge. He paid in advance, took his key, and visited his room, brooding among the whiteness of linen. Downstairs he memorized the room number in case he should lose the key, jamming the key in his inner jacket pocket and stuffing a handkerchief on top of it.