Stolen Away

“Phil,” a voice called from the other room. It was a whiny voice, high-pitched. Then, closer: “I did mine.”

“Mine’s done, too, Jimmy.” This voice was a baritone with gravel in it.

The nine millimeter was tight in my hand; my breath was sucked in hard, my heart pounding in my ears. I moved my head, my shoulders carefully, oh so slowly, forward, just barely glancing a sliver’s worth around the edge of the filing cabinet.

I could see them, one standing over by, and the other in, the doorway: the one inside the room must have killed Greenberg; he was wearing a brown topcoat and hat, was average in size and build, but his face was distinctive—as flat as a jockey’s ass, no cheekbones at all, eyes tiny, slitted, oriental-looking. The other guy, the one in the doorway, Hassel’s dispatcher, wore a mustard-color tweedy-looking topcoat and was small; his face was round and his nose pug and his eyes round and bright and cheerful.

These were not faces I would forget.

Neither would I forget their guns, though I couldn’t actually see them: they were big automatics, mostly hidden by fuzzy white towels that had been wrapped turbanlike around the barrels and over the muzzles; both towels, around the nose of each gun, were on fire, orange flames flittering on the scorched area around the nose of each automatic. Neither man seemed to notice.

They were talking softly, laughing lightly as they moved into the outer suite.

I waited ten seconds, then carefully stepped past Maxie, who was draped back across the desk, bloody gray matter seeping out his skull onto the ledger book; well, Eliot said the guy had brains.

I moved quickly, quietly, across the room, the nine millimeter in hand. Slowly, I stalked after the torpedoes, but as I was coming out of the office into the adjoining bedroom, I damn near tripped over Hassel, who was on the floor, his face turned to one side, his dead eyes even deader now, his head cracked open like a melon draining its seeds and pulp.

That stopped me a second. And by the time I was out in the living room, they were almost to the door.

“Police!” I called, and shot at them, specifically at their backs. That’s the best place to shoot a man, after all.

But that goddamn living room stretched out forever, and I missed one guy, and only winged the other, the cheerful one, but he wasn’t so cheerful now, yowling like a dog that got its tail stepped on, mustard-color topcoat splotched with ketchup-red, and the other one, the flat-faced fucker, turned and shot at me, no towel on the gun anymore, a big humongous Army Colt, and the room exploded with noise.

I dropped to the floor, and behind me a pigskin golf bag took a slug like a man and clattered on top of me, pinning me, but I squeezed off three more, as they were bolting out the door, my slugs chewing up wood and plaster.

And they were gone.

For perhaps two seconds, I considered pursuing them.

Then I got out from under the golf clubs, stepped past the still-smoldering burnt towels they’d discarded along the way; the makeshift silencers had been effective—the gunshots had obviously attracted no attention outside the suite itself, although these latest, louder ones no doubt would. I had to get the hell out.

In the hall, gun still in hand, I met no one. Later, I learned that Hassel, Greenberg and Waxey Gordon had rented out the entire eighth floor, which explained why no one had reacted to the gunshots yet. As for Louie, Sal and Vinnie, and any other bodyguards, they were either deceased or paid off; maybe that had actually been Vinnie’s voice, in the hall, as he played Judas for an unspecified number of gold coins.

I could have stuck and talked to the local cops. After all, I could describe the gunmen who shot Greenberg and Hassel. But I didn’t give a fuck who shot Greenberg and Hassel—who were, after all, just victims of this goddamn beer war; maybe Lindy’s kid was now another (inadvertent) victim of that war.

And I wasn’t about to become the next victim, either, which is what I would be if I went around identifying and testifying against mob torpedoes. Mrs. Heller’s little boy didn’t get to be a cop because he was stupid.

Yes, they’d seen me, but I was nobody out east, nobody they’d know, or ever recognize.

Eliot was right: it was time to go home.

All of these thoughts took approximately three seconds, as I rushed toward the door to the rear stairs and went up them, two at a time, my gun still in hand; I didn’t slip it into its holster till just before I went through the door to the ninth floor, where I found a wet-eyed, nearly hysterical Evalyn waiting breathlessly.

“I heard gunshots! Nate, are you…?”

“I’m swell,” I said, grabbing her by the arm, walking with studied calmness down a hall where various guests had stepped from their rooms with looks of alarm and confusion. We went inside her suite but I didn’t tell her what happened, not at first. I just lay on her bed and she held me and patted and smoothed my hair while I trembled like a frightened child.

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