He Won't Need it Now

     Gilroy and Duffy raised their hands. Shep dropped on his knee, drew his Luger and fired at the little guy all in one movement.

     Joe, stepping behind the door, tapped Shep with the butt of his gun as he fired. Shep gave a little cough and fell on his hands and knees. He looked like a stricken elephant.

     Duffy said between his teeth, “Don't touch him again.”

     Joe looked at him in wonder, then he grinned. “My, ain't you a pip?” he said admiringly.

     The little guy said apologetically, “Take it easy. Don't move. I'd hate to pop this heater, but I gotta do it if you crowd me.”

     Gilroy said, hardly moving his rubbery lips: “What you want?”

     “We want the pip,” Joe said. “Ain't he hung a rap on Clive? Well, sure we want the pip. I wanta bounce him a little, don't I?” He looked triumphantly at the little guy. Then he walked over to Duffy, grinning from ear to ear. He feinted with his left, and hit Duffy on his ear, with a tremendous swinging punch that started from his ankles.

     Duffy saw it coming a split second too late. A bomb burst inside his head. A bright light blotted the room out.

     “Spill his guts,” the little guy said with a snigger. “Go on, Joe, burst him open.”

     Joe walked over to Duffy quickly with long, sliding steps. He put his hand down on Duffy's body, seized Duffy low and swung him off the floor. He lifted him quite easily and smashed him down on the boards, as if he were dumping coal.

     The little guy said, “Let's get him out of here.”

     Joe said, “Sure.” He dragged Duffy to his feet and began pulling him to the door.

     Gilroy stood like a waxwork, only his great eyes rolling in terror. The little guy looked at him, curling up his tight mouth.

     “Here it is, nigger,” he said, and squeezed the trigger. The gun crashed. Gilroy stood with his hands folded over his belly, gradually sinking at the knees. His curiously coffee-coloured skin glistened with sweat. He went down very slowly. First on his knees, then a little on one side. His hip-bone struck the floor hard, and his face followed, cutting the flesh on the boards.

     The little guy stood over him, looking at Joe. “Shall I finish him?” he asked.

     Joe paused in the doorway, holding Duffy by his shirt-front. “Let the punk bleed,” he said, with a snarl. “It takes longer that way, don't it?”

     The little guy giggled and pushed his gun back in his holster. “You get ideas,” he said.

     Joe admired himself.

     “Don't I?” he said, walking down the passage, pulling Duffy with him.

     He said over his shoulder, “I'm going to give myself a grand time with this bum.”

     The little guy followed him closely. He opened the front door, and together they stepped out into the driving rain. The sudden cold driving shower of water brought Duffy to, his senses. He placed his legs firmly against the step and arched his body. Joe was brought up short. He swore at Duffy, who swung a punch blindly into the darkness. He hit Joe on the nose. He so startled Joe that the big tough let him go and reeled back, took a false step and almost went over.

     Duffy scrambled away hastily, just as Schultz began blazing away from across the road. Schultz's .45 roared three times. Duffy felt a slug thud into the wall above his head.

     The little guy fired twice at Schultz, his gun cracking like dry wood snapping, only much louder. Duffy fumbled at his waist, and pulled out his Colt. He crouched in the shadow, trying to see where Joe was. The rain blinded him, and the solitary street light, about fifty feet away, threw only black shadows.

     Holding the gun, Duffy began to back further into the dark. He wanted to cross the road and get over to Schultz. Further down the road, the blackness was intense. He thought, if he could get there, he could cross in safety. He felt his heart beating hard against his ribs, but he wasn't scared. He felt a strong sense of exhilaration flooding through him.

     Schultz began firing again. Three sharp sounds. Duffy could see the flash from the gun. He crossed the road, running bent double.

     Faintly, somewhere at the far end of the street, came the faint blast of a whistle, then a low drumming of a nightstick being beaten on the pavement.

     Schultz called to him, “The cops.”

     Duffy ran forward again, keeping to the wall, hugging the dark shadows. Schultz from a doorway pulled him into the shelter.

     He said, “I've got to get out of here quick. The bulls know me.”

     Duffy said, “Gilroy's dead.” He spoke as if he had been running a long way. “The cops can't touch you. I've got protection.”

     Schultz snarled in the darkness. “My rod's hot,” he said.

     Duffy held out his hand. “Change,” he said. “They won't look at mine.”

     Schultz passed his over, and took Duffy's. They heard the wail of a siren, and a fast, closed car came swinging round the corner. Duffy stepped out into the street and waved. The car skidded to a standstill.

     Four beefy faces looked at him from the car, suspiciously. He felt the hidden menace of guns, unseen in the dark, threatening him. He stood quite still.

     Then one of them said, “It's okay. I know this guy.”