He Won't Need it Now

     She drew back her lips and spat at him. He raised his hand, looked at her, then stepped away. “It's time you were dead,” he said.

     The little guy held the note-book and said to Clive, “Would you like to watch this?”

     Clive said he would.

     “Give him a hoop as well,” Duffy said.

     The little guy looked at him with disapproval. “I told you before not to make fun of him.”

     Clive said, “I'm going to rub this heel out.”

     The little guy scratched his head, then looked up at Joe. “You heard that?”

     Joe grinned. “Why not? It's some time since Clive knocked anyone off.”

     The little guy said, “Yes, that's right. It is some time. Yeah, okay, you knock him off.”

     Clive turned slowly on Duffy, who was standing near the wall. Duffy's face was tense, he pushed out his chin a little, the muscles in his neck suddenly going hard.

     Annabel said from the floor, “Give it to him low down.”

     Clive and the little guy both jerked their heads in her direction, and Duffy snapped up the light switch, then he dropped to his knees and shot away to the left. In his mind he could clearly see the wires that fed the two standard lamps. He groped for them, found nothing, groped again, touched them, and then pulled sharply. He felt them come away loose.

     The little guy said in a sharp voice, “Don't start shooting. We don't want the cops here. Clive, stand by the door. I'll put on the lights.”

     Duffy grinned. He stood up, listening for the slightest sound. The darkness made him feel like a blind man.

     Joe said, “I'm coming down.”

     The little guy said, “Wait; I'll tell you.”

     Duffy moved softly towards the little guy. When he got near enough as he could judge, he stopped. Quite close to him, he heard a rattle of matches. He balanced himself, and as the match flared up he hit the little guy right in the middle of his face. The match fell on the carpet and went out. Duffy took three quick steps away from the little guy, who was lying on the ground, collided with a chair. Joe fired just once. It was close enough. Duffy felt the bullet against his sleeve as it passed.

     Moving to the door, he ran up against Clive. Clive gave a high scream, but Duffy's questing hands found his head, and he banged it back against the wall hard. Clive went limp.

     The little guy said in a sudden panic, “Quick, Joe! He's got Clive.”

     Joe said, “What the hell do you think I can do? I can't see.”

     Holding Clive by the shirt-front, Duffy jerked the door open, and stepped into the hall, dragging Clive with him. The hall was in darkness. Duffy threw Clive on the floor, sprang back to the door, found the key on the outside, and turned it. Then he struck a match and flicked on the electric light switch.

     Clive was lying in a heap, dazed. He stared up at Duffy with unseeing eyes. Duffy searched his pockets, found the notes and the little book and transferred them to his pocket, then he stood up.

     “I guess I owe you something,” he said softly, and put his heel on Clive's upturned face, pressed down hard, turning the heel slowly. Clive clawed at his foot, and began to scream. Duffy said, “Here it is, Nance, it's been coming to you for a long time.” He put his entire weight on his right leg and twisted his heel sharply. There was a cracking sound, and under his heel it felt soft. Clive stopped screaming. Duffy stepped away, dragged his heel once, then twice on the soft carpet, leaving two long smears of red. He opened the front door and stepped into the passage, and ran downstairs, not waiting for the elevator. Faintly, he could hear the thudding of Joe's shoulder against the locked door.

     He reached the street. It was raining again. The air was heavy and very warm. He ran on to the Buick, pulled open the door and got in. Then he drove away very quickly.

     The streets were less congested. He took half the time in getting back to the Bronx. Leaving the car in the garage, he walked down the steps of the basement and rapped on the door.

     Gilroy opened it. The negro showed his big white teeth. “You okay?” he asked.

     Duffy nodded. He said, “Come and have a drink.”

     Gilroy followed him down the passage into the little room. Duffy sat on the bed and pushed his hat to the back of his head. Gilroy fixed the drinks, came over and gave Duffy a glass. He stood waiting. His thin face sleepy, but interested.

     Duffy looked him over thoughtfully from the bed, scratched the side of his face, making a little rasping noise. Then he, said, “Perhaps you might like to come in on this.”

     Gilroy lifted his shoulders. “Maybe,” he said, “it's nothing to me now.”

     “Gleason was knocked off tonight,” Duffy said, swirling the whisky in the glass. “I was there, so was Morgan's gang and Gleason's wife. She popped him and tried to pin it on me.”

     Gilroy rolled up his eyes. “They're slapping it on you all right,” he said at last.

     Duffy nodded. “Sure, they got a reason. I'm holding up a million-dollar racket.” He took the note-book out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. Gilroy picked it up curiously and examined it Duffy could see it meant nothing to him.

     He explained.